Making momos in Mcleodganj with a Tibetan activist, stoned participants and useful tips on rolling… the dough!
A cooking class about dumplings offers a lesson in Tibetan culture and identity
“Hey, are you stoned?” a participant asks softly. “Reaaally stoned!” his friend grins from across the table. Sitting next to him, I’m concerned about his ability to focus through the next hour.
Seven of us, travellers from India and Europe, have gathered for a momo-making class at Lhamo’s Kitchen, a cooking studio in McLeodganj, Himachal Pradesh. A short uphill drive from the more commercial town of Dharamshala, McLeodganj is the seat of the Dalai Lama and home to a large Tibetan community.
Lhamo’s Kitchen is a compact room with cardamom-coloured walls and a huge Tibetan national flag as the backdrop. Here stands our instructor Lhakpa Tsering Lamphuk, sporting a chef’s hat.
We start off easy. He pours water into a mound of maida (refined wheat flour). “Making momo dough isn’t complicated like cake or bread. There’s no salt or baking soda involved — only flour and water. The amount of water depends on the flour quality. Semi-refined wheat flour will need more than refined one.”
He starts mixing the dough with his hands. “You could use a dough mixer but we believe that making the dough by hand adds to the taste,” he chuckles.
Our class entails three types of momos — mixed veggies, spinach and cheese, and chocolate. These will be shaped to resemble the crescent moon, a petal and a seated monk with hands folded in prayer. “When making momos for a large gathering, it’s best if one person makes all so that the sizes are uniform. Otherwise, some will be small, some big. So, they won’t cook evenly and some [guests] will get loose motions [from eating under-cooked flour],” he says straight-faced as the room bursts into laughter.
Tracing its roots to Tibet and Nepal, the momo is now ubiquitous in India. There are lists that tell you where to find the best momos in Kolkata. In Shillong, it’s “easy to get some of the most delicious dumplings” and in Sikkim, it has “pushed the state’s traditional dish, hyontoen, off the plate”, writes author Hoihnu Hauzel. Delhi even has a tandoori version. And restaurant menus now feature (insert-adjective-as-per-taste) fusions such as vodka-butter chicken momo, pineapple momo, and momo burgers.
In McLeodganj too, the road leading up to the main temple has carts doling out piping hot paneer, vegetable and chicken momos from aluminium steamers.
Lhakpa, 36, passes around equal portions of dough. We have to roll these into long tubes of uniform thickness to be later cut into portions to make the wrappers. As the table creaks under the collective rolling (my neighbour is quite focused on this part), Lhakpa regales us with childhood anecdotes and history.
He grew up in a remote village across the border of Arunachal Pradesh. Every autumn, his family would kill yak or dri (female yak). The meat would be dried for use through the year and some meat would be reserved for making momos. “We’d have momos for two-three days [at a stretch],” he smiles.
In traditional Tibetan culture, the momo was regarded as “a rich man’s food”, relegated to special occasions like weddings. When Tibetans fled their homeland (following the Dalai Lama) after a failed Tibetan uprising against the Chinese in 1959, they had access to fresh meat. And soon, momos became part of street food culture, with fillings changing to please the Indian and Western palates. Chocolate-filled dessert momos came into existence too.
“When we lost our country, the momo lost its identity. Now, momo only means a shape,” says Lhakpa.
To make this shape, we begin by rolling out the dough into palm-size, flat discs. The middle part is supposed to be thicker than the edges so it can hold the stuffing without tearing. So, rather than rolling across the surface like you would a chapati, the dough is rolled out from the centre till the edge. It’s important to apply pressure when pushing the pin into the centre and releasing it when rolling back. “Give force from every direction to make a circle and not a map,” he adds.
Moulding the momo into a crescent moon requires dexterity. First, balance the wrapper on fingertips, use the thumb to gather the filling in the centre, and then stick bottom and top edges so the wrapper folds exactly in half. Lhakpa repeats the mantra: “Fold edge to edge”. Once the edges are sealed, use pinch-and-fold technique to create a pleated border.
While everyone moons over their creations, Lhakpa suddenly gasps, “Oh, that’s too thin! Give it to me. I’ll treat it.” Instantly, a participant jokes, “He’s Dr Momo!” Another one says, “Nurse! We need some flour in here!”
Acting isn’t new to Lhakpa. Since 2011, he’s been running Tibet Theatre, an endeavour to spread awareness about the culture and struggles of Tibetan refugees. He writes, directs, acts in the plays and travels with them across India. For the last five years, he has been conducting these classes (he’s taught 800 participants from around the world so far), part-time, to fund these trips.
India has been Lhakpa’s home for close to three decades — he crossed the border when just 9, to escape the physical abuse at home. He spent four months at a Tibetan refugee camp before a delegation from the Tibetan government-in-exile, whose headquarters are in McLeodganj, brought him to town.
Activism has been integral to his life since his college days in Bengaluru. In 2006, he tried to immolate himself in front of the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel in Mumbai where then Chinese President Hu Jintao was staying on his visit to India. He wanted to put the spotlight on Tibetan refugees. He was hospitalised for eight months.
We move on to fill the next wrapper with a juicy spinach and cheese filling. He lays a ground rule: “Don’t be gentle with the momo. Stick the edges really hard.”
Now that I’m used to handling a momo, folding this wrapper into a flower petal isn’t difficult. After sealing the edges, I twist one end and stick it at the mid-point. The other edge is stuck at the opposite end. Like, a squiggly figure ‘8’. The ‘praying monk’ momo is easy — I just bring both edges together and pinch them.
Our masterpieces are steamed for 15 minutes. As we dig into our labour of love (read: piping hot, well-cooked and spiked with a delightful homemade chutney), I’m filled with a sense of gratification. The class taught me how to cook, and fed me knowledge about Tibetan life.
And remember the participant who I was initially concerned about? He gets Lhakpa’s nod of approval: “You made this?! Very good!”
Clearly, I don’t know a thing about cooking under the influence of any substance. May be that’s the trick to a good momo?
