Crossing Cultures: Food Misadventures
Part 2
Dinner in Bombay
In December 1983 I arrived in Bombay as it was then called, just after dawn, on my first trip to India. The public bus jostled and bumped from the airport to the Colaba district near the Gateway of India, catapulting me into a completely unfamiliar world. I was stunned gazing out the bus windows at the seemingly endless amalgam of boards and tin and all manner of cast-offs housing the poor, the bodies of those even poorer swaddled in thin sheets asleep on the pavement, the scores of people relieving themselves on the raised railway line embankments, the private ablutions and stoking of fires accompanying the morning’s activities. The sun became increasingly bright and blazing, emanating an unrelenting throbbing heat. I felt as if I’d been cast into a furnace.
Once off the bus, I consulted my Lonely Planet guidebook in search of a place to stay. I began to worry after being eyed suspiciously at several low-end but nevertheless wildly costly ($25 a night at the time) hotels and informed there were no vacancies. This became a frequent occurrence over the coming weeks and I only understood later that young single women were anathema and regarded as likely prostitutes. I finally scored a filthy room with a squatter toilet in a sketchy hotel. My head seemed to be floating above my body, my movements were labored, and I felt feverish. I was struck with dread, wondering if I’d made a huge mistake travelling to India, and could not imagine how I was going to navigate solo over the coming weeks. I resolved to attend to practical matters.
After showering and changing into clean clothes, I set out to get my bearings, purchase some locally made lightweight salwar kameez (a tunic-like long top over pajama style pants), and take stock over an expensive but deliciously smooth sweet lassi (a sweetened frothy yogurt drink) in a small café at the elite Taj Hotel. There I could spread out my map, guidebook, and journal, enjoy the air conditioning, and use the upscale Western-style bathrooms. The peaceful interior and uniformed waiters were in stark contrast to the cacophony outside where horns blared, and bicycle rickshaws dodged between vehicles, buses, trucks, auto rickshaws, motorcycles, and pedestrians. Loads of all kinds were being carried, balanced, and pushed. Sari-clad women floated past in flashes of exquisite color and pattern; men in starched immaculate white dress shirts and pressed slacks hurried by or sipped tea and chatted at sidewalk stalls. Heaps of garbage hosted flies, feral dogs, and cows that grazed and sauntered unperturbed through the throngs. An intense stench mixed with incense and blossoms. People of all ages tugged at and beseeched me for money with outstretched hands, some exhibiting concavities where leprosy had eaten away noses, and others resting emaciated paralyzed legs on small-wheeled platforms propelled by their callused hands. Women approached me carrying infants with empty bloated bellies and hair that had turned the telltale orange of acute malnutrition (Kwashiorkor). Children with encrusted eyes clothed in rags called out “Hello madam, madam, pen madam, pen, pen, rupee madam, one rupee, one rupee only, one rupee.” Stalls served fruit drinks and sugarcane juice; bicycle vendors hawked fried treats; and markets sold pyramidal mounds of brilliantly colored spices and artistically arranged produce. In this maelstrom of humanity there was a certain pleasing order with areas delimited by the type of goods for sale.
In the early evening, still feeling detached from my body, I searched for a place to eat dinner. I chose a restaurant with outdoor seating that hosted numerous families and immediately became the center of attention. I felt self-conscious being such a curiosity, but attempted to project nonchalance. The menu was a complete mystery and lacked any explanation of the numerous dishes. My previous experience with Indian food had been quite limited. As a child on family visits to London, my parents had delighted in the ubiquitous Indian restaurants; my older brother and I stuck to steamed rice and dessert. I ordered two items along with bottled water and took furtive glances at the patrons around me. In short order, two immense platters arrived: a stainless steel tray of pakoras (a deep-fried spicy graham flour vegetable onion fritter) and another of samosas (a deep-fried pyramidal pastry typically containing spiced potatoes, onions, and peas).
I’m uncertain whether I heard or only imagined the intake of breath when the platters were placed on my table, the murmured surprise of all those watching me, but I felt my every move under scrutiny as I contemplated the mounds of fried snacks. My disappointment was profound; it was the last thing I wanted to eat in the heat, but I nibbled on a few of the pakoras and samosas. Thus began what would become one of the most mind-bending trips of my life, a mix of the most divine and abysmal, an utterly transporting experience full of a wildly diverse enjoyment of every kind of regional cuisine that was nothing like that first night’s dinner.
Stollen
My husband’s mother, Eva, sailed into New York harbor with her family in November 1938, the day after Kristallnacht. They had fled their hometown of Eger in the German part of Czechoslovakia (the Sudentenland) in October, just before Hitler invaded. Thanks to a relative in the United States, they obtained the coveted visas for emigrating.
Eva was 12 years old and brought with her a significant trove of family recipes that included several kinds of dumplings: plum dumplings (a rich ball of dough with a piping hot plum at its center, served with melted butter, ground walnuts, and sugar) and a giant steamed savory dumpling loaf topped with caraway seeds and gravy, sliced and eaten alongside pot roast.
Eva was a talented cook and baker. Every December she undertook the labor-intensive process of making Stollen, a traditional yeasted buttery braided sweet bread studded with dried fruit, candied fruit, and nuts and dusted with powdered sugar. When there were children in the house, they were enlisted as assistants. Later, Eva wheedled a grandchild or two into helping. One year, we timed our East Coast visit to coincide with Stollen making and helped chop the fruit and nuts, and knead and braid the heavy dough. Eva carefully wrapped the loaves in foil and mailed one to each of her three children, to her brother, and to her seven grown nieces and nephews. Several loaves were reserved for home consumption. We always looked forward to the arrival of the weighty package. Eva would call to inquire if we had received our loaf and we would assure her that it had arrived safely and tasted excellent.
Several years ago in a biting cold Chicago February we attended the funeral of Eva’s brother, my husband’s uncle, and chatted with one of the seven cousins. The cousin mentioned Eva’s Stollen and how it would arrive at the family home every winter in the midst of the holidays. Once they had their own families, each of the seven siblings received their own loaves in the mail. They always thanked Eva politely but never had the heart to tell her that no one in the family liked Stollen.
Microwave chicken
When I was fifteen years old, my father, older brother, and I moved out of our family home into a rental across the street from a small lake in Newton, Massachusetts. My parents were in the midst of an acrimonious divorce and my brother and I, old enough to decide whom we wanted to live with, left my mother and younger brother in our family home of seven years. It was disorienting to relocate to another part of town and take up residence in someone else’s house, a rambling and somewhat tattered old Victorian that belonged to a university professor and his family who were off for a sabbatical year in Africa. Just before they left, we received some hasty instructions that included directions on how to use their prized (and at that time still very costly) microwave oven. We were eager to try the microwave, a new fangled contraption that had only recently become available to households.
For several days we inspected the microwave and read through the instruction manual on the miraculous ways in which cooking could be accomplished in a fraction the time of a standard oven. We fretted over possible radiation exposure. Finally, unable to resist, we decided to cook a chicken for dinner in this wondrous appliance. We followed the directions, peering in at the chicken from time to time, anticipating the delicious and fast-cooking meal. When we removed the chicken it looked as if nothing had happened: it was as pale as it had been when raw and though the inside was indeed cooked, it had minimal taste. The appearance was so disconcerting that we ate little and promptly abandoned the microwave for the remaining months we spent in the house.
Reba’s roasts
My grandmother Reba spent a lot of time in the kitchen. Frequently, a roast or chicken could be found in the oven, cooking for hours on end. Reba would prod it from time to time, the meat long since having fallen off the bone, and declare that it needed “just a little longer.” Tucked in alongside the roast, potatoes, celery, and carrots would long since have become shriveled and devoid of color, baked into oblivion. When Reba asked my opinion, not realizing it was a rhetorical question, I would state, to no avail, the dish was were certainly ready. Thus it was that the end product required no knife, had almost no texture, and little flavor. Reba always declared the roast and vegetables a success and I, being a good granddaughter, agreed.
During one of my visits, after repeated entreaties, Reba accepted my offer to prepare the vegetables for the evening meal. I julienned the summer squash, carrots, and peapods I’d bought for the occasion and sautéed them in a pan with a dash of oil. Reba hovered at my elbow nervously, asking whether I didn’t want to put the vegetables in the oven and wondered aloud how I was planning to cook them on the stovetop. After a few minutes I squeezed lemon juice over the dish and told Reba it was ready. She was aghast at this pronouncement and insisted they could not possibly be edible after such a short interval. I encouraged her to taste the al dente vegetables. Reba chewed slowly and contemplatively and, after a few moments, declared the dish delicious. I was delighted. She asked me to write down the recipe. Weeks later she happily reported successfully cooking vegetables according to my recipe.
New Year’s Eve
Years ago, before kids, we met friends on Nob Hill in San Francisco to enjoy a New Year’s Eve dinner before attending a midnight concert at Grace Cathedral. Nob Hill, with its elegant old hotels and views of the bay, was not our usual stomping ground. There were few affordable restaurants to choose from in this tony location, so we felt fortunate to discover an Italian spot recently opened for business. The place was small and high ceilinged, with tables and chairs shoehorned into the narrow rectangular space. It was practically empty, but we figured that was due to the late hour and the newness of the business.
Shortly after being seated we received water and a basket containing the thinnest of diagonally sliced baguette pieces. After placing our orders we made short work of the bread. Between animated conversation we sporadically wondered aloud at how long it was taking to get our meals. It was nearly impossible to get the attention of our server and when we finally did they seemed put out by our inquiry regarding the ETA of the meal. Our request for more bread was met with exasperation, although after a lengthy delay we did receive another basket of wafer thin baguette pieces. An hour into our wait, our third request for more bread was met with irritation. We did not receive another round.
About an hour and a half after having been seated we received our meals: pasta that had been insufficiently microwaved and tasted like a poor quality entrée from the frozen food section of the grocery store, and pizza that was completely forgettable and also likely to have been a reheated frozen food item. However, we were famished and happy to have finally received something to eat. I ordered a hot tea and others ordered coffees and several desserts in the hope it might improve on our abysmal meal. Another long wait ensued. The coffees eventually arrived with the dessert, but the tea remained missing. I inquired after the tea’s whereabouts and was admonished by the server that this required boiling water.
We have been laughing about this meal for years. I recently went online and discovered that the restaurant is still in business on Nob Hill. If you read the reviews carefully it is evident that service remains insolent and lacking and the food mediocre to poor for the price. Based on the photos, it appears they have stopped using frozen entrées. It is unclear whether the baguette pieces are still so carefully rationed and if boiling water for a cup of hot tea continues to pose major logistical challenges.
