Times Food Guide 2016 – Chandigarh
It’s out. Actually it’s been out for nearly a month, just didn’t get around to gloating about it. The launch of the Times Food Guide for Chandigarh (Mohali & Panchkula included as separate sections) took place at The Lalit on 29th March at the high decibel Times Food & Nightlife Awards ceremony.
It was released by one of the finest Sufi voices from Punjab – Hans Raj Hans. Perhaps not the last word on fusilli, but he sure knows a thing or two about that ‘silli silli…hawa’! The glittering evening also saw a number of other celebrities give away well-deserved awards to those that made the Winners’ list.
Pssst…Did I mention I authored it?
Get your copy here.
Seldom do I recommend an experience sans encounters of the empirical kind; much less if it involves unsuspecting taste-buds. But I had been hearing such wonderful things about this one the past year, I made a rider-hitched–the messenger requests that she please not be shot–exception for it. Then I sat back many months to await unbiased reviews from knowledgeable palates (not to mention the perfect season for a Goa visit) before I eventually showed up at the charming teal-and-white balcao of the century-old Portuguese villa that houses 
For someone who partakes of Oriental flavours once, or perhaps, generous-spiritedly twice a year, my recent seduction by all flavours Thai is a result of the fine Pan-Asian aromas wafting high from a very-new-kid-on-the block. Whenever a new eatery is presented to the world with a wide flourish, a deeply embedded sceptic in me waits a good year before giving it a thumbs up. Historically, some of them don’t even last that long.
Kailash Part II, it has a tiny indoor seating that spills over into a large atrium as well as a shared al fresco arrangement.
the table on Christmas day. Sometimes, lit after being doused with more brandy, it arrives in a vapour of blue flames. This ritual has a curious tale attached to it. Right up to the last but one century, Christmas Eve was spent playing a parlour game called Snap-dragon. A basinful of brandy-soaked raisins was set aflame and placed in the centre of a table. You were then meant to salvage the raisins from the basin and pop them into your mouth, even at the risk of being scorched. I’m guessing the winner would have to be the one with the maximum blisters!
I am mighty glad, though, that my favourite Christmas practice is well-maintained till date—brandy butter. It is prepared with unsalted butter, brown sugar, spices and, as the name suggests, brandy. Just one spoonful of this molten glee over your castor sugar-sprinkled portion takes you on a ride only Santa Claus could have promised.
properties, allowing people to relish this treat through to the following Christmas as well. I have no practical experience of this because each time that I have cajoled, coaxed, blackmailed, threatened or sweet-talked a pudding out of my aunt, it has lasted only long enough for me to be able to describe the experience. Not an instant longer.
A road trip to Delhi recently revealed an entirely new Grand Trunk Road: one that appeared to have gotten itself quite a face-lift. Its flanks now wear some very fancy brands; the ubiquitous golden arches of McDonalds stare you down from quite some distance. While I’m all for four lanes, clean restrooms, sanitised food areas and the like, I do feel a regrettable twinge whizzing past the spots where earlier stood ancient culture. The homely dhaba. Its trademark charpoys and wooden planks passing for tables.
existence since its inception as the Sher Shah Suri Marg, these wayside serais offered weary travellers a simple yet wholesome meal even in days of yore. Don’t believe me? Read Megasthenes, Hieun Tsang, Al Baruni and ilk. In fact, some recipes have remained unchanged since; the Shahi Khichri being one. Dating back to the time of Emperor Shah Jahan it boasts over a hundred ingredients.
its own. Traditionally serving vegetarian fare, a few of these stalls have begun to offer non-vegetarian dishes. Even though that meant going against the recommendations of a holy man, who, story goes, predicted great prosperity as long as animal protein was kept off the menu. Old-timers believe the demolitions carried out a couple of years ago were a direct fall-out of this addition. But then, how do you explain the truly “divine” flavours of the curries in question?!
Anyways, they continue to attract droves of customers around the clock with bright lights and blaring music; their choc-a-bloc parking lots ample proof of their popularity. Sadly, more and more of these customers are veering towards chowmein, pizzas and colas, placing traditional fare on the back-burner. Literally.
there are truckers, there will be dhabas. So, the next time you wish to relish dhaba fare, look out for the one with the highest number of trucks in its lot. You can rest assured that the food will be delicious, the service quick and the cost negligible.
Right about this time of the year, my taste-buds start getting purposeful and I know it’s time to head to the National Capital for appeasement. Innumerable edible reasons await us but the one that has off-late popped into my head is dished out by an unpretentious little eatery called 
turned-chef owner and another pair of helping hands that fashion the superb home-cooked flavours. Their relaxed pace and the come-as-you-are ambience suggests you could be at a friend’s place. The limited-item menu (read printed A4 sheets), dependent on availability of fresh ingredients, could change daily so you may not want to play favourites. Subsequent visits taught me well. The one time, they were out of coffee, another, the prawns and once most disappointingly their tuna curry.
make reservations. Else you will be dejected at being turned away for lack of food, even if you do find a table, as they tend to run out of their most popular items by about 3pm. Take it from someone who has experienced it firsthand. Last winter my sister Nikuji, Mini and I killed time, for a table to come available, by posing for pictures even while our hunger grew unbearable! Be warned…
clear to all customers with a chocolate-y 1000 stenciled onto the frothy surfaces of their orders. Café Coffee Day (CCD to Gen-Next) pioneered the café concept in India in 1996 by opening its first café at Brigade Road in Bangalore. Today, it is reportedly the largest organized retail café chain in India with cafes in every nook and corner of the country, including a footprint in Vienna and Karachi as well.
So, this one time I’m in Munich catching up on some browsing in and around the Bavarian capital. I sense a certain je ne sais quoi in the air, as well as, a steady swell in visiting population. The 
1300 breweries. All of which adhere to an ancient purity requirement that allowed the use of only three ingredients—water, hops and malt—till the discovery of yeast. Interestingly, 
temperatures, shady chestnut trees were planted and riverbanks covered in gravel. Beer began to be sold here soon after; simple wooden tables and benches were provided to accommodate locals et voilá, the beer garden was born. Today, beer is sold by the litre in biergartens and visitors can bring their own food. Or, choose from the options that typify beer garden food culture—grilled chicken, knuckle of pork, pretzel, radish and obatzda, a cheese delicacy prepared by mixing aged Camembert with sweet paprika powder and onions.
If you’ve been Down Under, visited Sydney’s Darling Harbour, admired its trademark Harbour Bridge, marvelled at Opera House, gazed at naval ships from the waterfront at Woolloomooloo, but overlooked 
symbol by many. That’s a huge acknowledgment for something as insignificant as a pie-cart, because, that is really what this café is. A pie-cart with an awning, with walls covered in pictures and murals of famous faces: Frank Sinatra, Marlene Dietrich, Joe Cocker and Billy Connelly are some of the indelible ones. But what would bring them to this kiosk, other than King’s Cross’ bohemia in the vicinity, that is?
The answer is a pie floater. This is a traditional Australian meat pie covered with ketchup and found floating (upside down) in a mushy peas soup. Sounds disgustingly unappetising, doesn’t it? Especially for a dish that has recently been recognized as a South Australian Heritage Icon. But wait till you take your first bite of this crusty pastry filled with chunky steak and gravy, no higher than an inch and a half. Stairway to (gourmet) Heaven, if you ask me. And if you want to get there quicker, add some barbeque sauce and maybe a dash of vinegar. I recollect a fellow gobbler commenting that visiting Harry’s was akin to takeaway eating religion.
truly. Sitting on a bench at the Finger Wharf, slurping away at more than one of these became a favoured way of life. The seagulls were the only noticeable problem, especially as they noisily made their intentions clear to all: a share of the pie. Another speciality of this café is a pastie: mushy peas and potatoes wrapped in a crust, considered by some locals as the national dish. They both taste brilliant, even at an unearthly 5am, after an exhausting spell of clubbing.
Since 1945, Harry’s Café de Wheels has been serving meat pies to soldiers and those willing to trek down to Woolloomooloo Bay docks for the sake of adventurous taste-buds. Keeping this tradition alive, the café continues to feed hungry souls hankering for filling and inexpensive food. The one change being of a permanent nature; it is no longer on wheels. It is now a fixed structure at the Woolloomooloo Bay Area with branches in other locations.
Up in the mountains, surrounded by a dense deodar forest, serenely sits a colonial mansion, having housed many a British dignitary in the past. Today, used solely as a summer retreat for one individual and some of her staff, a visit to this property is a treat few can envisage. And, even though it was pure happenstance that found me dining there not too long ago, this gloating-in-print is no accident… Considering the office of the individual concerned and the size of her regular residence, this double-storey wooden structure, with manicured lawns and a tennis court is really just a cosy cottage in the woods. Brightly lit, most of the rooms emanated the musty smells reminiscent of holiday homes aired only during short summer visits.
what was cooking. I was delighted at the discovery as it was going to be my very first time with food from Myanmar. The recipes, I was informed, had been shared by the wife of a former occupant of this lovely home. Our meal began by munching on some tea. And before you start, that is not a typo, as the people of Myanmar actually do eat pickled tea leaves. Known as laphet, it is Burma’s most common snack. It’s eaten both at informal get-togethers and formal events such as weddings and funerals. Laphet is essentially a green tea; young leaves plucked and fired before being buried underground anywhere from four to seven months. The fermented tea leaves are mixed with ginger, garlic, chillies, peanuts, toasted sesame seeds and salt, and all eaten together as a salad called laphet thoke. The after-taste is a wonderful mix of textures and smells: nutty, spicy, garlicky, yet with a lingering trace of tea.
This was followed by a well-brewed broth made of coconut and chicken stock, Khwuak Swe. There was another, more concentrated and spicier curry, apparently prepared from the rest of the chicken, which was boneless. These two curries were served separately with boiled noodles and topped with a multitude of ingredients that had been chopped and kept in little bowls. It seems these additional ingredients play an integral part in the taste as well as the presentation of the dish, and are a must. Green chillies, crushed red pepper, coriander, mint, spring onions, fried noodles, lemon juice and boiled eggs are some of these essential ingredients. The Burmese usually serve their khauk-swe with Ngapi which is made from putrefied fish and shrimps but it did not, for obvious reasons, find favour with any of us…
There were roughly 6000 rooms in Manali, at last count; a number that continues to increase even as I write, at a pace, alarmingly, akin to that of the growth of population in the country. Yet, other than a few (make that a very few) properties worth the view, you will find yourself checking into concrete blocks cantilevered dangerously over the Beas. Some of these structures exist simply due to will power, nothing else. No wonder, then, that more and more travellers are opting for home stay experiences, that are not just comfortable and clean, they come with a personal touch usually associated with private homes. I came across just such an oasis, if I may, in the quieter part of Old Manali, as I stopped to admire a huge stone structure, apparently a memorial to a war hero, painted gaily with images of the Buddha.
forest, through which I could hear a stream gurgling down. Closer to the gate, where I stood, was a smaller structure bustling with activity. Ignoring a No Trespassing sign in the conscience, I walked in to find workers putting together a wooden signboard. It said 
and garlic. Paella, a rice preparation with vegetables and saffron, cooked uncovered in a special pan. An egg dish called Huevos a la Riojana: baked in white sauce, topped with grilled cheese, along with a glass of white Rioja, I can tell you now, will bring you back to that hearth many-a-time. To walk off the effects of a Crema Catalana, I allowed myself a tour of the pretty cottages I had earlier admired. Complete with cheerful furnishings, fireplaces and picture windows large enough to allow the outside inside, the cottages make for a wonderful retreat for those looking for some quietude in cooler climes. Broken only by the sounds of nature, an intrusion truly welcome and yours for the taking, at the Home with a Beautiful View.
found out on a visit to Manali this summer. After almost two weeks of stuffing our faces with daal-chawal, aloo parathas, momos and thupka, and terrible tea, we were yearning for a change. The Casa provided us just the right amount with its wood-fired pizzas, crunchy salads and dark, dark coffee; succeeding in rejuvenating very, very glum taste-buds.
Picture this. Somewhere in the mountains, a log cabin, made cosy not just by a roaring fire, but equally, by Joe Cocker’s warm baritones and mugs of wine while you and…wait a minute. Mugs of wine? I must be reminiscing about a tradition normally associated with the Christmas season in faraway Germany. A tradition that, today, no longer restricts itself to just the holidays but possibly sustains itself through the length of the bleak winters right across the European continent.
life during the festive season revolves around the breathtakingly decorated town centre markets that have stalls exclusively selling this spicy, hot wine. My first ever cuppa was merely a desperate attempt to keep my hands warm while browsing around just such a fair in Nuremberg. Now, some years and gazillions of mugs later, I can honestly admit to looking forward to the short, biting winters knowing full well I have a ready remedy that will keep me warm – from the tip of my nose to the very end of my toes!
Another traditional recipe substitutes red wine with apple wine and is called ‘Heisse Ebbelwei’. This is rustled up in the same fashion, using the same ingredients. The apple wine available just across the border in Himachal Pradesh makes a fairly palatable Ebbelwei, though I prefer not to add sugar, retaining the tangy flavour. Similar experiments with their plum wine left a lot to be desired. Also keep in mind not to use copper or aluminium vessels; only stainless steel or porcelain will prevent chemical reactions that result in a metallic taste.
especially during Thanksgiving and Christmas. Naturally, there are regional variations. The Italians drink vino brule. The French have their vin chaud which is far fruitier; the preferred grape being Beaujolais or Bordeaux. And the addition of green cardamom brings about a unique flavour. Scandinavia calls it Glogg and has its own recipes for this winter beverage. The basic recipe requires wine, port, brandy, almonds, raisins and citrus peels. In addition to that, it requires you to have nerves of steel to resist the expected kick, when it hits the spots. And, a designated driver.
The residents of Cape Town don’t eat, they graze. And they graze exotic. In fact, it is recommended that travellers to South Africa plan their wildlife safaris towards the end of their stay. Else, it is a tad difficult digesting an animal you recently admired frolicking in the wild. Especially the elegant and playful springbok: a small antelope given to jumping into the air for no apparent reason (although possibly the reason why they are referred to as lion diet).
going in usually range from the adventurous to the experimental to the available. Even though it is time (and insides) consuming, the result is almost always delectable. Menus of fine dining establishments also list other game, such as kudu, impala, crocodile (tandoori, if you please), ostrich and the warthog. Penguins and seagulls have fallen off the list nowadays, but they were very popular with the early settlers around the Cape. Even the biltong, another favourite, akin to beef jerky, is prepared from the meat of any animal that was once large and breathing.
But if you’re looking for a tasty and cheap meal on the go, it has to be the bunny chow. This is a hollowed out loaf of bread filled with a spicy curry of minced beef. With its origins in the Kwa-Zulu Natal, (even though Minal Hajratwala attributes this creation to an uncle who migrated from Gujarat roughly a century ago, in her debut novel, 
the cuisine by the Boers. This is accompanied by pap, a stiff savoury porridge made of maize, and a relish of tomato and onions with wild spinach as a side. Malay cuisine, perhaps the best known of South African cuisines, is represented by the bredie, a mutton stew, and a curried meat kebab on skewers called the sosatie. The presence of snoek or fish on the braai grill is purely a delightful treat for the taste buds. Samosas, although not a braai item, are extremely popular as a snack.
strokes. But for those with even the remotest connection to farm life, these months mean overdosing on saag and makki di roti. Excess being a cultural thing in this part of the world! Although city living has taken away much of the pomp that goes into the preparation of this wholesome combination, the pleasure, of going through a piping hot bowl of the stuff, drowned in desi ghee or topped high with churned butter(whatever be your poison), with a slightly overdone makki di roti, remains unchanged. Most households have their own side-dishes to go with it – could be smoked onions, grated radish salad, ginger juliennes, even scrambled eggs.
peanuts. This may sound unpalatable to a lot of people out there; not if you have grown up in Patiala. And never, if you have walked the length of the Adalat Bazar, past the landmark Water Tank, turned right into the Juttianwali Galli and arrived at the clearing near the entrance of the Qila Mubarak. Right here, adjacent to the Police Chowki, is located the very cause of our contrarian beliefs – Arjan Singh, who is known to do magical things to molasses and sesame seeds, and produce myriad reasons to shun traditional eating habits.
The coffee-houses of Budapest are reminders of a grand, and often times, tragic past of the Hungarian twin-cities. Once, a part of the mighty Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Buda hills and the flatlands of Pest across the Danube, are now a faint reflection of that glory. Nevertheless, efforts are now on to refurbish the past, for the present.
oldest such coffee house. Small, but cosy, you just cannot have enough of their coffee and a finger-licking treat the owner reportedly invented. It is called the Linzer biscuit and is a sandwich of shortcake slices glued together with apricot jam. I was given to believe that their cakes and pastries were a must at the breakfast table of Elizabeth, Empress of Austria.
Across the Danube standing in the heart of Pest is the Café Gerbeaud, another one of the oldest, and also the most famous. In fact, it was recommended as a must-visit by practically everyone I met in some of the other countries of the European Union. Once I got there, I could see why. The café’s three shops and a terrace opening out at the Vorosmarty Square exude tradition and style. Named after Emile Gerbeaud, the Swiss pastry chef who bought it in 1884, his tongue-twisting creation, the konyakos meggy is to die for. Or die of. This bonbon is in effect sour cherry soaked in cognac and covered in dark chocolate.
cake: layers of sponge filled with ground walnut and jam, and coated in chocolate. However, I went back more than once to dig into another of their sweet delights, a chestnut puree with whipped cream called Gesztenye puree. They served a variety of strudels, too, but I must be true to the poppy seed ones prepared by my hostess. If you are a lover of ice-cream, they do some mean servings throughout the summer months.
The fashionable Andrassy Avenue, likened to the Champs Elysee, is home to another much loved café, especially by the elderly. A bit like our Indian Coffee House, the Muvesz Kavehaz leaves you with an impression of a past well-spent, minus the original grandeur. A place for quiet moments, mulling over the bittersweet history of the proud Magyars, all but silenced by the goose-step.
There was no point whinging with the help, as they took their instructions from the lady of the house; who allowed her children the privilege of pickle and paronthas only on their days off from school. The irony of it all was that there was always an amazing array of home-made pickles and chutneys to choose from. The advent of winters found large traditional martbaans, tied at the mouth with muslin, lined up like soldiers to soak in the sun. Mango, lime, ginger, chillies, mixed vegetables—the whole hog, actually.
Tsering is the loquacious half of the duo that owns and runs the Phuntsok Garden Café on the left bank of the Beas, located at a hard to miss stretch on the road leading to Rohtang. It is their reputation as conjurers of a breakfast par excellence that brings you to a screeching halt here. Her husband, the extremely shy Jamyang, labours away at the kitchen counter to sustain that reputation; it is a labour of love, you tell yourself, as you bite into a fluffy spinach and mushroom omelette alongside a chicken rosti. Tsering’s home-made muesli is an instant hit as a healthy start to a strenuous day, and so are Jamyang’s spongy pancakes with sliced bananas and hot chocolate sauce.
they can somehow tell that you may have been a tad greedy (possibly by the porcine manners displayed while eating), but fret not, an antidote is at hand: a piping hot ginger and lemon tea. Works magically, and brings you back repeatedly for more of the same, or their freshly baked cakes and breads. The momos, too, take on an entirely new flavour when relished outdoors in their tiny backyard, with the lights of Old Manali twinkling at you as you slurp away at your soup.
And if anything were to bring you to the Chowk or The Mall (although I can’t come up with a single reason beyond the mutton momos at Mountview and the eggplant preparations at Chopsticks) it would be a good respite to stop by at the Café Amigos for some carrot cake and coffee. Further up on the Club House Road and towards the Log Huts, another Chinese eatery is a favourite with vegetarians. Called the Green Forest Café and approached through a narrow alley, it definitely does not score on ambience but will give you your money’s worth in a large bowl of soup and a takeaway order of vegetable momos. In case you missed the point, Manali is big on Tibetan cuisine.
The Vanity Fair at 
Celebrations on the personal front (which, pointless to add, always include eating out) will find me at my most preferred destination: Whispering Willows just outside of Chandigarh. A multi-restaurant option, attempting to offer authentic dishes from a multitude of cuisines (as opposed to a multi-cuisine restaurant) coupled with personalised service and an equally elegant ambience combine to provide you a complete fine dining experience. An experience, sadly, found wanting in most other stand-alone establishments excepting the odd family-owned one.
centuries as its own. A derivative of the Portuguese term Vinha de Alhos meaning a dish made with wine and garlic, it was once a watery meat stew, till it was re-invented with chillies and spices as essential ingredients. It is now ranked as the spiciest and most popular curry dish all around the globe.
bag of mixed feelings within. Past its glory, but proudly holding up a faded reflection for all to see, Srinagar is a hospitable and charming place. Once the initial discomfort, at the palpable signs of a contrived security, vanished, the traveller in me took over. Then, it was easy enough to notice the starry-leaved chinars (some just turning an autumnal shade), the poplar-lined avenues (also lightening their hues), the clean broad boulevards; the once fashionable river-front shops, the grand old mansions and the hustle-bustle of life as usual.
And life as usual includes food. Crisp, crunchy apples, walnut kernels, apricots and gallons of qahwa notwithstanding, my trip would have been incomplete without a go at the famed wazwaan. Being the middle of the month of Ramadan, as it was, there was minimal activity at restaurants. Still, the Grand Hotel on Residency Road was offering a limited course experience, one I was more than willing to take.
methi korma arrived wafting the varied aromas of its contents. A salad of grated radish and red chilly powder with walnuts served as the perfect accompaniment. The rishta, rogan josh, yakhni followed in quick succession while the gushtaba, the piece de resistance of a wazwaan meal, made its way to our table at an expectedly kingly pace. Traditionally, the oldest member around a trambee gets to divide the gushtaba, equally or otherwise, amongst the foursome. Fortunately, for me, the oldest member with us was vegetarian, so was another, by virtue of which, I ended up with a lion’s share of palatable heaven. This wonderful meal was rounded off with phirni and qahwa.
fare at one of the dhabas on Durganag Road. Naturally, I dragged my feet all of the hundred yards it took to cross the road from their hotel to the Krishna Vaishno dhaba. We waited a good twenty minutes for a table, a sign that woke me up to the extent of its popularity. The wait was spent noting the freshly prepared items in shiny brass containers, the turnover of rotis and paranthas at the tandoor, and the quick service. Once seated, we ordered stuffed paranthas, rajmah-chawal, kadhi, daal and baingan bhartha. Delicious is definitely an understatement. And naturally, I was now the last to leave the table.
Another experience deserves a mention entirely because of the incredible hospitality displayed by jawans minding an army post at thirteen thousand feet. Trust me, tea has never tasted so incredibly sweet, nor pakoras so heart-warming.
Mahima and I were led to our lunch table way, way back in the cavernous cafe by the charming and friendly owner Mr Boman Kohinoor: avuncular figure in pic above. With table seating at a premium, he was none to pleased to learn that we required a table for three, as we were being joined by Mahima’s husband shortly. That seemed to get his goat even more, chiding us ‘girls’ for arriving unescorted and before the gentleman in question. Flattering as his old-world manner was, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that that kind of a gentleman was way past his sell-by date. And DV, when he did finally manage to get away from work, got himself a good natured earful on etiquette from the old man. Yet another, for eating his food cold and hence losing, in the bargain, the true essence of wholesome Parsi food.
Feted for their large portions of Berry Pulaos – the mutton won hands down – Sali Boti (Mutton with potato crisps served with Parsi Roti), Patra ni Machchi (steamed pomfret wrapped in banana leaf), Dhansak (lentil preparation) and Chicken Cutlets with gravy. Got to try them all over the couple of weeks I was devouring Mumbai cuisine. That day we ordered a vegetarian and mutton berry pulao (tiny and tart, the deep-red barberries garnishing the pulaos are imported from Iran, a throwback to ancestral roots), sali boti with chapati and the very English of all puddings: caramel custard.
The restaurant’s motto appears simple enough: if it swims, it will be steamed, grilled, tossed, toasted, baked, braised, fried, sauteed, rolled, dressed, undressed, de-gilled, de-boned, de-finned, (sometimes) de-clawed, wrapped and served!A large counter laden with bite-sized dumplings, sushi, sashami, prawns, salads, soups, sticky rice and noodles snakes along two sides of the largish hall replete with Japanese ponds and bridges. (Makes me wonder why it’s even called Global, the feel is so totally Oriental?).
Close to her place of work, it soon became a rendezvous for us girls (Mahima, another friend from school had recently moved there and was promptly seduced by this treasure-trove of tea). Charming, old worldly and clubesque, it was an anachronism in this day and age of coffee bars. The one thing that strikes you about the place is the welcoming lack of piped music. Soft murmurs, clinking china and tableware, and the gentle tinkle of tiny bells to catch the waiter’s attention – the only sounds.
Enhancing the colonial flavour, a tad inconsistently, were their wafer-thin sandwiches, freshly baked muffins, and crumbly scones with jam and clotted cream.While eye-catching posters emblazoned wall spaces with humourous tea quotes. “Kissing is like drinking tea out of a strainer, you can never get enough of it”, said the cheeky one hanging in our preferred corner.
Then there was Cacao, that delightful oasis in the midst of tea-land. Located just off the pedestrian-only section of the old-worldly MG market in Gangtok, it was discovered by my highly charged and (temporarily) caffeine-deprived olfactory sense. Exactly what the doctor had ordered for a weary visitor limping her way along the quaint, almost anachronistic, shop-fronts of a homogeneously painted marketplace. I say limping because I was returning from Nathu La with a nasty sprain, as a sort of a painful reminder of an otherwise near-nirvana episode.
A cappuccino has never tasted, nor looked, as welcoming as the one placed before me that 
day. While a lot can be said for frothy calligraphy, it took me no time, nor remorse, to decimate the artwork in one giant gulp. Heaven. Mirrored closely by their crumbly Danish pastries. By way of quality, quantity and taste, their banana pancakes followed closely on the heels of the carbonara and club sandwich. Fluffy, warm, well-done and topped with a generous layer of the fruit drizzled with honey, I for one can’t imagine a more delicious way to start a morning. Or, end an evening??
necessarily on the same day. Come aawnn, what were you thinking?! The stylised wall-art and cheery interiors coupled with a young and friendly work-force was an invitation I was hard put to turn down.That, and the view of course. As delicious as the fare on the menu. Snapped the usually shy Mt Kanchenjunga peeking out from behind ascending clouds one fine morning…
With Valentine’s Day but a few days away, the staff were enthusiastically preparing the place, and perhaps themselves, for the big event. In between serving and clearing tables, the girls kept busy blowing out balloons. Not very successfully, I gathered from the number of pops followed by squeals that reached my ears! Hard work had paid off, however, as on the day I was to return to Siliguri, I stepped in for one last cuppa to find Cacao prettily infused in red, pink and white. A real romantic send-off, if ever.
Siliguri as a destination has no redeeming feature. As a people, the residents boast of a high literacy rate but with an extremely low, almost negligible, civic sense. Surrounded by thick jungles and lush tea gardens, the city is considered the gateway to the east. Yet, it is a gateway you want to zip through! The city roads are filthy, the markets narrow and uninviting, the affordable hotels clones of that delightful Hotel Decent in Jab We Met, and the street life lowly.
meeting point, would find its way into the air-conditioned environs of an upcoming mall? And for all you purists out there, here’s a revelation: superior Darjeeling flush tastes just as good in a kasora as it does in fine china, thank you very much.
gourmet opportunities (read: a taste of the promised ema darshi). Too late, everyone commiserated, before going back to their respective conversation and Kesang to propping up an aching head! It was close to 2 am after all. Sonam diverted my attention to a colourful tome about things Bhutanese. So yes, we all forgot about the ema darshi.
My visit to Amritsar was a call I had to take. No questions asked. A force – not entirely of a spiritual nature, I must admit – had been veering my in-built compass and fashioning my travel plans towards a destination not hitherto considered, for an intent not hitherto expressed: a hedonistic desire to sample the holy city’s famed rehri fare, second only to Lahore I’m told, but you’ll never hear that from any self-respecting Amritsari. The arrival of a journalist friend from London, uncannily sensing a similar tug (and a good copy), pretty much sealed my plans. Needless to say, the Golden Temple was a prime attraction. After all, recovery from the excesses we had in mind would necessitate the benevolence of divine powers. We were not taking any chances.
Our non-stop culinary excursion commenced with a breakfast of kulche-chole, generously dripping home-churned butter, at the “All India Fame” dhaba (actually, an unpretentious little shack with seating in the open) on Maqbool Road. Now, these kulchas are in no remote fashion related to the ones we habitually buy off the counter at our local bakery. About the size of medium serving pizzas, they come stuffed and piping hot off a griddle. No more than just one of these can happily do you in, unless the charms of the accompanying chutney work beforehand. The guy serving us suggests a hot cup of tea to rinse down the grease coating our palette, but this luxury was not ours to take until our next stop, the Giani Tea Stall. Here was another establishment totally lacking in ambition: we played dodge ball with passing traffic while we relished our “world-famous” tea and paneer pakoras squeezed gingerly between bicycles parked along the road. Not a bad thing really considering we were quick to spot the Brijwasi Chaat Shop right across from where we were now regretting our second round of pakoras. Blocking out all metabolic protests, we then proceeded to ruminate through paapri-chaat, bhalla-chaat and (gosh yes!) gol-gappas. Sounds incredible to me even as I recollect, and yet, we were only midway through our gluttonous marathon.
maneuvered through the warren of narrow streets of the walled city to where our lunch awaited us at Kesar da Dhaba. Alighting just ahead of us from another rickshaw was a bent old lady of indeterminate age. Great-aunt of the owner, she personally supervises the running of the kitchen till today. No wonder then that the contents of the thaali we ordered did not even feign to subscribe to modern-day health fads. Good old-fashioned ghee-soaked fare. Very nigh bursting point, we still managed a mouthful each of their superlatively described phirni.
specialty at our next stop, Ahuja Lassiwala – on special request from my vegetarian friend who had to forego the carnivorous segment of our gastronomic exercise. Frankly, I was quite keen myself till I saw the guy sneak in a fistful of fresh butter into our gallon-sized glasses. That did it. I gave up, right there. Not another masala-laden crumb, nor another buttery sip, was going to pass through my lips.