Shortly after Narendra Modi was sworn in as India’s prime minister on 26 May 2014, the Government of India did something that is close to the heart of every real Gujarati: it threw a huge, multi-course tea party. This might sound like I am falling back on some lazy stereotype. But I assure you I am not. Some years ago I lived in Gujarat briefly. And I came back superbly impressed by the average Gujarati’s commitment to that gold standard of dietary health—frequent, small meals in addition to the regular three large ones.
Otherwise, why of all the problems facing British India did Mahatma Gandhi, the greatest Gujarati in history, choose to fight for salt? Because the Mahatma knew, like generations of Gujjus before and after him, that freedom and all is okay but if four o’clock bun maska has no salt then one will be in a bad mood till five o’clock dabeli.
So the lavish tea party that followed Modi’s inauguration—an early dinner to be fair—came as no surprise. The menu probably comprised about thirteen courses, mostly cooked in the kitchens of the Rashtrapati Bhavan.
I say ‘probably’ because no one is exactly sure what was really served that evening. Initially the rumours that spread were very Gujarati-centric and prominently featured dhokla, a steamed cake of chickpea flour that is to Gujarat what tax evasion is to Formula 1 racing, that is, non-negotiable.
Instead it appears that the meal was hosted by Pranab Mukherjee, the President of the Republic, and therefore featured, if anything, a tilt towards Bengali-ness.
But, overall, the menu featured excellent, even intriguing, dishes handpicked from many of India’s varied ethnic cuisines. Through a combination of international, national and regional classics, it highlighted a rich diversity of ingredients, cooking styles and culinary heritages.
The first dish on the menu, for instance, was Chilled Melon Soup made of muskmelons. Which is kind of cool and a little ‘global’. Melons, of course, are not indigenous to India at all. When the first Mughal emperor, Babur, arrived in the subcontinent he complained about many things. ‘Hindustan is a country of few charms,’ he wrote. ‘There are no good horses, no good dogs, no grapes, muskmelons or first-rate fruits, no ice or cold water, no good bread or food cooked in the bazaars, no hot baths, no colleges, no candles, torches or candlesticks.’ Thankfully India has since rectified most of these shortcomings, especially the muskmelon. Which is truly one of the better-behaved melons, what with its portable size and weight.
After chilling over the soup the guests moved on to Chicken Hazari. An excellent dish of marinated boneless chicken pieces cooked in a clay oven. Which nicely counterbalanced the ‘firangi’ melon soup, because every chicken in the world is believed to have descended from the Indian jungle fowl. However, the great food-historian K.T. Achaya says that despite having domesticated fowl, eating poultry or eggs remained taboo in the ancient subcontinent for many, many years. Perhaps our ancestors first tamed these birds for cockfighting. Thank god, then, for the first Indian, almost definitely a Punjabi, who looked at a chicken and thought: ‘Bored of Gobi 65, I wonder …’
Tandoori Aloo was the next item on the Modi Menu. A true classic dish of potatoes cooked in a clay oven. While potatoes form one of the bedrock components of Indian cooking, it is not a vegetable that is native to the country. No, really. Potatoes first arrived in Europe from South America in the mid-fifteenth century, and took another two centuries to become even a novelty food item in India. It was perhaps first consumed on the subcontinent with any relish by Europeans, before Indians developed a penchant for the tuber. Today India is one of the world’s greatest growers and eaters of potatoes. There is even a Central Potato Research Institute with numerous branches. The tandoor oven, on the other hand, has been in use in India for centuries. Remains have been found in excavation sites belonging to the Indus Valley Civilization. Though, now that I think about it, I wonder why oven-cooking is so rare in the south.
But who has time for such thoughts when we have to launch into a plate of Galauti Kebabs? Tender, delicately spiced lamb-mince medallions cooked on a grill before you pop them into your mouth and wait for sweet death to envelope you because there is nothing else left in life to experience.
Galauti kebabs are that good. But they are also a relatively recent culinary innovation. One story goes that the kebab was invented for Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, ruler of the kingdom of Awadh in modern-day Uttar Pradesh, between 1847 and 1856. In his old age the nawab lost all his teeth so he could no longer chew meat. Thus his chef invented the meltingly soft galauti kebab for his culinary enjoyment. However, this story is almost certainly not totally accurate. But there is no question that the galauti is a hallmark of Awadhi cuisine.
But is it as good as the next two items—Kerala Prawn Stew and Kerala Vegetable Stew?
Hahahaha. No.
Broadly speaking, the southern state of Kerala has three culinary traditions: Hindu, Muslim and Syrian Christian. The stew belongs to the third. The Syrian Christians of Kerala are inheritors of an ancient Christian tradition that is almost as old as Christianity. Even though the community has since split into several branches who treat each other with the Christian virtues of suspicion and air pistols, they all trace their origins to the disputed evangelical journeys of Thomas, one of the original twelve disciples of Christ. What there is absolutely no dispute about whatsoever are the countless delights of the Syrian Christian kitchen. Syrian Christian cuisine combines local Hindu traditions with heavy influences from the food of the missionaries and the European traders and colonists. The stew is a staple of most Syrian Christian households. My grandmother’s recipe involved leaving bits of little bone in and then cooking the stew for long hours over a coconut shell fire.
The vegetarian option is exactly the same as the meat/fish option without the meat/fish. I refuse to elaborate on this travesty.
No time to slow down for Mr Invited Dignitary! We still have many delicious delights to work through. Such as the world-famous Chicken Chettinad, one of Tamil Nadu’s more famous non-veg contributions to world cuisine.
Chettinad in southern Tamil Nadu is the home of the Chettiars, who were great traders and bankers and maintained links with South-East Asia for hundreds of years. According to one food writer these links can be seen, for instance, in the use of the star anise in Chettinad recipes. The undisputed king of this local cuisine is Chettinad Chicken, a dish once described as ‘a sinus-clearing black pepper chicken’ by a Western journalist. That description is perfectly accurate.
Thank goodness then that your sinuses can relax while you indulge in some soothing bowls of Kadhi, or chickpea flower dumplings in a yoghurt gravy. Chickpeas originated somewhere in Turkey and then spread outwards via the Silk Route. Today India is the largest producer of chickpeas in the world. There are several versions of the chickpea in India. But the small, dark ‘Desi’ variety—it is actually called Desi—is believed to be the closest to the original Turkish variety that was first consumed some eight millennia ago. Do keep in mind, however, that while a good chickpea dumpling can elevate a good kadhi, this dish is all about the depth of flavour and texture of the yoghurt sauce. Too thick and it can quickly overwhelm. Too thin and it tastes like a demented buttermilk. Balance is the key to a good kadhi. Best served with good, long-grained basmati rice.
After that mild kadhi interlude we leap forward to a portion of Birbali Kofta Curry. This dish of vegetable dumplings in gravy is named after one of Emperor Akbar’s most illustrious ministers. But it is not entirely clear why this is so. The Hindu poet, singer and raconteur Birbal was renowned not for his culinary exploits but his quick wit and close relationship with the emperor. Folktales involving Akbar and Birbal are essential reading for most Indian children. But wait. Was Birbal a minister by day and a dumpling maestro by night? We will never know.
Next up on the Modi Meal is Kela Methi Nu Shaak. Which sounds like the kind of phrase you find in a crossword anagram clue.
Order some Kela Methi Nu Shaak for the dude dancing in the cinema (5, 6, 5)
Answer: Human Talkie Shake
But, seriously, this is an excellent Gujarati delicacy. Plantain or banana is cooked with fenugreek leaves and what you get is a dish in which the bitterness of the fenugreek leaves plays against the sweet banana—a combination of flavours that is quite common in Gujarati food. K.T. Achaya says that the modern edible banana has two parent species—one of which, Musa Balbisiana, is ‘truly Indian’. (Which means it still has the original packaging for the TV it bought in 1997.)
This species crossed with another, Musa Acuminata, which arrived from South-East Asia, to create a whole variety of edible bananas. Bananas were then taken across the world by traders and invaders.
In much the same way that Dal Makhani is now an international phenomenon.
This dish, on the face of it, is simplicity itself: lentils cooked in rich, dark buttery sauce. And while a good dal makhani is not impossible to pull off, a great one is a work of art. It is also the gold standard by which many people judge a good restaurant. Serve up a respectable bowl of dal makhani, and many customers will forgive many other failings.
Mind you, this mainstay of Punjabi food is both ancient and modern. References to lentils can be found in the Vedas, the ancient foundational texts of Hinduism. But the dal makhani as we love it today, Vir Sanghvi writes, is a much more modern innovation, invented and perfected perhaps in the last half-century. Remarkable, then, that it is now available in restaurants all over the world.
We now come to the dish that was most talked about afterwards: Potoler Dorma. Most people are convinced that this was a personal choice of the president himself. Thus the First Dish of the Republic is pointed gourd stuffed with vegetables and cooked in gravy. While gourds have always been a part of Indian cooking, this particular Bengali preparation is attributed by one cookbook to the once large but now tiny Armenian community of Kolkata. Armenians first came to India, it is believed, along with the armies of Alexander. Small communities popped up all over India from Kerala to Kolkata. In Kolkata the Armenian dolma, or stuffed vegetables, may have been the inspiration for the potoler dorma.
But you know what? I really hope one of the things Modi will take care of as part of his reforms will be a national ban on all forms of gourds. I hate them. Yuck.
Finally we come to Pineapple Halwa and Mango Shrikhand.
You see, when Vasco da Gama first set foot in India, the pineapple was unheard of here. Like the potato, it was yet to arrive from South America via the Portuguese. But by 1590, as K.T. Achaya says, it was hot property in the markets of Delhi. Within a century India had assimilated an entirely foreign and, let’s be frank, bizarre-looking fruit. Mango, on the other hand, is as Indian as Indian can get. And Mango Shrikhand, a sweetened, strained yoghurt flavoured with mango, is a quintessentially Gujarati way to end a meal.
Shrikhand is a particularly versatile concoction. While it is famously consumed with pooris in both Maharashtra and Gujarat, I like to partake of it, in moderation, with fresh, soft chappatis or toasted white bread. You know what is even better? Pair it with a dark chocolate mousse as they do at the Dishoom chain of Indian restaurants in London. Oh my god—it is like a Bollywood item number in the mouth.
So there we are. A multi-course meal that is diverse, interesting and showcases the rich mix of cultures and influences and traditions that make India what it is today. Think what you want about Narendra Modi and his party, but there surely could have been no better, more auspicious start to his government.
Jai hind. Jai food.