Birthright afforded me one of the most humbling privileges:
a going away dinner. And while it took all of my pride to accept, I was little
more than touched and motivated to be as considerate as possible when choosing
a locale.
I often associate food with pangs, and there are innumerable
places I’ve eaten at that I’ve never written about because who I ate with was
just too painful. Love and food, depending on context, can be a remarkable thing.
When I’m a more centred man, maybe I’ll tell you all those stories.
So while it seemed I was considering the preferences of my
beloved family, my chophouse of choice was charged with my own voluptuous stirrings
for the person who recommended it so long ago. I had never visited it, but felt
now was a convenient opportunity, since its cuisine appealed to my family, and,
in a strange Borgesian way, managed itself as a conduit for my yearnings of some
beautiful interloper. I guess I’m not as altruistic as I think I am, just
appropriately opportunistic.
I say this because as I’ve said many times in the past,
Indian cuisine is an alien foodscape for my poor palate. Yes, even still today.
But Bollywood Bistro was more than a safe bet for me. Some woman I’m smitten
over loves it, my family likes Indian food, and, subsequently, it offers Hakka
cuisine, an interesting culinary creation that happened as a result of Chinese occupancy
in India at some point in history. Sadly, the Hakka choices seemed less than
stellar for my familiar self. That said, I couldn’t know any preparation
without trying it, but felt the situation warranted not necessarily playing it
safe. Instead, and being absolutely out of my element with such a generous
menu, I humbly requested my brother-in-law, familiar with the cuisine all his
life, to do the choosing. It was only a matter of time before our table was a
deluge of cuisine, emblematic samosas, fish fritters, chicken tikka, lamb seekh,
butter chicken, methi lamb, and the lightest, softest, most lightly crisp
garlic naan I’d ever had the luxury of sinking my teeth into. So buttery and
warm in fact, lobster wouldn’t have even been a better substitute.
But before all that, we were welcomed with dipping sauces
and crisp flat bread. A bright, glowing cilantro sauce of yoghurt, lemon, and the
leaf was hard to stay away from; I’d have happily drank it on its own. Then
again, every single sauce, dal, mash, and paste could have been left alone
without any accompanying meat. I left that kind of stuff for my family, my naan
was the only meat I wanted. But what kind of eater would I have been if I didn’t
at least give everything a try.
Packed with potato, peas, and dry spices, our light crusted
samosas were the perfect excuse for more dipping, the bright buzzing cilantro
sauce quenching against the pastries’ spicy chilli stuffing. And the fish pakora,
yet another reason; though the tender, moist, light white fish could have
easily been finished alone, its frittered flesh loaded with cumin spice.
Now, I know nothing about butter chicken, as much as I’ve heard
about it all my life. Still, my sister and brother-in-law would have liked a
little heat, but my naïve tongue had no problem with the balmy tomato, cashew,
buttercream sauce. And our smorgasbord of marinated meats gave us no reason to
complain. Deeply coloured lambs, and warmly seasoned poultry piled on a medley
of pickled onions and cabbage paid perfect homage to the warm reds, yellows,
and oranges of the decorated walls and Rajastani doorways. If I were any more
versed, I’m sure I would have appreciated every morsel even more; still, I was floored
by so many flavours, especially by lamb that was rubbed with heady amounts of
coriander.
But even after all that, our prized choice of the night had
to have been our methi chicken. A lentil paste stewed with fierce fenugreek and
cilantro made every one of us more than happy to give up the chunks of chicken
inside to each other if it meant smothering our bread with the stuff.
By the end, full, heavily spiced stomachs anchored us to our
seats, but in no time, our palates were upheaved by the meal’s ending: a spice
bowl of fenugreek seeds, anise, and candies. At first it took me a minute to
understand: it was the oldest kind of after dinner mints, and its medley of
seeds woke us out of our full, satisfied states. We were warmed, and well on
our way, and I was wondering when I’d be lucky enough to come back, and with
whom?
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