Thali Bajao!
© ๐พ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ฎ๐๐๐๐๐๐
Recently, a family friend asked for my recommendations before he took his family to dine at one of the two local desi restaurants. Yes, there are two now in our small, semi-rural Midwestern town of 40k humans! I was ashamed to admit my lack of knowledge since we haven't patronized either establishment; Mrs. Yours Truly (YT), the Executive VP of Cultural & Social Engagement at YT Inc. has steadfastly refused to go. So I delegated fast, a skill learned as a Corporate Mouse Driver, nodded in her general direction and earned a glare. This reminded me of one of those rare occasions when I had made such a decision all by myself without explicit and pointed inputs from the long-acknowledged Ms. Subject Matter Expert on the said subject.
Several years ago during business trips, I spent a week at a time in a small industrial town on the East coast near NH-MA border, not too far from the Beantown. A place where the locals putting their khakis away meant the "car keys," not their trousers, after crossing the Hahvuhd Yahd and pahking their cahs heah. That town was (and still is, as they say) quite "colorless." Except for one IT support young lady named Geeta who used to commute from the Beantown, and temporarily myself, lack of melanin was starkly evident among the natives. That state's drivers were uncharitably called MAss**les by outsiders. I did witness many people take on different personae on and off the road. Mr. Hyde behind the wheels vs. Dr. Jekyll in person. Nearby smaller towns were Lay-minstah (Leominister), Wis-brah (Westborough) & Watch-you-say (Wachusett). There are several memorable incidents from those trips but those will have to wait for another day. Except The Thali.
After several days of sampling only greasy burgers and local cuisine like Baahstin clam chaw-dah (chowder), the authentic concoction in tomato broth, not the creamy Manhattan pretender with potatoes, and fresh laab-stah (lobster) rolls, I ended up driving to a nearby town to a desi joint called the Bombay Palace or Shahi Dawat or something (apologies, fading memory)... The place was nearly empty when I arrived. The elderly owner welcomed me with the enthusiasm of an uncle meeting his long-lost nephew which was quite touching. A few more patrons arrived eventually, without adding any chromatic modifications.
I ordered their non-veg Thali. The platter arrived less than 20 minutes later not just as a meal, but as a full-scale display of heritage and ancient civilization. A large brass thali, a gleaming metallic cartography of the subcontinent’s gastronomic genius, each little katori brimming with enough spices to trigger both nostalgia and mild respiratory distress.
At the center reclined a couple of smallish but prominent mounds of rice looking mildly erotic. Not mere ordinary rice, but supposedly Himalayan long-grained basmati, each fragrant grain standing with the erect dignity of a well-drilled imperial regiment, patiently awaiting the campaign orders. After several days of only the local fare, the fragrance was heavenly, and more than justified its moniker. Basmati! With a capital B and the exclamation point. Bold. Italic. Underlined.
Beside it lounged baingan bharta. Smoky eggplant... aubergine brinjal roasted on open flame, mashed into a stringy pulp. All of which appeared at first glance to have endured a small but meaningful kitchen conflagration, yet revealed itself to be a velvet portfolio of charred eggplant, tomatoes, raw garlic, with cilantro and green chilies conspiring gloriously in mustard oil-slicked harmony.
Then came the aaloo gobhi matar, wherein potatoes, cauliflower and peas, vegetables otherwise condemned to lives of middle-class mediocrity, were elevated through the right blend of turmeric, cumin, and coriander into something bordering upon profound significance. The cauliflower pieces with roasted edges floated effortlessly with the potatoes and peas in an onion gravy, having absorbed enough masala to qualify as an "emotional support" companion on any flight on any airlines.
The onion bhajis arrived in a medium-sized basket with the swagger of deep-fried aristocracy. Tangled skeins of onion dipped in besan batter and fried to a crunch so thunderous it could plausibly be monitored with sensitive seismological instruments. Every bite produced an audible crackle followed by immediate regret at not ordering more. Still sizzling.
There were pickles too. Those tiny, sinister accompaniments lurking at the edge of the thali on their own tiny platters, like edible extremists. Smallish but generous portions of mango and mirchi ka achar that possessed sufficient sodium, capsaicin, and acidic fury to briefly separate one’s soul from one’s body. Yet, predictably, one kept returning to every dish for more, compelled by something equivalent of Stockholm Syndrome.
Two buttery naan, glistening with enough ghee to lubricate industrial machinery, served as both utensil and accomplice, for scooping up gravies with the shameless determination of a mid-level babu embezzling public funds before the authorities arrived to take their cuts. Spoons? Forks? Pshaw! "Apnรฉ ghar kรฉ jaisa khao, beta!" But the owner did bring out the silverware to the table upon my insistence.
Presiding over this edible opera was the piรจce de rรฉsistance, the butter chicken. Unapologetically reddish orange, luxuriantly creamy, richly dressed in abundant red food coloring, ready for the year-long billionaire wedding festivities. So aggressively aromatic that nearby tables involuntarily began reconsidering their own orders. It stained fingers, napkins, burnt your tongue and scarred your moral convictions that day, with me forgetting all about the sin of "gluttony" and Sr. Carmella's admonishing fingers, but... resistance was futile. There were several other items around the plate. A steaming bowl of daal makhaani so dense you could stand a spoon in it. Minty cucumber raita, papad and yogurt dahi to take the fiery edges off and attempt to extinguish the spicy explosions in your system. All rounded off with a warm gulab jamun.
By the meal’s conclusion, the table resembled the aftermath of a deliciously successful coup d’รฉtat. Every other diner there sat in perspiring silence, united by the ancient Indian culinary principle that true satisfaction lies precisely several bites beyond reasonable fullness and no matter what your ethnicity, everyone there was a desi for the day.
The owner hovered nearby anxiously throughout like a mother-in-law on jamai shashthi. I tipped generously, the owner thanked me profusely, the mustachioed chef peeked out from the kitchen beaming with pride, the other guests eyeing the entire spectacle with open admiration, frank curiosity and a little awe at the ability of this diner to handle "the heat." Little did they know.
I loosened my belt buckles a couple of notches as I exited the establishment. Too full and quite uncomfortable, I drove back to my hotel in a daze, stumbled into my room in a full-on carbo-glow and collapsed on the bed. The night was quite memorable for the multiple trips to the water cooler / ice maker. Aromatic emissions required opening up all windows in my room on an otherwise cool summer evening.
Now some two decades later, I sometimes regret not going back again to that restaurant in Woo-stah (Worcester) during that stay. Pure hearsay, but those two desi restaurants in our small rural Midwestern town seem to operate on industrial scale, focusing on guest count and foot traffic, quantity rather than of quality or variety of food. They masquerade quite successfully as "ethnic" options along with with Mexican, Chinese & Japanese eateries among the local meat and potato joints and national chains. Both seem to be quite popular among the younger IT walla crowd, singles as well as couples and their adventurous young non-desi colleagues.
Given that we hadn't personally visited either establishment ever, I hesitantly asked Mrs. YT (Yours Truly) if we could visit one some time and earned The Look. Yes, that special one, a combo "tchah - sigh - you don't love me" look of scoff, scorn, disbelief. Quite a roller-coaster of emotions crossed her face. I felt proud at the richness of her vocabulary as some pithy expressions from her younger days growing up in cow-belt escaped past her lips... closest translation being "No Way, Josรฉ!" But it did earn me some really yummy food within a few days, as such a query caused the Chef Boss Lady Kitchen Goddess's purposeful avataran in the sacred cucina shrine. Yours Truly kept his mouth mostly shut and knives busy during the meal-prep, and later, the dish-washing. Although I contended somewhat weakly after the meal that the dishes need no more washing, having been licked clean by this happy gourmand, she insisted (and we compromised by me agreeing) that I load the dishwasher... a task I fulfilled to the best of my abilities. Ours felines sniffed along approvingly at all these activities, actively engaged in helping by swatting ball-shaped veggies like bell peppers, tomatoes and eggplants. They seemed quite eager and happy to be participating. The Agenda Item of "When should we visit the local desi restaurant(s)?" was resolved firmly as "Never."
