Secure In Uncertainty

I exited the rental van still groggy from my early rise, hearing the driver telling my dad this dhaba was especially good. Common along India’s various roadways, dhaba’s are the nation’s version of greasy spoon eateries. It was the summer of 2004, I was fourteen, and my family was headed to Agra to see the Taj Mahal for the first time. My parents, though born in India, had never made the trip. We were with another family, close friends who lived in Kanpur, a main city in the state of Uttar Pradesh, 278 km from Agra.

The building we entered for our late breakfast was less a building than a cement façade that lead into an un-walled eating space. Above us was a thatched roof with beams spanning across, attached to which were metal ceiling fans. To the right of me was the kitchen, separated by dividers. Long tables covered with vibrant, checkered plastic table cloths lined the space as would booths in any diner, except no cushioned barricades to create an illusion of privacy.

The seven of us sat at a far table. A waiter promptly brought stainless steel tumblers with water, speaking to the men at the table in Hindi, which I do not speak. There was no print menu, only the staff relaying available dishes. After a few minutes, the man rushed back to the kitchen, and I was told they specialize in aloo paratha, a potato-stuffed flat bread, which had been ordered for everyone.

They arrived within minutes, aside yoghurt and lemon pickle. The first bite commenced my love affair with dingy dives, as the tender flaky bread melted like butter, as the freshly ground spices entranced me with their aromas, as the silence that accompanies good food settled on our group. As we ate, a few other customers trickled in, mostly local truck drivers. Eventually, all plates were empty, satisfied sighs and groans replacing them. Noting the time and the many kilometers left, we paid the bill (roughly $20 CAD to feed 7 people), packed ourselves into the van, and set off to see a world wonder.

That trip was over a decade ago, and my life now is unrecognizable. One constant, however, is my faith in hole-in-the-wall eateries, cemented from my visit to that nameless dhaba on a stretch of Indian highway a world away. Whether Super Burger on the outskirts of Toronto, or Bon’s Off Broadway in Vancouver, I have come to seek out those untouched gems with the tacky décor, or the complete lack thereof, in order to find the most memorable food, no matter where I am.