Let's get this straight from the outset; Indian cuisine is not my food of
choice. I'd much rather take up some South-east Asian delights or Arab food any
day. On my last school trip to Mumbai, there was absolutely no choice in
what I could eat, and we were regularly plied with buffet-style Indian dishes
of the two-star hotel variety, and that's just when we weren't in the middle of
the jungle. I was beginning to reel at the sight of another paneer makhni and
didn't want anything to do with unidentified curries. It really did put me off
altogether, and aside from a meal at the Dubai institution known as Ravi's
in Satwa, I haven't eaten anything at all from the entire India-Pakistan
region. Cue trip to Mumbai.
It started off easily, as I knew a little joint called Cafe Mondegar on the
Colaba Causeway, about a kilometre away from my hotel. Frequented by upmarket
locals and tourists alike, I counted on this place for masala and cheese
omelettes and basic cups of cardamom tea with buttermilk. Satisfying and
reasonably priced at 180 rupees a meal, but not impressive. It simply fuelled
the machine that only eats twice a day when touristing about. On an even less
adventurous scale, the local place I slipped into for dinner turned out to be
an Iranian place, and I found myself having felafel for dinner and going to bed
hungry. For all the sights and sounds I loved, I was failing miserably in the
food department.
By my second night, I knew I had to take a different tack. When my
intentions of finding a particular textile store and doing a workout
both fell to pieces, I made the move to be more adventurous in my eating. Why
didn't you do that before, you say? Let me know how adventurous you are once
you've been hooked up to an IV with salmonella poisoning in Bhaktapur, and get
back to me. I wandered into a very local place I'd passed by many times while
walking through Colaba.
A "pure-veg" restuarant, akin to a canteen by the mosques in
Dubai, heralded a table for myself and gratefully, a fan above me. I was
presented with a menu, in English, but shivers ran down my spine all the same.
The list was huge: dosas, uttapams, pavs, kulfi, yada, yada, yada. You get the
idea. I suddenly felt sorry for all my students who ever had to suffer me
giving them a text that was too hard, with too much unfamiliar language. I was
completely lost, and although I could read the menu, I didn't know what I could
eat. I suddenly wanted Nepali momos, just for the sake of something familiar.
One of the waiters came up to me, and I randomly pointed at something on
the menu containing 'masala' and something unfamiliar, nodding questioningly.
No, he pointed, finished half hour ago. Crap. I pointed at something else. This
seemed ok. Looking at the prices, and them being half the price of anywhere
else I'd eaten, I thought I'd point to something that looked like it was in the
'related to bread' section (one ignores wheat intolerance in desperation). A
nod. Thank God. I hoped with all my might that I wasn't getting some vegetarian
equivalent of steak tartar or broiled brussel sprouts and waited for my order.
Turns out, I'd pretty much ordered two main meals: pricing fail.
Incredibly, the 'bread' based dish was based on rice flour, and I devoured it,
and it's oniony goodness, to my heart's content, supported by a good portion of
the other thing I ordered. Small bowls of pickles, chutneys and other
unidentified condiments surrounded me, and I didn't really know how to approach
them. What rocked my world was the
wonder of spices, chilli and tomatoes. I could taste the coriander, hiding
underneath the flavours of red onion and parsley. I love the way one can meld
these flavours together into absolutely anything, and then pile it onto
something carby. It was not michelin-star food, but it was wholesome, delicious
and NOT paneer makhni (ironically, one of the few things on the menu I
did recognise). Vegetarianism win.
I obviously couldn't finish what I ordered, and as I looked around I'd
clearly ordered for two, but also rather hefty portions for two. I didn't feel
so guilty about not finishing then, but I was well full. I busted out a request
for a cup of tea, putting all my willpower into hoping that I wouldn't get a
teabag and hot water, and lo and behold, a sweet, milky cup of Indian tea
appeared in front of me. Bliss. I sucked it down like I always do, and ordered
another. I didn't care how much it cost - I hadn't had a fix of great tea to
that point, and I wasn't brave enough to take a cup from the guy walking the
streets. A busboy came to collect my cup, and had already been by twice to
collect my plates and first empty cup of tea. I considered ordering a third,
thought better of it, knowing how much sugar they added, and settled up my
US$2.60 bill with the determination to continue awesome food adventures the
next morning. No more ponsy omelettes for me; this girl knows what she wants
now.
