Royal Kitchens, Day 23, Month of Chithirai, 1695 CE, Maratha Royal Palace, Thanjavur, Tamil Nadu
“Y ou!”
The young man dropped the ladle in consternation. Ten feet away stood Bhim Khobre — chief cook and Maratha food exponent, the heavy turban atop his head coming undone, his thin cotton shirt drenched in perspiration, and his once white dhoti grimy with splashes of turmeric, pepper and God-knew-what-else. For all that, everyone in the kitchen quaked in their sandals at the sight of him. And they were right: Bhim Khobre was a fearsome sight.
“I’m sorry,” quavered the young man. “I was just…”
“Why are you messing about in my kitchens?” Khobre roared again.
The young man thought fast. He had no business being here anyway; he’d just been curious, dressed himself in old clothes, and decided to investigate the royal kitchens. Now, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. But wait — maybe there was a way out? “Please, I’m new — the cook’s assistant,” he blurted suddenly, seizing the first excuse he had.
Khobre still looked suspicious. “Your name?”
“Sha…” the young man paused. “Shanth Bhoj,” he stammered. “Please…I really am a good cook.”
“Hmpf!” Khobre shook his head. “Talk about blowing your own trumpet. Do you know how to prepare amti ?”
“Oh, yes,” Shanth bubbled over with eagerness. “You take moong dal and…”
“No need to give me the whole recipe,” Khobre barked. “Start preparing the dish. And another thing,” Khobre loomed over Shanth. “ Amti is the king’s favourite. You ruin the dish, your head will roll.”
Shanth’s hand shook as he turned towards the huge wood-fire stove and placed an enormous pan on top. He made sure he had the necessary garnishing condiments; oil, mustard, turmeric and …
He stopped, eyes wide. Where was the moong dal ?
He tried to calm himself. Dear God. What was he to do? You simply couldn’t prepare amti without moong . Fine, he’d have to find kokum , to add sourness to the dish.
No kokum either. A hurried question to a kitchen-boy brought the answer that neither was available, that day.
Shanth placed his hands on his head, desperation and worry warring in his mind. Now what? Then, his eyes fell upon certain ingredients upon the large wooden table. “Maybe this will work,” he mumbled, and set to work.
Tweak the tuvar
Two hours later, Bhim Khobre tasted the amti Shanth had prepared, and frowned. “This is different,” he said, finally. “What ingredients did you use?”
Shanth twisted his hands. “Well, I couldn’t find either moong dal or kokum , so I …”
Khobre’s face darkened. “You did…what?”
“Substituted them with tuvar dal and tamarind.”
Khobre’s considerable wrath broke on his head. “You fool — how dare you — ruined the dish — the king will be furious …”
Shanth waited until there was a break in the tirade, and then calmly interposed. “He won’t be. I shall make sure of that.”
Khobre was so shocked that he actually paused. Then, he laid a hand on Shanth’s neck. “You,” he said grimly, “will accompany me to the king’s chambers for the mid-day meal. When he tastes your horrible amti and demands the identity of the cook, you shall answer.”
“But it’s not horrible. I think it resembles a South Indian dish called… ”
“ Shut up !”
Mid-day meals at the Thanjavur royal palace were filled with such a wonderful variety of dishes that newcomers might have been forgiven for thinking that each day was a festival.
The Maratha rule was comparatively new in these parts — it had been established in 1676 CE, by the Maratha king Ekoji; his son, the present king Shahuji, still retained some customs prevailing from the earlier, Nayak reign — notably, local dishes.
Consequently, when Khobre entered the elaborate bhojana shala or the eating hall of the Maratha with Shanth in tow, he expected the younger man to be impressed.
Plantain leaves were placed all along the large hall for ministers and courtiers — but the large space in the centre was clearly reserved for the king. On a large, plush, embroidered carpet was a chair; gold and silver cups, beautifully wrought in the shape of peacocks and parrots were set on a low table in front. Many local delicacies were served: the pachadi , and paruppu , ghee, followed by roasted fish, lemon rasam, and two sweets.
“Where’s the king?” Khobre asked a servant in a low voice. The hall was buzzing with chatter, and several people looked puzzled. “Is His Majesty not in the city, today?”
“His Majesty is very much in the city,” replied Shanth, who had been standing behind a large pillar. “And he’s certainly going to enjoy his meal.” He removed the large turban on his head — and the servant dropped a water-jug in consternation.
“The King!”
Khobre’s jaw dropped. The courtiers folded their hands, while servants drew back respectfully. Shanth smiled and walked to the king’s chair and sat down, as the usher announced his arrival in clarion tones. Khobre fell to his knees at once, quaking.
“Rise, Khobre,” grinned King Shahuji, leaning an arm on his knee. “I’m sorry for the impersonation, but I’m very fond of cooking and…”
“I’m the one that ought to beg forgiveness, Your Majesty,” Khobre’s voice shook. “That you should have been scolded and dragged here by me…”
“All shall be forgiven,” Shahuji’s eyes glinted with mischief, “if you admit that my version of the amti tastes good.”
“Your Majesty,” Khobre rose, and folded his hands. “So wonderful is the dish you have created that it shall now find pride of place amongst our dishes and shall henceforth be known as sambhar !”
Historical Fact
The origin of the delicious South Indian dish sambhar is shrouded in mystery; this story is just one of the legends connected with it. Although there seems to be evidence that sambhar was in existence long before this period, it supposedly gained immense popularity after the Maratha era.
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