Fringe benefits

After expressing solidarity at the hub of action, the best way to unwind was with channa bhatura and scrambled eggs on toast.

April 16, 2011 07:01 pm | Updated 07:01 pm IST

Channa-bhatura: Completely basic but satisfying. Photo: R. Ravindran

Channa-bhatura: Completely basic but satisfying. Photo: R. Ravindran

There was of course huge satisfaction and rejuvenation, participating in the goings-on at Jantar Mantar. And, later, much discussion and criticism about not just the means but also the end, which I had felt was beyond doubt. But two truths remained incontrovertible and I challenge anyone to disprove them.

The first was lunch at Kwality's, after a hot and malodorous couple of hours spent expressing solidarity at the hub of the action. I know myself and am more or less sure I'd have done the virtuous thing regardless, but the anticipation of chana-bhatura to follow tilted the balance, had there been any weakness of resolve. Kwality's is about ten minutes' walk and that in blazing sunshine and at peril to life and limb, through the continuous traffic on Sansad Marg.

Earlier choice

The restaurant is much the same as it was decades ago: the same smell of raw onions, Punjabi curries and tandoori roti ; the same waiters, a little bit older perhaps but with hair blacker than when last seen; and excellent air conditioning. The only change was the table linen – I think I remember white tablecloths, dhobi-washed and slightly damp – but there were none.

I didn't need to see the menu, because the choice had already been made. I could see trays carrying lunch being delivered to neighbouring tables, and the sheer size of each bhatura was thrilling. One plate of chana-bhatura contains exactly that, one bhatura with a separate bowl of chanas . The chanas were okay, dark and mildly spiced, with a wicked pool of oil at the bottom but not enough sourness. A squeeze of lime helped.

The accessories, on top of the brown, almost black, chanas , were lovely. There were two fried green chillies stuffed with some chaat-masala like powder. We asked for more and they came. Then there were potato quarters. They were boiled but firm and coated with an oily mixture of ground zeera , pepper and red chillies. Very nice to squish and wrap in a bite of bhatura , which was perfection itself. Huge, as big as a dinner plate, golden, and puffed up like a football – or let's say a rugby ball – it was mostly soft, with a few crisp bits.

I find there are two kinds of bhatura : the slightly thicker, with a spongy porosity that makes it suck up oil, and which gets a bit leathery the moment it starts cooling. And then there's this kind: it's rolled (or stretched by hand) really thin, till it's almost transparent; more like a poori , but made of maida , refined flour, and the size of maybe four regular pooris .

I usually dislike raw onions with vegetarian food, but chanas are an exception. This kind of establishment always offers a bowl of baby onions soaked in synthetic vinegar, pink and intensely sour. Many were consumed, but the better kind came in the bowl of chana itself: raw, untreated, crisp, just peeled and quartered – so every bite delivered a pungent intensity, bursting with juice and flavour. Completely basic, crude and satisfying. Now I know why crudités are so called.

Self-indulgent snacks

I returned to Jantar Mantar the same evening for another demonstration of solidarity. Later we went to the Press Club but this time there was no appetite because lunch had settled firmly in my stomach like shot putt. And yet. There's something about the Press Club that forces me to eat. Their snacks are the stuff of complete and utter self-indulgence. Before we had even sat down I'd caught the eye of a waiter, summoned him and placed my order. Scrambled eggs on toast and Bomb Shammi kababs ; chicken shit and bum shammi in local parlance.

Why would I, a housewife, go out of my way, risking indigestion, to eat eggs and toast, when I have a running kitchen chez moi ? One, because I'm greedy, and two, because that egg is on squares of fried bread. The egg is scrambled oh-so-gently that it's creamy and soft, and the toast is perfectly crisp and remains un-soggy by virtue of having been fried. Unlike my kitchen where deep-frying is so rare that our kadahi rarely comes out of its cupboard. At the IPC they serve it with a small heap of suspicious grey powder on the side which I licked and discovered to be chaat masala . But I'd ordered my pepper and that crisp and creamy confection was demolished before you could bolo bum.

And then came the Bum Shammi. These are spherical and huge – each the size of a tennis ball, and made of the cleanest mince, which has been finely ground, boiled with fragrant cloves and cardamom and then mixed with crunchy bits of onion and green chillies. The outer bit is crisp and a rich, dark brown, the inside golden-beige, soft yet firm to the bite. The plate has tiny white plastic bowls filled with green chutney and a pile of onion rings.

Unfortunately on that evening there was no leeway for more but, on other occasions, I've had their egg pakodas and onion pakodas . The eggs are hardboiled and cut lengthwise, then dipped in besan , (chickpea flour) batter and deep fried.

Onion pakodas can be all wrong of they're undercooked, all raw and juicy. These are sliced fine and the pakodas probably twice fried, so that they've caramelised a bit. The cook obviously has total mastery of cooking temperature and time, because the batter is a little darker than golden; it's almost brown, but never burnt. Possibly the menu has some healthier, un-fried options, but trying them has never been on my agenda.

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