Currying Flavour

English is a funny language.  Not only does it break all of its own rules, it also has multiple meanings for the same word.  Take, for example, the word "curry".  As a verb, curry can mean: to groom a horse, to beat or thrash, to attempt to ingratiate through flattery and fawning, or to rebuke or criticize. As a noun, curry is a blend of spices (curry powder or what is called a masala here), a dish made with that blend, or an entirely different herb - the curry leaf (Murraya koenigii). There is also a "curry plant" (Helichrysum italicum) that smells like the aforementioned spice mix but that is not edible!

Curry Leaf, or karivepallai, is an integral part of South Indian cuisine, particularly to the food of Kerala, but does not taste anything like curry powder.  There are very few dishes made here that do not incorporate the curry leaf, luckily we all love them! Something magical happens when a fresh curry leaf hits hot oil.  The oil sputters from the moisture in the leaf and then the leaf gives off a fabulous aroma and gets crisp and more-ish. Not surprisingly then, the main way that curry leaves are used is in the "tempering" process.  Tempering is a technique to finish many of the drier "curries", those that don't have a lot of sauce.  Near the end of the cooking a mix of vegetables or meat, a separate kadai (little wok or frying pan) is heated and oil is added to it.  In Kerala is is usually coconut oil.  When the oil is very hot, black mustard seeds are added.  When the seeds start to pop like popcorn, dried red chilies are tossed in and quickly fried in the oil to change colour.  Then the leaves are pulled off of a few curry sprigs and added to the oil.  The whole spluttering thing is tossed together and then the heat is turned off. All of this takes maybe 5 minutes.  The resulting spiced oil is poured over the finished dish.  A dish that has not been tempered is lacking a certain je ne sais quoi.  Sometimes a teaspoon of methi seeds, cumin seeds or urad dal are added to the tempering to contribute to the overall flavour, texture and healthiness of the dish.

Curry leaves are fairly fibrous and so are not eaten fresh off the stalk. Because Keralan cuisine uses a lot of ground fresh coconut, the grinding process is another good time to add curry leaves.  Pop the leaves of a few sprigs into the mixie (see Rob's post about majesty of the mixie here) with some grated fresh coconut and blend away.  Sometimes this blended concoction is added to a dish that is cooking, other times it is the base for a coconut chutney.  

When making a wetter curry, with what they call "gravy" here, whole curry leaves can be added early on in the cooking process, sort of like bay leaves.  The liquid in the dish and the longer cooking time makes the leaf more palatable and digestible. It is a personal preference whether you eat the curry leaves in the final dish or whether you push them to the side of your plate as most people do with the whole dried red chilies.

In Vancouver we are lucky enough to have several stores that carry fresh curry leaves (our favourite is Asia Market on Hastings Street near Main but there are several grocery stores in Little India that also carry the leaves). Curry leaves don't have a long life once picked - a few days in the fridge, maybe a week, is about all they can handle.  You can freeze or dry the leaves but the dried leaves, like dried parsley, really lack the bright flavour and essence of the leaf, frozen is preferably if you really can't get fresh.  In the markets here in Cochin, vendors often throw a handful of curry leaves into your bag free of charge. But many people here have curry trees in their gardens and can pick the leaves fresh as needed.  Since Murraya koenigii is a tropical plant, I'm looking into the possibility of growing a curry leaf tree as a houseplant when we get home. How cool would that be?

But back to the English language. Don't even get me started on the many definitions of "temper" or 'tempering"! As a former ESL teacher, I feel for any one who needs to learn English as a second language; it can be tricky enough for native speakers to use correctly!  Spelling (anyone familiar with ghoti?)!  Grammar! Idiom! Of course, it is also a joy.  Its flexibility allows for playful dialogue that apparently some languages cannot accommodate.  So what I am trying to say is that I don't really mean to curry, rather to curry favour with our readers out in the blogsphere and remind them, all currying aside, that voting for the Spice of Life on the Blogger Awards page only takes a minute of their time...

Pickle In My Pocket

I really love pickles.

One of my favourite Far Side cartoons is the one where two gorillas are in a zoo cage, poised in front of a bunch of bananas. One says to the other (I'm paraphrasing here) "Y'know Phil, I really LOVE bananas. I mean, heck, we ALL do. But for me, it goes beyond that". That's kind of how I feel about pickles. I've been known to call out a cook from the kitchen in a restaurant and berate him mercilessly for not having the foresight to serve a proper dill pickle with a burger. I mean, really. It's just not done. You need something salty and acidic to balance out the sublime fatty juices from that grass-fed, hormone free, happy beef patty.

I've had strong picklish leanings ever since I was a boy. My mother, despite her shortcomings as a cook, actually made pretty good dill pickles for many years before she lost interest in making anything besides reservations. My favourite after school snack as a kid was one of them big salty and garlicky dills, along with a slice of nondescript orange cheddar cheese. I've tried to make dill pickles, but have never been able to duplicate her recipe. She passed away 3 years ago this week, and I suppose that my chances of having the recipe relayed to me are admittedly slim. Bugger...

The first time I visited New York was in 1991. I was a dreadlocked leather-jacketed keyboard player, recording an album ("Hey Stoopid") with Alice Cooper at Bearsville Studio in upstate Woodstock NY for several weeks. The guitar player in the band, one Stef Burns, and I decided to take a train into NYC for a day's adventure in the big city. We walked out of Grand Central Station, and the first thing I saw was a car driving past with its undercarriage emitting flames. When the car stopped at the light, a pedestrian tried to tell the driver that his car was on fire. The driver, still apparently unaware that he had perhaps minutes to vacate the car before being engulfed in flames, not only ignored the warning, but took the opportunity to yell a few choice words out the window and flip the pedestrian the finger. The flaming car took off when the light turned green for parts and fates unknown. Nobody else seemed to notice. Welcome To New Yawk.. Stef took me almost immediately to the Broadway Deli, where we ordered massive pastrami sandwiches. Waiting for the sandwiches to come, I tucked into the plate of pickles that was on the table. Half-sours! Sours! Pickled green tomatoes! A whole brave new world of pickles opened up for me right then and there. These weren't Mom's pickles at all. They were.....God's own pickles. Yahweh's own, to be more precise. Oi, such pickles.

Now I find myself quite a ways from New York City. Believe me, after 6 months here, a pastrami on rye with a little mustard would certainly go down a treat right about now. I'm in India, and while pastrami is scarce, pickles are indeed plentiful, although the pickles in India bear little resemblance to the cucumber-based Euro-pickle that we are accustomed to in North America. Pickles play a huge part in the cuisine of India, and the variations in their ingredients and preparation are as vast as the country itself. After documenting the preparation of pappadam for the traditional Sadya meal, the next thing we dove into was the creation of four different types of pickle that are used. Once again, our good friend and dedicated chef Chitra hosted us in her catering kitchen to show us how to prepare a few items. For her version of the Sadya, she made Ginger Pickle, Green Mango Pickle, Grapefruit Pickle, and Lime Pickle.

In a Sadya meal, it's important to have a variety of tastes and textures, and tradition dictates that the food items be consumed in a particular order in order to obtain maximum benefit from the meal. It is a complex mix, and sweet, sour, spicy hot, bland, cooling, and bitter items all have their prescribed place, and they all have equal importance. I use the word "prescribed" intentionally, as a proper Sadya meal is effectively an Ayurvedic prescription for well-being. The pickles play an important part. The Ginger Pickle has some heat from the ginger, but also is balanced by sweetness from the jaggery, or palm sugar. It's fantastic with rice, and frankly, this is one that I could eat right from the jar by the spoonful. The Grapefruit and Lime Pickles have a decidedly bitter taste. They are not so much meant to be eaten on their own, but as a complement to other foods. The Green Mango Pickle lies somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. Redolent of chili and hing, also known as asafetida, this great pickle leans more towards the savory side of things. Although the Sadya is a pure vegetarian meal, the Mango Pickle goes great with fried fish. It's Chitra's mother's recipe, although she has tweaked it a bit.

After prepping all the ingredients, Chitra whipped through the assembly of all four pickles in short order. These things are not at all difficult to make, and once done, will sit in a jar in your fridge for weeks or months. A little salt goes a long way to preserve things. The exact recipes will once again follow in future posts once we review the tapes, but the general idea is incredibly simple: just to heat up the ingredients in a pan and put them in a jar once they are cool. It's very simple and also very rewarding. In the meantime, please enjoy the pictures we took of Chitra's masterpieces. I can't wait to get back into my own kitchen and make my own versions of these, especially the ginger and green mango. I really love pickles.... I mean, heck, we ALL do.

But for me, it goes beyond that...

My Pappadam Told Me...

Well, how hard could it be, really.

Those who know us know that we've never been ones to shy away from a challenge. In just over 9 years of marriage, we've had two children, renovated houses, built recording studios, started a couple of businesses, opened a bed and breakfast, opened a retail store, and most recently, moved to India to study the food and culture. So when our friends Chitra and Gee casually suggested that we document the making of a Sadya, or Keralan traditional feast meal, we barely flinched. It's just a dinner, right? Pffffft.....Then we had a production meeting with Chitra to plan the filming, and it was then that the true scope of the endeavour was revealed. When I looked at my Excel spreadsheet of dishes and planned shooting days at the end of our two hour discussion, it became apparent that this was going to be anything but casual.

A Sadya, the Malayalam word for "feast", is a traditional Keralan vegetarian meal served up for special occasions only. It's a very fussy and involved meal to prepare, and there are some fairly strict rules and customs for it's correct preparation. A full-on Sadya meal has 24 separate dishes in it, and the order on which they appear on the banana leaf plate, and the order in which they are consumed are strictly observed. There are Ayurvedic principles involved, and therefore many do's and don'ts that may seem a little bizarre to the uninitiated. For example, onions and garlic are typically not used in the preparation of dishes for a Sadya, as they are said to "arouse the passions", and therefore interfere with a properly meditative mindset. This explains my fervent love of onions and garlic, and therefore my personal tendency to dwell in the lowest states of consciousness. Woof!

So the next few posts will be concerned with the preparation of the Sadya. Chitra, our talented chef friend, generously volunteered to prepare this feast for us over a period of several days. Our work needed to be spread out over time, because even with a large catering team, the sheer amount of work involved in preparation can take at least a couple of days. We've actually been able to film a couple of these large teams at work, and it's a pretty amazing sight to see at least a dozen people pull an all-day and then all-night shift in order to prepare these dishes, some of which are incredibly involved, for groups of people that can number as high as six or seven hundred hungry diners.

We decided to start with the thing that keeps the longest: pappadam. Pappadam are those crunchy crisp circular crackers either made from urad dal, or tapioca flour, water and salt. Some are made by mixing in black pepper, or cumin, or green chili, but the ones for Sadya are intentionally left plain. The flat, dried crackers are then fried very briefly in oil, and served at room temperature. Of course, for a special feast, we don't just trundle off to the grocery store or market and pick up something pre-made off the shelf now, do we? That would be the cultural equivalent of serving Kraft Dinner at your wedding dinner (hi Uncle Cletus...). It's just not done. So once again, we relied on a contact of Chitra's to get the real inside poop on how these vitally important snacks are made by hand.

Chitra and Gee picked us up in their delightfully air-conditioned Honda CR-V, and drove us and all of our camera and audio gear to a nice house, much like the one we have been renting, in another part of Kaloor. It was only a few miles away, but navigating through the labyrinthine streets and finding the proper address was a challenge, even for Gee. We were welcomed into the home by Chitra's lady friend and her son. After unpacking the camera, strapping on the audio mixer, and affixing the microphones to Chitra and Laurel, all of us were led upstairs to an essentially empty room where the pappadams were made. The floor was comprised of spotlessly clean 2 foot square marble (or vitrified ceramic) tiles. There was only a stainless steel bowl with a large lump of batter in it, and a 4x6 foot plastic sheet. We all got down on the floor with her, and watched as she repeatedly grabbed a small lump of batter and placed it on a semi-stiff piece of plastic that had been lightly oiled. Then another piece of plastic was placed on top of that. Next, she deftly tapped the top piece of plastic with a circular stone to press the batter out into a perfect circle. A quick peel of the top layer of plastic, and she then moved the fresh disc over the large plastic sheet by her side, inverted it, and peeled away the last bit of plastic.

The window was open, and the sounds of drums and horns from the temple festival going on a couple of doors away drifted in. Oblivious to the nearby costumed elephants and feverish drummers, she repeated this batter ballet with practiced ease. Her constant smile told us of the obvious pride that she took in what she was doing. Soon, the large plastic sheet was filled with fresh pappadam. The freshly laden sheet was then moved out into the hot sun to dry. Chitra told us that she makes about 250 of these pappadam a day, every day. She only stops when the rainy season comes, and it becomes impossible to dry them outside. It was her only source of income. Laurel tried her hand at making one, and it soon became obvious that doing it quickly and correctly took a certain amount of practice!

After this, we were led back downstairs for some coffee and a few samples of her handiwork. The pappadam were quickly fried in oil, and served up piping hot. They were so delicious, that we bought several bundles to take home with us. So part one of the Sadya meal was pretty much in the bag. As we climbed back in the Honda for the drive back home, I could not help but marvel at this woman's work. The sheer industriousness of it struck me. It was so very impressive for us to see her making her living in such an ingenious, dignified, and self-sufficient way. I could not help but wonder. Faced with the need to support ourselves and our families alone, how many of us would rise to the challenge as she had done?

How hard would it be?

Cardamom Pods And Kinky Insex

I never dreamed that a rhinoceros beetle could be so... horny. I'll get to that.

When I explained to my friend Gee that we wanted to film some background info on spices, he quickly piped up, "Chitra has a friend who has a place that we can visit for cardamom". Of course there is a friend. Chitra and Gee have many friends, and they seem to pop up the most unlikely places. Ever since we had the pleasure of meeting them both, we have been constantly amazed at the densely woven fabric of their social connections. I swear that we could be making a seemingly impossible right turn across 9 lanes of traffic, when out of nowhere a uniformed policeman would leap out, stop all traffic except our car, and guide us through the intersection neatly, perhaps dusting off the tail lights with his handkerchief as we passed. When queried, Gee might invariably say something like "Oh, I went to school with his brother", "His father and my father were at college", or "I saved his cat from drowning when I was a child". Okay, I'm exaggerating a little. But not much. In this case, Chitra remembered that an old teaching colleague of hers had recently taken possession of a massive spice plantation in the previous year. So it goes...

So as a result, a couple of weeks back I found myself sitting on the covered deck of a rambling raj-era house perched atop a 150 acre estate 5 hours from Cochin with Gee, and the owner of the estate, Rajindran. Evening was falling, and as we were perched up on a hilltop at least a thousand feet above Cochin, it was thankfully cooler than the steamy evenings that we were used to. The ladies had retired, and as the day turned to night, we enjoyed the pleasure of each other's company as we watched the mist roll by the front of the deck. Gee and I had a cocktail or three, and although Rajindran abstains from demon rum, he was very happy to join us in a lengthy, and as the beverages flowed, increasingly loud and far-ranging conversation. Rajindran, who is submitting his PhD law thesis in June, and Gee, who is a structural engineer by trade, but has an informed opinion on just about everything, both proved to be exceptional conversational partners. We covered everything from the massive economic shift from the US to India, to gold conspiracy theories, to the proper way to cook certain vegetables. In short, as the drinks flowed, we came pretty darn close to solving all the problems of the world. Now if only our delegated staff can execute the plan...

There was a large fluorescent light bulb just above the door to the house, and as it got darker, the bulb served as a beacon for every insect in the vicinity. First small bugs. The odd mosquito perhaps. Then came an insect sound unlike any I had heard before. It sounded like a small prop plane coming in for a landing. Then another. And another. We were soon inundated with dozens of 2 to 3 inch long rhinoceros beetles, zooming over our heads and thumping and bouncing off the light bulb and the walls with a mad choreography that could only have been conceived of in a tiny insect brain. Occasionally, a tired and shagged out beetle would fall to the ground, only to lay helplessly on its back, wiggling its legs in a vain attempt to regain an upright posture. After a short time, at least 20 of the hapless bugs had assumed this posture. They would remain this way for hours and on into the next day, wiggling sporadically, and waiting for either a good samaritan to turn them upright, or eventual death, whichever came first. This was a curious thing. I had never seen these insects before, and I marveled at how the species could survive, given such a fundamental design flaw. The rhinoceros beetle is an equally unconvincing argument for both evolution and intelligent design.

At one point, a large winged creature with about a 3 inch turquoise body, of which there were also many, tired of buzzing around the light, wisely decided to fly between Gee's back and the back of the chair he was in. As Gee leaned back after making a particularly emphatic point, the creature was trapped momentarily. It actually let out a scream. A tiny scream, yes, but an actual audible scream with a discernible note of fear. It was as if the actor who played "Mini-Me" just got the word from his agent that he was being re-cast in the sequel to "The Love Guru". That would be enough to frighten any man. Gee leaned forward a bit, and the critter flew out from behind him, free for the moment.

There was a large post to the right of the chair I was in, and when I happened to turn my head, I was stunned and amazed by what I saw a scant few inches from my face. A large male rhinoceros beetle, replete with horned facial accoutrement, was mounted atop a submissive female specimen and, well, doing its best to perpetuate the species. He was doing a heck of a job, as the tired and occasionally twitching remains of a few other females lay at the base of the pole would seem to indicate. Unlike the screaming insect moments before, there was no sound that I could discern. With the stamina of a Cuban porn star, this 6 legged Lothario kept at his relentless procreative activity for as long as I sat there, undaunted, and perhaps even encouraged, by the human voyeurs in the immediate vicinity. Remember that old black and white science fiction movie, "The Fly"? Instead of "Heeeeelllp meeee.", it was "Whooooo's your daddy?".

We were not at the lush estate of Rajindran and his lovely wife Suma, however, to watch the horniest beetle since John Lennon have its way with the ladies. We were here to see how cardamom grew. This was a research trip, after all! Cardamom is a very important spice in Indian cuisine, and it is second only to saffron as the most expensive spice in the world. This amazing plantation produces over 35 tons of the little green pods each year, and at peak times there are over 200 people working the estate. Cardamom will only grow at a certain elevation, and can be fairly fussy to grow on a large scale. The production is incredibly labour intensive, as each pod has to be picked by hand, collected and transported to the drying house, where the pods are washed, cleaned, and dried on large racks with a heater that is fed with wood recycled from the property. The building is kept under lock and key at all times, even in this remote location. This stuff is green gold.

Rajindran took us out for a tour of the estate in a jeep. We got to film the cardamom pods being picked, cleaned and dried. It was a real privilege to get to see this operation up close. Suma, meanwhile, supervised her kitchen staff of three ladies in the non-stop preparation of amazing food for more than a dozen people. Snacks materialized seemingly every 20 minutes. Cooked chunks of tapioca with chili chutney. Fresh fruit. Elaborate meals of 8 or 9 pure vegetarian dishes were laid out on the massive table inside the 100 year old house. For breakfast, we were served idli and sambar. The idli batter was prepared the day before using the traditional stone wet grinder instead of a machine, and the difference in texture was like the difference between hand-made and machine-made pasta. The idli were light and ethereal. The best we've had.

The kitchen itself was amazing, as it was left original Kerala style. The stove was carved from a massive slab of granite, and decorated with symbols of Shiva. There were 4 "burners" that pots of various sizes were perched on, each fed by a wood fire. I swear it all adds to the final taste! Watching this crew of women work in tight quarters, communicating nearly wordlessly as they put out dish after sumptuous dish was like watching some form of gastro-ballet. We got to film the preparation of a dish called "avial", which is a traditional concoction of many types of vegetables and shredded coconut. Simply inspirational stuff. As we were leaving, the following day, Suma appeared and generously presented us with a large bag of the estate-grown cardamom and a large bag of black pepper. We were thrilled! I know that we have prattled on about the magnitude of Indian hospitality, but to have Gee and Chitra drive us up to the plantation, and to have Rajindran and Suma open up their home to us in such a spectacular fashion was truly humbling. A simple "thank-you" seemed grossly inadequate, but that's about all we could muster as we waved goodbye and headed back to Cochin. What an amazing weekend.

I will never listen to a Beatles song in quite the same way again...

Ode to Okra

"Is it okay if I finish the last of the okra?"  Miles says in his most polite trying-to-be-the-boy-with-manners voice.  "No fair!  You had seconds already.  I want the last of the okra!" his 5 year old brother, Isaac, squawks.  Sound like a dream universe?  Welcome to my reality. I don't want to brag (yeah, okay, maybe I do!) but my children not only eat their vegetables, they fight over them too.  And there are few vegetables as fine as okra to argue over.

Okra is a much maligned vegetable.  It has a bad rap as slimy and hairy - it is neither - it is majestic and unique!  Call it lady's fingers, gumbo, vendaka or bhindi, okra is one of the Bailey family's favourite foods.  We have bhindi several times a week - in fact, during our time in India it has probably been our main green vegetable.  We never have leftovers and the boys have definitely been known to argue over who gets the last bhindi in the bowl.  

Bhindi is in all the markets here and appears to have no season (although we haven't been here for a full year so we don't know if it is available all year round) making it a good go-to vegetable. In Vancouver we buy okra on Main Street in Little India or in Chinatown, it can occasionally be spotted in other "asian" and "mediterranean" stores around town, but rarely in a supermarket so you have to look to find it.

For the uninitiated, okra are beautiful green ridged fruit or seed-pods, about 5 - 15 centimeters long, smaller are usually better since they can get too fibrous as they get larger. When sliced crosswise okra produces little pentagonal disks - hence the name 'bhindi' which means 'dot' in Hindi - filled with edible soft seeds.  Okra is a good source of vitamin A, C and several of the B vitamins, as well as potassium, protein and dietary fibre. There is a myth that bhindi (and mushrooms) should not be washed or they will absorb water and become slimy.  Not so!  Don't soak them, but a wash is just fine.  You can eat the whole pod but some people cut off the top part that attaches the pod to the stem.  

The texture of okra depends entirely on the technique with which you choose to cook it.  If you leave the okra whole, deep or shallow frying in hot oil produces crisp-on-the-outside-tender-juciness-on-the-inside.  If you cut the bhindi crosswise into rings and fry them, they get crispy-crunchy and caramelized like fried shallots.  You can roast them in the oven tossed in a little oil and salt to achieve a similar effect as long as you use a fairly high temperature and lay them on a sheet in a single layer.  Okra's bad reputation comes from the texture of the pods if you use moisture to cook them: if the heat is too low or you have too many in the pan, the moisture in the okra comes out and they stew in their own juices instead of caramelizing.  You can braise or stew okra and avoid the mucilaginous texture if you add something slightly acidic like tomatoes or citrus to the mix.  Sambar is a good example of this (see previous post). Or you can use that texture to your advantage to thicken and add body to a soup or stew.  We are partial to fried, very well-spiced bhindi, either left whole or cut into rings.

The following recipe is an adaptation of Fish Fry.  We were filming at a cardamom estate near Munnar last weekend (more on that in another post), owned by the eminently hospitable Rajindran and Suma.  Rajindran is "pure veg" which in India means that he eats no meat, fish or eggs but does eat dairy.  His lovely wife, Suma, was not vegetarian when they married but has become one in deference to her husband's lifestyle choice.  Because Suma grew up eating fish and meat, she was taught how to cook these foods Keralan style.  Her bhindi dish uses the same spicing and technique as a typical Keralan Fish Fry, substituting bhindi where there would otherwise be karimeen.  Her 'Chicken' Fry is made with cauliflower, but that's a whole other recipe for another time.

Bhindi 'Fish' Fry recipe

500 g okra

1 t turmeric

1 t ground black pepper

2 t red chili powder

1 t salt

1 t crushed garlic

1 t minced ginger

1t lime juice or vinegar

oil for shallow frying (coconut oil in Kerala but canola, sunflower or peanut would be fine)

Wash the okra and cut several 3-4 cm lengthwise slits into the pods, keeping both ends intact.  Mix up the spices and make into a paste by adding the garlic, ginger and lime juice. Rub the paste all over the okra making sure that the spice blend gets into the slits.  Let sit for 20-30 minutes.  Place about 2 cm of oil in a shallow pan and heat until just beginning to smoke. Add a few okra at a time and fry until nearly crisp and almost black.  Remove and drain on paper. Continue frying until all the pods have been cooked.  Serve with rice and other curries as a part of an Indian meal.

There are a lot of myths out there about what children will and won't eat. From what I can tell, a lot of what kids are willing to eat (or not) is predicated on their community's expectations of what they will like.  Our boys eat chillies, blue cheese, olives, pickles, garlic, jelly fish and most vegetables.  I don't think it ever occurred to Rob or to me that they wouldn't like those things (although judging from the reactions we get all over the world, they should not like them) so we ate them and expected the boys to eat them too.  No special meals, no extra dishes "just for the kids", but also no filling up on only those things that you prefer.

Now if only I could get my boys to argue over who gets to clean up their room!  Hmmm.  Taking a page from my own book, if I expect that my kids will want to clean their room, will they? I'll have to get back to you on that...

Bovine Non Sequitur

The last thing I expected to eat in India was a steak. Yet, there I was, eating a steak. In India. This deserves an explanation.

Once in a while, despite the dire warnings of my doctor to reduce my cholesterol levels, I like to have a steak. Not just any steak. A good steak. I refuse to push a squeaky-wheeled cart through a fluorescent-lit supermarket aisle as the Muzak distracts me just enough to not critically think about what kind of crap I am buying. No mindlessly plucking a chunk of red-dyed factory critter shrink-wrapped on a dimpled pink styrofoam tray for me! No sirree, if I'm going to have a steak, I'm either going to hunt it myself, or it's going to be from a happy hormone-free grass-fed steer, one that has never seen the inside of a feed lot or a hypodermic filled with growth hormones. A cow whose last thought as it was happily munching grass on the free range was something along the lines of "Awww... that's sweet. They bought me a DeWalt nail gun for my birthday!".

When it comes to a steak house, my standards are high. I have worshipped at arguably the most sacred steak temple on the planet, Peter Luger's in Brooklyn. While attending an AES conference in New York in 1999, I had the pleasure of dining there with my late ex-father-in-law, the noted author Gerald Krefetz, and two of my engineering colleagues. We ordered the Porterhouse steak for four. After a couple of healthy martinis, a surly Russian waiter appeared at the table. He cleared some real estate, and placed an inverted ashtray on the table. The purpose of the ashtray soon became clear. The waiter reappeared with a platter of Flintstonian proportions. The largest steak I had ever seen was placed before our slack-jawed foursome with one end of the platter resting on the inverted ashtray. The steak oozed all of it's not inconsiderable dry-aged melting marbled fat into the reservoir at the low end of the plate. The waiter, who was grumpy even by Russian standards, methodically spooned this beefy elixir onto our potatoes and creamed spinach. In a thick Russian accent, he gruffly intoned "Ees not hailth food...". We were left to gorge on this awe-inspiring artery-clogging chunk of majesty, some of which I'm sure is still lurking in my colon somewhere...

Fast forward ten years. I've ben in India with my family for six months. My wife and I wanted to do something fun to celebrate our 9th anniversary. We were married on April 24th, 2000 in Dharamsala, India. And again on April 25th, 2000, but that is another story. After six months in Cochin, despite the amazing Keralan food here, I have to admit that we were getting some hankerings for something decidedly un-Keralan. In Vancouver, we are so used to having so many great restaurants offering a wide variety of cuisines, that the restaurant scene in Cochin seems rather monochromatic by comparison. Fish Fry? No problem. Rice meals? Everywhere. Strangely bastardized versions of Chinese food? You can't swing a cat without hitting one of those places. For our anniversary, we needed to branch out. Big time.

My fabulous wife Laurel, whom is known to her loyal followers as "the Queen of Google", promptly went online and found reviews of what were purported to be "the best restaurants in Cochin". For those who have done this before, your experience has probably been like ours. The "best" restaurants are the ones that pay for the most advertising. It's a real challenge to sift through "objective" reviews, most of which are submitted by the owners or family members, and come to a decision about where to eat. One review caught our attention. It was a review of Cochin's only steak house, "The Attic". A glowing review. What made this even more remarkable was that the review was submitted by a vegetarian. We were hooked.

Dressed in our finery, we caught a rickshaw from our Ponoth Road home to the bustling downtown scene on Marine Drive. It was a Friday night, and there were lots of people everywhere. Everywhere it seems, but The Attic. The Attic, one level up from the street, was entirely devoid of customers at 7:30 on a Friday night. It was a frickin' mausoleum, albeit a pleasant enough one. After being shown to our table in what must be the most un-Indian dining room in all of India, we were amazed to see that there was not one single item of Indian origin on the menu. We both agreed that this was a bold move, as it demonstrated a commitment to it's aesthetic, which, while being courageous, may prove ultimately financially suicidal.

First up was our appetizer. In a nod to 60's kitsch, we both ordered the shrimp cocktail. 8 or 10 medium sized shrimp drowned in a mayonnaise and cocktail sauce , served in a margarita glass, along with two tomato wedges, and 2 quarters of a hard-boiled egg. All things considered, it wasn't bad, although eating it made me feel like Johnny LaRue in a loud Hawaiian shirt, trying to impress the broads at the Polynesian Room. Retro, but not authentic. What impressed us both was a perfect sprig of parsley, an herb that we have not seen at all for six months.

Next up was the bruschetta, which the decidely un-surly waiter pronounced "Brew-shetta". I successfully fought the urge to correct him. 4 chunks of baguette-like bread topped with some fresh tomato, dried herbs, and sliced canned black olives. The olives were the same uninspired kind that Domino's pizza buys by the trainload. DNA testing would no doubt prove that somewhere along the line there was a vague family resemblance to an olive, but it must be said that these were perhaps best left out of the dish. The bread, sliced in nearly 3 inch thick chunks, was baguette shaped, but unfortunately made from very finely ground local flour, and not at all allowed to ferment and develop the sumptuous crumb of a true baguette. A leaning tower of mediocrity. That only left the tomato, which thankfully, was a passable shade of red. Thank god for small mercies.

Despite this, we were truly enjoying ourselves. It was actually fun to have the place to ourselves, and as much as we love Indian food, to not be eating it. Next up came our mains. Laurel's was a truly retro "Prawn Thermidor". For a moment I hallucinated a vision of her in a beehive hairdo and a Jackie Kennedy clutch purse and pillbox hat, but the vision soon passed. Hers was not bad, but ultimately uninspired. She only ate half, and "parceled" the rest. Then came the object of my desire: the steak. It was advertised as a filet. I ordered it rare, and much to my surprise, that's how it came. Perched upon some nicely cooked spinach, then a few slices of sauteed beetroot, then some slices of roast potato, was my steak. Smothered in black pepper, it seemed rather diminutive in comparison to the Peter Luger's leviathan. It would seem that the passe trend of "piled food" had finally floated across the sea and washed up on the beach. The steak itself was a little difficult to pin down. Was it aged? Perhaps for a day or two. Mainly outside. Was it tender? Maybe a little too tender. It had a texture that would suggest that it had either been relentlessly pounded by a chef as part of his anger-management therapy , or recently kicked into submission by a losing jockey. What was advertised as being "jus", was actually that Langis instant gravy that leaves the telltale MSG burn on your tongue afterwards. I could go on...

However, it was a steak, dammit! An honest-to-gawd piece of roasted meat. In India, no less. This was nothing short of a miracle. We had a great time, and to be frank, we actually expected the food to be a lot worse than it was. It was actually... charming. Maybe it was just the dinner company. Laurel and I talked about all the changes brought by 9 years of marriage. Children. New houses. Businesses. Travel. We wondered what we would be doing in another 9 years.

One thing is certain. As I was following her sari-clad form around the fire in a dimly lit Shiva temple 9 years ago, the last thing that I expected was that we would be back in India with two beautiful children. Eating a steak.

Sambar, Over The Rainbow...

It's spicy. It's salty. It's sour. It's everywhere.

For the uninitiated, sambar is a kind of spicy gravy made of toor dal, vegetables, and tamarind. It is served as an accompaniment at nearly every meal, and it's an extremely important part of the South Indian vegetarian diet. It's hard for a non-Indian to imagine not only the infinite and subtle variations on it's preparation, but also the fierce debate that ensues amongst aficionados about whose style of preparation is the best. Every man in South India has a very strong opinion about how this dish should be made, and who makes it. Many will go out of their way to steer you to a place where the sambar is invariably described as the "best in all of India", and it's surprising how often their favourite version of this dietary staple resembles their mother's. Much like Italian men speaking wistfully of Mama's Sunday gravy with a tear in their eye, many will tell you that their mother makes the best version, and most wives have the good sense to agree that their mother-in-law's sambar is undeniably the best. When men speak of it, drool forms in puddles, and their eyes roll back in their heads, like Homer Simpson recalling a double pork chop marinated in beer. Well, almost...

It's long been a goal of mine to learn to make the perfect sambar. Ever since I first tasted this magnificent concoction in the 1980's at the long gone and oft lamented Noor Mahal on Fraser Street in Vancouver, learning to make this has been my heart's desire. The Noor Mahal version was excellent, at least in memory, and the first time I tasted it I was hooked. It is the legume equivalent of crack. All rich with creamy dal, tangy with sour tamarind, just enough salt, and several interesting vegetables. Finished off with hot oil redolent of curry leaves, red chili, and black mustard seed, sambar is a stew to satisfy the soul. When we moved to India, this urge to learn to make a good sambar was still lurking in the back of my mind like a paparazzo in Madonna's backyard. Out of sight, but never far away. Then we met Stanley and Gigi, our landlords and next door neighbours. The game was afoot.

For months now, we have been frequently blessed by the mysterious delivery of yummy dishes at all hours of the day. Stanley has actually appeared at our door as early as 8 AM with a steamer full of delicious idli cakes, a large bowl of Gigi's wonderful sambar, and a smaller dish of fresh made coconut chutney. From the first taste, I knew that I had found Sambar Nirvana, that mysterious state of being first described in the ancient Vedas by Swami Bhaktidefuture. I was instantly transported through space and time back to the 1980's on Fraser Street, all skin and bones with a badly gelled haircut, chewing on a chicken palak dosa that I could scarcely afford, but drowned in that wonderful sambar. Sensing that I was close to achieving a life's goal, I thought of what nefarious plans I would have to hatch in order to get Gigi to teach me how to make this heavenly concoction. I assumed that it would be harder to pry out of her than removing the proverbial rifle from Charleton Heston's cold, dead hands. My evil plots and schemes turned out to be completely unnecessary. She kindly offered to teach us how to make it. Not only that, she offered to let us film her doing it in her kitchen, along with her recipe for idli. Indian hospitality. Go figure...

By this time, we had already shot a few episodes with Gigi in her kitchen next door. She really is an awesome cook, and a very gracious hostess. She somehow makes cooking for a small army look very easy, even as she is turned out in a spectacular silk sari and festooned with gold jewelry. Our normal routine had been to show up with all of our gear around 11AM, cook and film for a couple of hours, and then have a lunch that was usually epic in it's scope. So when idli and sambar day arrived, I assumed that it was business as usual. I was wrong. We were roused at 8:30 AM by a loud and persistent knock on the door. I grabbed the nearest lungi and hastily wrapped it about my waist. With my ventilated nether regions barely covered, I rushed shirtless to open the door. There was Stanley. "You are late", he said, in his characteristically verbose way. He turned and left for his house next door. Then it dawned on me: idli and sambar was breakfast food, and not lunch. Not an auspicious beginning.

Fortunately, when we arrived next door a scant 5 minutes later, there did not seem to be a trace of ill will. Gigi got right to work as the camera rolled. First, she put together the batter for the idli for the benefit of the camera. This wasn't the batter that she ended up using though, as idli batter should really stand for several hours to give it a slight fermentation tang before being used. It's basically the same batter as is used in a dosa. Rice, a bit of urad dal, and water are blended up and left to sit. The batter is poured into little molds, and then steamed for ten minutes or so. She also made a lovely coconut chutney from fresh coconut, a touch of ginger, and some shallot. This was tempered with coconut oil, fresh curry leaves, black mustard seeds, and dried red chili. Then it was on to the sambar...

So what is this thing that inspires such strong opinions? Sambar is a study in contradictions, very much like India itself. It's at once simple to make, yet very complex and varied in flavour. How can an ingredient list so basic yield something so complicated and rewarding? The technique of the cook is everything. At the risk of stating the obvious, not only is the way each ingredient is treated crucial to the outcome, but the actual order in which the ingredients is combined is also critical to the final taste. For vegetables, Gigi's version has eggplant, winter melon, okra, potato, and tomato in it. She spices it with ground red chili, turmeric, fenugreek seeds, and ground coriander. A critical component is an interesting Indian vegetable called "drumstick". It's a long green pod about a foot long, and it looks suspiciously like a big green drum stick. If Bob Marley was a drummer, this is what he would have played. The toor dal is cooked until somewhat mushy, and then water, spices, and vegetables are added. The particular order eludes me at the moment, but suffice to say that the detailed recipe will appear after we return home and log all the tapes.

Once everything is cooked, it's time for the final tempering with the holy trinity of black mustard seed, dried red chili, and fresh curry leaves briefly fried in coconut oil. It's all topped off with a healthy hit of fresh cilantro. We all sat down and had a hearty, if not belated, breakfast of fresh steamed idlis, fresh coconut chutney, and the sambar of my dreams. To say that it was good would be a wee bit of an understatement. It is the cycle of desire, action, and fulfillment that keeps us all spinning on this earthly karmic gerbil wheel. This tasty breakfast was truly the fulfillment of a long standing desire. With this desire out of the way, perhaps sainthood is not far away...

It's spicy. It's salty. It's sour. It's right next door, baby.....