Mohd. Ali Road (II)

Naresh's tip was hotter than a fried paratha (see below) and had a whiff of destiny about it. I was aching to revisit the scene of my criminally unsatisfying first foray into the Ramzan food fray and here were the means and opportunity. 8:15, Byculla station, platform #4. Her name was Zainab.

As the azan rang out, the assembled pack of gourmands began to salivate. Few if any of us had fasted. In fact, I had luncheoned on beer and biryani (thanks, Uma and Anando). Nonetheless I was set to graze a trail of devastation through anything edible ahead. Pint-sized Zainab counseled patience. With her in the lead we skirted the station fruit-sellers, crested the tea-stall-enhanced flyover and landed in Nagpada.

This was her gaon, her research subject, and her sustenance. Her family hardware store was still in evidence some streets over in Dongri, but her grandparents had vacated the upstairs apartment for Bandra after the riots. Zainab, though she had recently lived in both Kashmir and Bangladesh, seemed in another sense incapable of ever leaving the neighborhood. Her intimate familiarity with these winding bylanes and gullies was, for this suburban kid, nothing short of astonishing. Now, onto the food.

2100. Sharvi Hotel, corner of Sofia Zubair (Bellasis) Rd., Byculla
Paya tasted fine here, but I was alarmed to see it served with spoons. Tandoori roti was only an afterthought. With nahari still on the brain I couldn't help but be somewhat disappointed by the, well, soupiness of the soup. The seekh kebabs, however, were delicate and fresh off the charcoal.



(Many thanks to Altaf M. Abid for the photos.)

2200. Outside Mastan Talav YMCA, Nagpada
Harissa looks like a hybrid of haleem and khichida, without the former's pasty density or the latter's lentils. In other words, more liquid meat. The hearty porridge was drizzled with grilled onions and ghee tadka. The pav I cleaned the bowl with was the fluffiest I've ever torn into, a masterpiece of small pleasures.

Some of you may also remember harissa as a Moroccan chili chutney that I made out a recipe in Saveur. Others may remember it as the substance that sat on the kitchen block for months doing nothing besides staining the Tupperware orange.

2230. Beneath "KK International," Do Tanki
Deep-fried parathas. 'Nuff said.

2300. Kamathipura
The sign above the door said seekh kebabs, but the ladies' eyes, done up Sharmila-style, said something different.

2340. Sayeb Abu Mohd. St., near Chor Bazaar
Rylan and I started midway down the block at the tavaa. They were frying frankies and, filled with the same egg and mutton mince, a tiny sandwich they called naan-chop. It would have felt right at home at a White Castle.

Syeed, Zainab's basketball-star research subject seemed intent on having us taste everything. So when my repeated attempts to hail a frothy glass of sugarcane juice failed he intervened. If the juice weren't enough to cut the masala, old men had stationed themselves between stalls with clear packets of pineapple and peeled pomelo.

Then we joined Rishi by the kebab stand that, when we'd arrived, had been monopolized by the gold-chains-and-yoga-pants set. They had performed an important signaling function — this was clearly the food tourist destination — and then split as quick as they could, probably instructing their drivers to idle the Hondas in the next lane over.

The boti were tender and tangy, slathered in a tikka-like paste with a bite. I couldn't put my finger on it then, but they may be India's closest approach to "barbecue." Could go for that again. Khiri, for future reference, means "udder," which explains its subtle milky flavor and slightly springy texture, though nothing as bizarre as tripe or vastedda, with which I broke last year's fast.

Suddenly, a discovery: outstation Sosyo. The Gujju soft drink, offspring of a late-night tryst between cola and kala-khatta, is next to impossible to find between Gujarat and Jackson Heights. Reminds me a little of Faygo Rock & Rye, but the IITians had never tasted anything like it, and gave it mixed reviews.

We then shuttled to the other end for malpuwa, an eggy, syrupy pancake that vat-frying had rendered crystalline on the outside and virtually melted inside. As the others made a move, I ran to the "famous" ice cream shop about to close its shutters. The proprietor apologized that he was out of both sitaphal and papaya, and offered to give me my mixed fruit for free. I insisted on completing the transaction, but in the ensuing discussion he wished me a happy Yom Kippur.



0130. Mughal Masjid, Dongri
Rapt in admiration of the elaborately tiled facade, I didn't notice the man in the red kurta approaching until he addressed me. "Why not come in the evening, when you can see more?" asked the mosque's self-appointed proprietor. Another situation where explanations were doomed to fail. I just might, though — apparently there's a hamam next door.

0215. Ebrahim Rehmatullah Rd.
Bol Bam, says the urn. What is it, we ask the gentleman, who replies, in a long, piercing, cry: Bol Bam. I'll try getting the photo off of my phone, but it won't do him justice. Jai Jharkhand, indeed; if this is what it means for Bihar to be backwards, I don't want forwards.

0245. Kamathipura redux



Mamta had lobbied for mujra, and what gentlemen would we be to refuse? Though I had visions from Chaudhvin ka Chand dancing in my head, I had already seen that the setting would be anything but old-world. We went back to the seekh kebab sign, beneath which two cops were standing guard. The ladies explained that we were there for nothing more risqué than a song performance, but the cops refused to let them tarnish their virtue. "What if somebody says something?" they asked rhetorically, closing the matter. We slunk off to Marine Drive, which was patrolled by equally overzealous policemen. Chastened, we headed back for seher.

0500. Ebrahim Rehmatullah Rd.
Zainab had saved the "Hindustani kebabs" for last, anticipating that our appetites would be at an ebb. As a kid, she would come with her father to the Hindustani Hotel for these tiny boti. They were good, but I had lost my focus. My mind was wandering, the blood no longer flowing. I leaned back. The delirious angles of Minara Masjid loomed overhead. A cage of quails mulled their fate next to a rack of their tandoori-red former colleagues. I, too, glazed over. We cleaned out another couple clay pots of phirni, a rose-watery custard, and called it an incredible night. The lights were still blazing and the servers scurrying as we piled into a cab for VT.

Andheri New Link Road

I would love to write something about my peek inside Yash Raj Films, but I'm still figuring out what it all means. Besides, there was no food involved — yet.

Mohd. Ali Road (I)

As any Encyclopedia Brown aficionado can tell you, the First Battle of Bull Run wasn't known as such until the second. Likewise, it's evident from my title that my bloglag has caught up with me. On the one hand, I've learned from my mistakes; on the other, even I have cause to doubt my hindsight.

Took the #1 bus south from the seaside. Past where the lights were strung, past even where the roadside stalls began to choke traffic, until I saw the sidestreets carpeted with worshippers in namaaz. The khichida was bubbling in anticipation. I'm sure the meaty lentil stew is a perfect iftaar intro, but since I had no fast to break I skipped it in favor of more substantive fare.

In the nocturnal shadow of the flyover there was plenty of firni, sewaiyan, and jalebis, but nothing like a meal. I stalked the street until it became JJ Marg, and I turned back. What was I missing? Finally, a raft of wafting embers beckoned me into the arcade of the Noor Mohammedi Hotel, where the seekh were on the sigdi.

On my way in I put dibs on two kebabs and a rumali roti, but when I sat the gentleman across from me suggested that I try the "house speciality," which he described as the "gravy item." Thus was I introduced to nalli nahari. It's a paya-like soup, but instead of lamb trotters I found a brick of beef sitting in the middle of the bowl. With naan and the Mohammedi salad — ginger, green chilies, and a touch of soy sauce? — it hits the spot, then hits it again, then gently lulls it into a dreamless sleep.

Peddar Road

Priya's caterer hadn't figured on his fresh mosambi sharbat being turned into daiquiris, or else he wouldn't have forced it on her like that. ("What if they get thirsty?" he asked, completely oblivious.) She had tried repeatedly to decline but could not inform him that the guests at her Ramzan party preferred Black Label, thank you. We preferred it, anyway, until we saw how smoothly the icy, minty sharbat mixed with Bacardi. Everybody seemed quite at home with this concoction in one hand and a kebab in the other.

Aside from their doctrinal differences with other Muslims, about which I remain ignorant, Bohras interpret the word "kebab" differently from other communities. At this party it meant "entire lamb shank on the bone." It was a sideshow-like exercise in dexterity to maneuver one around the clusters of backslapping college chums chewing the fat, nibbling it, tearing, gabbing, teasing, gnawing, chattering; all of a piece. That was all for appetizers, with crudités set out for a laugh.

I'd been told to expect a non-veg affair, but when Priya uncovered the chafing dishes my jaw dropped. (Sometimes I forget she's leggy like a game-show hostess, and for a moment I knew how it felt to be a contestant on The Price Is Right — er, Khulja Sim Sim.) The meat here came in configurations I had never dreamed of, let alone tasted. Left to right:

"Dabba" gosht, named after the box it was cooked in to lend its porridgy base a smoky tinge. A very Bohri biryani, fragrant without a trace of garam masala. Last but not least, cream beef, which looks something like a seekh but dissolves on the tongue as if it were hot, meat-flavored kulfi. It must have begun this life as a blob of haleem-like paste with a skewer at its center. That's baked and lightly breaded, a lollipop with a texure so smooth you can wolf one down in two seconds flat.

Which I did, as the last guests willing to drop me at Prabhadevi walked out the door at 4. Thanks, Priya and Musti.