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.