The Well-Fed Bong

Authentic is not always what you expect it to be. I spent three days in Khao Lak, searching for chillies and coconut milk; screaming in frustration at finding only ginger, soya and rice wine. Looking for locals feeding themselves got me to a strange mixture of hotpot and hot plate; I was quite excited by it but apparently that was as local as Chinese in Mumbai. Markets are usually good hunting grounds. The local wet market did have food stalls, but most were closed by the time I got there - apparently Khao Lak's bucolic populace start early and shut by noon. The one stall that was open looked authentic enough but, in a sleepy unhurried afternoon was feeding only two tables - a German-sounding family and a European couple with too much suntan. A little bit of sign language did produce a classic tom yam with the much sought lemongrass and chillies, rustic chunks of ginger, galangal and onion floating about, reasonably rendered and reasonably fiery. Emboldened by my lack of distr...

When IMA invited me to Phuket on what really important people call a junket, I was quite excited. Visions of pork-lined streets and wonderful curries glazing my eyes, I braved roaming charges to land at Phuket airport and discovered a slightly different destination – Khao Lak , rather than Phuket. Not so bad, I told myself, the name has eating in it and anyway, how far from good food can you get in Thailand. Life has since been more of a challenge. Khao Lak is, it turns out, a small, rural, mildly sleepy town better described as a string of hotels plunked into some dramatic scenery, peppered with more Scandinavians than Thais. Faced with so much white skin the chefs at the intensely pretty JW Marriot treat chillies with great wariness – a single one probably powers an entire lunch service. As for real Thais eating real Thai food, It's easier to find McDonalds and steak than a local grabbing a meal. However, I'm not about to give up that easily. As in Goa, renting a scooter ...

Cafe Military , hidden in the bylanes of Flora Fountain, would have remained hidden to me but for a loving recent article in DNA. It took me a while to get to flora fountain (possibly a reflection of how much of Mumbai life has moved out of the fort area) but here I am, at lunch, catching a quick bite of Salli Boti and Masur Gosh before the caramel custard appears. The cafe may have been hidden to me, but it certainly wasn't unknown. The red checkered table cloths were busy with beer bottles and raspberry sodas; waiters rushed past at regular intervals transporting keemas and paos; biriyani was already sold out. Contemplating the inevitable paper menu staring at me through the glass tabletop, I settled on (as already mentioned, look up dears) the special of the day - Masur Gosh . Whole masur dal with skin landed up - a hearty dal stew if there was one, prettied up for the non-vegetarians by drowning three tender boneless chunks of mutton. The brain masala was pedestrian but t...

So much has changed in a decade. South Mumbai was once a daily commute; now it has fallen so far off my work and entertainment map that it took me seven months to visit the newest and best regarded of one of those things I'm very fond of; the very Gallic crepe . I acquired a taste for crepes the proper way – cycling the streets of Paris. It was stoked to fever pitch at another city – San Francisco – where Ti Couz and Galette introduced me to the savoury alternative (alas, both have since closed doors). Mumbai had its crepe choices (a couple of chains too) but they were usually pedestrian so, when a few Frenchmen get together to open a creperie, tongues are bound to wag. And here I finally was, on  Saturday afternoon, at Suzette.   The location is tiny, hidden away in the depths of Nariman Point, the entrance a black narrow staircase beside another one that unfortunately leads to a men's loo. Once you have negotiated these rites of passage (and possibly taken a leak in...

Just as you the corner from St. Andrews, just where the road - after a brief, tantalising view of the sea - reverts to narrow bylanes, is a small pastel and white slice that you could miss if the corner of your eye wasn't paying attention. This is Yoga House , technically not really a house at all, carved out from the side of what must once have been a pretty Bandra bungalow, now covered with utilitarian extensions and matchbox windows that sinks with ease into the unplanned mishmash of Chimbhai road. Yoga House (next door to the late lamented Serpis) does much with its space. A white wooden porch, some coats of paint and a few flowers have persuaded this corner back into something resembling the Bandra of yore. Its focus, as the name suggests, is yoga but the few white chairs and pastel cushions on its porch signal its intention to be more than just a roomful of mats; it is also a very pleasant cafe. The slatted wood lets sunlight in strips and slices, the pastel green walls mak...

The Americans like their breakfast any time of the day, but most other people wait till the next morning. I felt American today, and had an uncontrollable urge to down an eggs benedict for dinner. Which is all very good, but eggs benedict isn't the easiest of dishes to get hold of in Mumbai even in normal hours. The only choice I had, really, was to make my own version – and so that is what I set out to do. Eggs Benedict , like so many other famous dishes, has obscure origins though most people agree on its invention sometime at the turn of the century in New York. The basic recipe is remarkably consistent – poached eggs on english muffin and ham, topped with hollandaise sauce. Basically, crisp base, chewy salty centre, squishy top and a rich tasty sauce on top. It turns out the only thing I had from that list was – the egg. A burger bun substituted for the muffin, a chicken mince patty played the role of ham and I do a fair poached egg with real eggs, but finally – there was t...

I'm definitely becoming popular. I stand before you now as the vehicle of a very creative promotional attempt – one of my posts has an obvious, if creatively targeted, spam. Its made to look like a genuine comment by a person in response to my blog on Chennai biriyanis – but it's obviously fake. It gushes about basmati and clean cooking oils and fantastic packaging in a way that can only be an advertorial inspired by commercial interests. And, apparently this commentator – a person named a distinctly feminine-sounding Lavanya - has a wife… What I cannot make out is, was this posted by a robot or manually? Manual, I'm very flattered; robot, not so much – I may even be a little creeped out. Take a look here (comment #2) and decide for yourself.

There's nothing like a run to work up a hunger, and long Sunday lunches were therefore perfect excuse for some stuffing. South Mumbai is no longer a place I visit so often any more, so this also seemed like the perfect excuse to visit some old favourites. The first visit was to satisfy a craving for steak. After a few twists and turns around the block, I squeezed myself into a tight little parking spot in First Pasta Lane and walked. To Paradise .   An unassuming storefront on Colaba Causeway, right across the road from Kailash Kailash Parbat is quaint parsi restaurant that has not changed either its menu or its attitude in decades. Racy pictures on the walls, old men sipping coffee and a long line of deliveries to Cusrow Baug were – I noted - all intact as I sat down to get myself a hearty steak. Unfortunately, power was out. Both air-conditioning and beefsteak was unavailable, but all was not lost. Paradise also serves a mean mutton steak and a very nice salli boti, both of...

The dragon thundered at our last dinner, and it was loud! Days of lunches and dinners had passed the same way; Indian food firmly hogging centrestage, local dishes waiting meekly in the shadows. Worse, the Bhutanese choices on the buffet were invariably vegetarian; beef, pork of the local eateries banished in deference to Indian sensibilities. Luckily, for the last dinner - our final gasp of the thunder dragon before we were back across the border - the kitchens of the Taj Tashi proved more adventurous. Significantly more; Bhutanese food may be all water-butter-boil , but much can obviously be done with just that. The last night was only about local food. Ngou ngou and datshi pranced happily about, nary a korma in sight. Beef, pork made a grand appearance alongside chicken. Even the soup dug up local roots. Only the dessert counter was left in Indian and Western hands, the Bhutanese unable to conjure much of a sweet tooth. Here's a the roster of dishes that were on offer: Cheese ...