guest blogger extraordinaire debuting soon
sweet explosive ice cold bursts of flavor to the senses
all unique yet
similar in the way they are consumed by their life quest
they dissipate into nothing and everything
and the ones that remain
try to find meaning within meaning
(shadows fading into the sun)
until you read again amigos,
Gonna order out tonight. Keep it basic. No adornments for the soul or pick me ups for my spirit.
Roast Chicken – simple …in a jerk spice to go with my mood.
The night bodes ominous.
Maybe i’ll have a glass of milk with Rooh Afza later.
NO! There is no time for whimsy.
…but if i don’t i’ll just dream of it later.
Thanks for the recent follows and likes readers. We; like most mammals, love the tangible huggability of adoration. The world is beautiful and colored in love if you be the source.
The abyss has a shore and we will always ask for more and more until the day descends and we die our deaths of slumber.
In the morning we will rise again. The sun will scorch us into the shadows of our caves and will we sit together and debate about the ways we consume our sustenance.
Burning embers that transform and we create a new existence for the life that we derailed. And we are consumed by what we consume. So that what we consume goes on in some way …to exist.
Our sincerest regards to you readers. Your love and feedback make our collective days.
Food will make or break you. Recall the last time your day was totally consequential of what you consumed earlier that day?
The halwa pooris for breakfast that rendered you so comatose that you would wake in the early evening just in time for tea.
The frothy electric tea that reacted like someone had clapped once really loudly inside your head. The mother’s buttered cucumber sandwiches that the child took to school at such an age that he would always remember and seek out that distinct taste in his meals, so he could be closer.
We can always control what we consume although there are exceptions to the rule: respect to customs, sociocultural norms, health and starvation. You know this.
So let’s call it this way:
What one food memory that you have experienced has influenced you the most ? Moved you to the most extreme emotions and made you swear in anger or delight – or maybe you did not swear at all because you were a little more inclined to appreciate something in a more positive less sarcastic way and instead offered to golf clap the chef to sleep to the rhythm of his native Scandinavian lullabies.
You can clearly see that we don’t bother to edit our random tangents into fantasy. Either way – we gotta know – because this blog literally (my girl abhors my use of this word out of context) feeds off your thoughts even if they are all exaggerated whimsy.
We’re taking your suggestions to heart readers, and working on some outrageous and entertaining video logs to kick up the notch on our food foolery so you guys are in for treats.
Stay safe amigos.
Am I a man / or am I a freakin’ goat ?!
Will I eat anything ?
The answer is: Yes (just add Sriracha)
just promise you’ll never call it hot sauce.
There are foods out there. Off the lists of beaten and glossy laminated menus; that call out to us; for or between meals and take you places you never thought you would venture. Foods the masses don’t eat. Things you crave but don’t speak of because people would make weird faces and label you as “someone who will eat just about anything”.
Don’t be shy. This is hardly a living room full of people you need to appease and this is definitely not your party.
Tell us about the worst things you eat and why you do it.
Chotu Dewaana is a strapping young entrepreneur at age 11 and earns upwards of a $1 every day, most of which he gives to his mom and a minuscule portion of which he saves so he can go to the cinema once a fortnight with the other lads. At times he surprises his sister Munni with jaggery candy from the baniya mart on the way home from work. If she’s sleeping he oft feeds it to their mongrel Moti, who visits them at night after a romp with the neighborhood hounds rather than being a household pet and however lovable; is in this sense more like a drunk uncle looking for a place to crash.
He loves the movies; but not as much as the air-conditioning which makes him feel like he could sleep forever in this dark cave of fiction – where the poor hero’s clothes are always crisp and clean and never splattered with mud from the street. Where the madam loves the footpath romeo because he knew within two minutes of seeing her that he loved her. Where nature is lush carpets of green amidst the Swiss Alps and nary in sight is a buffalo tied to a stick in the ground next to the rusted corrugated metal shantyesque dwelling where his family lives. Sometimes during the movie older kids get popcorn and pass it after they’ve had their fill – which is great because Chotu loves chewing on the kernels.
Chotu works at Kake da hotel (located next to Bhape da hotel) :
Kaka is in this case, not Chotu’s father’s brother. Kaka is the mustachioed burly greasy paan spitting, order spewing antagonist of a mass feeding dhaba where all sorts throng after all kinds of deviousness and delights. Somewhere down the line of his ancestry his third uncle’s fourth wife had been the Nawab’s chef’s courtesan and the recipes had been hand-written and passed down his lineage. Now it is just this.
The fare however, is outstanding. The ambiance is electric. Bazarish.
Orders being shouted out,the clanging of metal plates and glasses against laminated tables, the grunts of wood against floor; hooligans dressed in neon sit tribe like in the corner cackling like hyenas. Bollywood shits with added Disco Jhankar (20 points if you know what that is) blare out over bad speakers.
Keema naans, and parathas, minced and sweet meats and parts of an animal you would never want your mom to see are fried in gargantuan woks. Steaming daals, obscure veggies cooked to pulp and glistening and charred green chillis to chomp on nonchalantly mid bite while sweating profusely and swearing at your peers. Cold, fresh, salty water out of thin aluminium cups.
Lassis and cutting chais later you pop a handful of sugar coated fennel seeds as you paid at the til and laze a tooth pick in your mouth in lavish delirium subconsciously anticipating that the aftermath of this indulgence will be severe. Everyone pays their regards to Kaka, the owner and proprietor. “Kya khana banaya boss !!” – customers remark as if Kaka had himself ground the spices with his hefty paws. Chotu laughs at such instances, but it is an internal laugh.
No one laughs at Kaka.
In the hulabaloo of the frenzied atmosphere; among the individuals of ill gotten gain, simpletons and vagabonds, did you notice Chotu at all? For all the service he provided, from quenching your thirst when you came in from the heat, to the mana he brought to your table, to the extra chicken gravy he got you when you asked for it – free of charge – there were no tips, no thank yous, no smiles or pats on the shoulder or ruffles of hair – not one single person asks Chotu what he’s doing in a place like this. He is there from sunrise to eleven at night after which he walks home in dark dirt alleys and approaches the dimly lit corrugated shack where he sleeps with his mother, father, elder cousin and two younger siblings. Chotu often thinks about the similarity between the plates at the hotel and the walls of his home and laughs and coughs himself to sleep. Most of the celebrities you see on MTV Cribs have linen closets bigger than this space.
And yet it burns, with the kerosene lamp that lights the shack at night – hope and then something else. Gratitude. No one feels it like those closest to the edges of survival. Sans safety net, walking a tightrope since the beginning of memory he is thankful that his family ate today. He is thankful he has two hands and feet and a working mind that will dig and dig his way out of the pit of inequality and sing songs with a madam just like the hero in the picture. He had seen a couple of ladies come to the hotel last year and they had asked him his name, and taken his picture and laughed and he had laughed with them.
Chotu is one of the hundreds of thousands of child workers born into not only a life of poverty, but selfless dedication to do the one thing that makes us do the things we do. To feed. Not only ourselves but feed lives that intertwine with ours. All he wants is to be settled, and content and wanted and adored.
Next time you see Chotu show him some love and affection. Maybe even make his day. January is Be Kind to Food Servers month. I know I’ll be extremely compassionate. I did a catering job at an Italian wedding once and the guests had more sauce on them than on their plates – and the second niece had a piece of asparagus stuck in her hair and she didn’t know and I failed to mention.
I will also cut the waitress at Ali Baba on Gerard some slack when she sings along nasally to the theme songs from Pakistani drama serials as they play on the TV, while I eat my Paey and parathas – which are awesome. Also the owner there has the same name as my Dad.
Not that it makes a difference.
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This blog was meant to be posted in September. Things got a bit out of control. Surely my apology was accepted, hence you are reading this.
So I was in Montreal this weekend. Primary reason: Laurier Gordon Ramsay.
Located in a calm and trendy neighbourhood of St.Laurant at Rue Laurier, this little gem branded by the great Chef Ramsay has several mixed reviews on the internet. Here is how I kabab rolled it:
Saturday, 6:45pm we arrived at the much anticipated Laurier GR. Unsurprisingly packed with atleast 8 Groups waiting for a table, we were placed on the list with an app wait time of 2 hours. They dont encourage calling them between the wait time, but the hostess offered to update us as we called to inquire in about an hour later. The decor looked simple yet elegant. The front of the house staff was mostly young energetic individuals with a casually dressed manager making sure that the atmosphere was running smooth. We checked in after an hour and 15 mins. The young hostess browsed the guest list and erased a check mark next to my name. She said we would be the next table seated. (clearly our spot was given to someone else). I could go on some more about the poor attitude but lets take a visual tour to the much anticipated dinner.
Appetizer: 8-9 juicy chicken wings with BBQ sauce which was flavoured to perfection with a side of garden salad.
Entree: Grilled cheese sandwich
Trying not to be influenced by the mediocre service from the front-of-the-house staff, I felt the presentation on all entrees was great but the taste was surely questionable. The BBQ wings were flavourful but everything else from then onwards was downhill. Skip the rotisserie sandwich and grab the better version at Swiss Chalet. Perfectly battered fresh tasting fish could have been complimented with a lot more seasoning. Grill cheese was all looks but no taste and sadly, the pot-pie was neither.
The restaurant carried a lengthy wine list to cater a glass for app. $7 to a bottle around $50.
My journey still continues, perhaps one day, to a restaurant where Chef Gordon Ramsay is not just a brand.
Innovation is awesome. Recent food trends have chefs deconstructing all sorts of age old recipes to present their individual parts together on one plate; while still retaining the essence of the original – We had yet to come across something as whimsical.
The Kulfi – deconstructed:
Kulfi is a denser and creamier ice cream originating from South East Asia and like so many desserts from that region starts by slow cooking milk. The mold used is traditional of Kulfi vendors from the region and here is garnished with vermicelli, rose syrup, evaporated milk and pistachio flecks.
This is definitely a kulfi that would satisfy the fussiest nawab. We know because we tried it on one.
Until next time,