Food, glorious food
Nothing, not even Ravi Shankar, has gripped the imagination of Americans more than ‘Indian’ food. The billboards of all Pakistani restaurants (except for a few in Queens, in New York) say Indian or Indian and Pakistani cuisine. In the big cities – New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, you will find that the majority of customers is American, and not those from the sub-continent.
Sabri’s ‘Nihari House’ in Chicago looks like the refectory of a seminary. It is a huge warehouse converted into a dining hall with long, wooden tables seating eight to ten people. Restaurants in America, even the “desi” ones, spend a lot of effort on creating a style or a mood – curved up upholstered furniture, ribbons tied on walls, the sienna glow of dimmed lighting – but Sabri’s have spurned such frills. There are no pointed lights resembling the crown of Ms Liberty, no bric-a-brac, not even gingham seat covers.
But the ‘nihari’, when it arrives in a large bowl, is golden, steaming hot and greaseless, and it is almost as good as at the other Sabri’s, on Burns Road in Karachi. (The two establishments are not related). The meat is tender but a trifle stringy. I am not being finicky; the spirit of ‘nihari’ maybe the juice, which needs a sprinkling of bone narrow, tiny slithers of ginger and a dollop of scrunched, slightly burnt onions, but the essence of ‘nihari’ is the boneless piece of meat (scooped with hot baked ‘nan’) that should melt in your mouth like a Fortnum and Mason profiterole.
The Americans now regularly line up for the fragrant tandoori chicken and the baked tandoori breads. Most towns boast that they have at least one decent Italian, French, Chinese and Indian restaurant. American customers no longer find our menus to be intimidating. Gone are the days when they used to be confused by the word ‘Mulligatawny’.
About eight years ago, my friend and school-mate, Arif Shah, engineer turned corporate banker turned bridge champion, drove me to a remote part of Orange Country, where, tucked between a dry cleaner’s and a barber’s shop, was a tiny restaurant called ‘Sukanaya’. Restaurant is too grand a word; it was a small shop with a long glass counter on one side and a small round table with four chairs in a corner opposite. The owner, Sukanaya, was a plump, cheerful, Tamil lady whose specialty was the fluffy flaky, light as a feather ‘dossa’, but she rolled a wicked ‘Qeema Kulcha’ as well, which, according to my friend, I had to try to realise what “life was all about”. Outside Sukanaya’s shop was a wrought iron bench presumably meant for those who could sit down while waiting for their order to be packed. A grey-haired American lady was sitting on the bench wolfing her ‘bhaji thali’ placed on her lap. Arif Shah thought she had gone to work on a poverty alleviation programme in Central India. The zest she showed towards her food was a surprise. This was at a time when the average American found our food to be alien.
Before the advent of the curry culture – this was a few decades ago – I invited Kay Sanders, a friend from Drama school, a ravishing red-head and a starlet, to a meal at my flat. I had just learnt to cook and I was anxious to show off my culinary skill. She looked at the chicken that I had cooked (with a sprinkling of coriander over it) and exclaimed that it looked fantastic. She put a forkful in her mouth. “Mmm, delicious,” was the first articulated reaction as she chewed with relish, but then a slightly strange expression came over her face. She said she felt breathless, took a large slug of wine, followed by some water, then looked up at me as though I could offer an immediate palliative. I could see her cheeks getting redder, soon her nose began to run, her eyes began to water and tears ran down her face. “Are you alright?” I asked, seriously concerned. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just, you know, a bit hot.” The masterly understatement is what I admired the most.
The English now take to curry as a duck to water. They show no qualms even when they order the once dreaded ‘Vindaloo’; but it has taken the Americans only ten years to become used to, and in many cases, addicted to our food. It is not just the restaurant reviewers of off-beat glossy magazines, but even those of ordinary, provincial newspapers, regularly devote columns to a new ‘Indian’ restaurant. I don’t know how discerning their palate is, but they certainly show a critical acumen: “The shrimp Biryani infused with lime leaf and roasted tomatoes, was bland and limp, the risotto underneath dull, not even a jumbo scallop or shrimp could make this special”. Or, “The chicken was served partially bones in a lemon saffron reduction, the sauce though redolent of cumin seed and a good hint of citrus was a tad salty and overpowered the gentle essence of chicken.”
A refreshing new phenomenon is the rise of “Chaat Houses” in Chicago and Los Angeles. The ‘Chaat Papri’ may not be a substitute for Lasagna, but it is half the price. It’s a bowl of potatoes, chickpeas and chickpea crisps mixed with homemade yogurt and a couple of aromatic sauces. The taste of the creamy, crunchy spices and sweet ingredients is yummy. Some of the ‘Chaat Houses’ also do a wicked Aloo Paratha. The whole wheat bread is filled with diced potatoes and peas. For $2.95, often less, you can have a wholly satisfying meal.
My hosts in Chicago last week decided to entertain me at the ‘Village’, not the one in downtown Chicago, but the more upmarket branch near the posh district of Oakbrook. The atmosphere was not plush but the warm welcome offered by the owner and his staff was overwhelming. We arrived fairly late. The owner informed us that the chef had been made to wait. Could we please have our photographs taken with the staff? They had arranged for a photographer, who sat in a chair shielding his blender-sized camera as though he was afraid that someone might pounce and grab it from him.
The staff kept emerging from the kitchen, wiping their wet hands on their trousers and joining the expanding group. The photographer kept going further and further back until he could go no further. He then, sternly rearranged the group, pulling some people out of the line and making them squat down in front of the standing row, just like an end-of-term school group.
The group photograph having been accomplished after three or four attempts – someone was always fidgeting or moving just as the word ‘ready’ was uttered – the special requests began: there were twosomes and threesomes and a bearded man, who remembered every bit of doggerel I had even mouthed, insisting that he be photographed not only standing next to me but also standing behind me as he made me sit on a chair. He was not entirely satisfied for he kept saying that he had forgotten to take his glasses off, when, mercifully, the food arrived and the photographer who had not been promised any overtime made a quick exit. Mounds of Biryani, chicken and meat masala, doused in layers of ghee, filled the table. Whatever space was left, was taken over by bowls filled with shards of shaved onions. I am not into ‘spa cuisine,’ made up of low saturated fat, but looking at so much unctuous meat made me long for tender leaves of basil, radicchio and organic tomatoes. American chicken no matter how fried or seasoned, always tastes of cotton wool so I gave it a miss; the seekh kebab was leathery, and the meat masala, as I suspected, tasted of elastic cheese. My hosts and some of their guests spoke glowingly about the fare. The chef and his assistants hovered over me waiting for my approval. I think I gave a better than usual performance.
But the most incredible feat the Pak Americans have achieved is to have allowed their taste buds to run and hide.