Act One
Grizzled narrator ambles in, props butt against large black cube, the only prop on stage.
Narrator: Back in the day, I appeared in a musical, and got to see a few Bombay theatres from what has always been the right side of the proscenium for me. Later, performance put aside, I did reviews, visited pretty much every theatre in the city. And, despite my early pash for stages large enough to swing a cat (or Cats) in, I fell madly in love with little Prithvi, the first of its kind that I’d ever set foot in. One day, I said, one day..
Editor, off-stage: Get on with it, dammit!
Narrator: Enough about me. A little background to, heh, set the stage?
Lights fade.
Act Two
A clock face is projected on to the backdrop, its hands spinning backwards. Dissolve to sepia-tinted vignettes. A rich, warm voice, Naseerbhai for choice, speaks..
Father Time: In the 1940s, Prithviraj Kapoor strode majestically across our silver screens. He was also actor-manager of his touring theatre group, Prithvi Theatres. And he founded a film dynasty: his sons, Raj, and then Shammi, moved quickly from stage to massively successful film careers. As did the youngest, Shashi; but not before falling, hard, for the beauteous Jennifer, lead actress of Shakespeareana, the travelling theatre company led by her father, Geoffrey Kendall. The story goes thus: at the now-defunct Royal Opera House in Bombay, Shashi peeped through the curtains at the audience, and saw “this fabulous looking girl who looked Russian.” Shakespeareana had the next run after Prithvi vacated; so she was at a loose end. Shashi worked up the nerve to first ask Jennifer out, then propose to her, and eventually, despite initial parental disapproval, marry her.
In 1975, the couple set up the Shri Prithviraj Kapoor Memorial Trust (the patriarch’s died in ’72) and then, in ’78, Prithvi Theatre, on land the old gentleman had once leased, intending to set up his own theatre.
A voice from the audience chimes in. Spotlight on pretty lady sitting on the steps near the exit.
Sanjna Kapoor: I remember a peculiar L-shaped building completely unsuitable for theatre. My grandfather eventually used it to store costumes! The trips out to Juhu were wonderful; I played on the beach with my dog while my mother pored over plans with the architect. Prithvi opened when I was ten. I used to fall asleep in the sofas in the last row! I turned sixteen during the first Festival my mother organised.
She ran Prithvi until she died in 1984. Then my brother Kunal, and Feroze Khan, kept it running smoothly. I apprenticed under them, learnt a lot, and in 1990, I joined in.
Act Three
The narrator saunters back into the spotlight like he owns the damn thing.
Narrator: Prithvi is a ‘little’ theatre, seating 200 on three sides of a ‘thrust’ stage that places the action intimately close to the audience. Despite its tucked-away-in-Juhu location, convenient only for residents of the not-too-far-flung western suburbs, almost every actor of consequence who has set foot in the city has passed through its green room, every theatre lover in the city has applauded here at least a few times. Prithvi also hosts workshops, exhibitions, films, music, and poetry. Integral adjuncts are a wee bookshop, and Prithvi Cafe, hang-out not just for the after-theatre crowd and off-duty actors but also for the suburban folk acquiring cool cred over coffee. Sanjna, fortified by two strong theatre bloodlines and a deep love of the stage, has kept it going—and growing—against the depredations of weekend movies on TV, 24/7 channels, video (and VCD, LD and DVD) libraries, and if that wasn’t enough, multiplexes, malls and downloadable entertainment.
The spotlight shifts again, to the last row, where Sanjna sits, smiling..
Sanjna: I don’t fall asleep in the last row anymore. At least not lying down! (She continues, more seriously..) We have kept Prithvi affordable, both for the players (charges go as low as seven rupees per ticket sold, basic lights and sound free) and audiences (you get 50 rupee tickets on Tuesdays and Wednesdays). Sponsorship has kept us going. The Trust, a non-profit, is building up its own corpus. Donations are welcome; you’ll find details at prithvitheatre.org. We have great plans for the thirtieth anniversary. I don’t want to let out too much just yet, but it will be a mix of local, national and international theatre, and I wish my days had thirty-six hours!
Curtain Call
The narrator stands on the black cube, beating his chest, Tarzan-style, and simpering coyly. Simultaneously. Obviously we’ll need a virtuoso performer.
Narrator: Recently, an old, secret dream came true: I was centre-stage at Prithvi. Not quite in the way I dreamt of, all those years ago; it wasn’t a play, it was an evening of poetry, and I was the obscure newbie reading with a half-dozen luminaries; and no, it wasn’t packed to the rafters with screaming groupies. But they clapped. And it was sweet, so sweet.
Published in Outlook Traveller, May 2008.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
Showing posts with label bombay / new bombay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bombay / new bombay. Show all posts
Thursday, 1 May 2008
Sunday, 1 April 2007
The Park
The Park opened its glass-and-shiny-metal doors in February, and the punters have been rolling in with some regularity since then. Not surprising: it is the first five-star hotel in the city, and with its focus on the business traveller, it fills a much-needed niche for the very many software and BPO companies in a city that is beginning to feel its oats a bit.
It is unpromising at first sight: a large white brick of a building plonked next to the highway at Belapur; though, compared to some of the other truly ghastly edifices that have been inflicted on that particular node of New Bombay, it is, at least, inoffensive. The hotel’s literature seeks to lay the blame on inspiration from Modernism and Le Corbusier. Being a philistine, all I can say that if I was paying several thousand rupees a night for the privilege of staying in a five star, I’d like the place to look and feel like one. White walls, hard lines, lots of glass and metal? Nada. Sure, coloured lighting does soften and soothe the contours post-dusk, but even then the atrium and corridors look like a gussied-up barracks. In the rooms, a little more attention to the placement of the furniture would improve things no end. For example, in my deluxe room, the fancy flat-screen TV is off in one corner, at an angle from the bed and miles away from the couch—which faces the wardrobe—with an awfully uncomfortable chair placed at an angle to the screen. And the bathrooms: well, I’ve seen larger in suburban apartments. And in my biased book, no bathtub equals place that should have some of its five stars taken away. For me, one of the perks of this reviewing gig is getting to swim a bit. But, alas, the pool’s a wee little thing. If more than three people tried to swim laps, you’d need traffic signals. But hey, maybe it’s Modernism’s substitute for a bathtub.
What redeems the place for me is the level of service, which is superb, with well-trained staff who know when to be chatty and when to leave you alone. And the food rocks. As of my visit, Bamboo, their Chinese restaurant, hadn’t opened, but Zest, the 24-hour multi-cuisine restaurant, Aqua, at the poolside, and Dusk, the bar, were in business. I spent long hours eating, indulging in long breakfasts from the buffet (after all the busy firangs had gone off to kick outsourced butt), lazy late lunches and contemplative dinners. The menus are inviting and varied, the wait-staff know their stuff, the portions are ginormous, and junior chefs are usually around at the buffet, monitoring patron enjoyment levels. I swear I moved up a belt-notch for each day I was there.
The restaurants will get the locals flocking in, because if there’s an even bigger hole in the New Bombay leisure market than a luxury hotel, it’s in the area of fine dining. Poolside weekend buffet brunch packages and the like will bring in the yuppies in droves. And Zest? A place that stays open all night legally, that isn’t filled with smoke, rickshaw drivers and call centre kids; that’s something New Bombay desperately needed.
Overall, the place will do well, since it has a monopoly on the high end of the market. Once a few other majors move in (many are, I hear), it won’t be quite so much a walk in the Park.
Published in Outlook Traveller, April 2007.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
It is unpromising at first sight: a large white brick of a building plonked next to the highway at Belapur; though, compared to some of the other truly ghastly edifices that have been inflicted on that particular node of New Bombay, it is, at least, inoffensive. The hotel’s literature seeks to lay the blame on inspiration from Modernism and Le Corbusier. Being a philistine, all I can say that if I was paying several thousand rupees a night for the privilege of staying in a five star, I’d like the place to look and feel like one. White walls, hard lines, lots of glass and metal? Nada. Sure, coloured lighting does soften and soothe the contours post-dusk, but even then the atrium and corridors look like a gussied-up barracks. In the rooms, a little more attention to the placement of the furniture would improve things no end. For example, in my deluxe room, the fancy flat-screen TV is off in one corner, at an angle from the bed and miles away from the couch—which faces the wardrobe—with an awfully uncomfortable chair placed at an angle to the screen. And the bathrooms: well, I’ve seen larger in suburban apartments. And in my biased book, no bathtub equals place that should have some of its five stars taken away. For me, one of the perks of this reviewing gig is getting to swim a bit. But, alas, the pool’s a wee little thing. If more than three people tried to swim laps, you’d need traffic signals. But hey, maybe it’s Modernism’s substitute for a bathtub.
What redeems the place for me is the level of service, which is superb, with well-trained staff who know when to be chatty and when to leave you alone. And the food rocks. As of my visit, Bamboo, their Chinese restaurant, hadn’t opened, but Zest, the 24-hour multi-cuisine restaurant, Aqua, at the poolside, and Dusk, the bar, were in business. I spent long hours eating, indulging in long breakfasts from the buffet (after all the busy firangs had gone off to kick outsourced butt), lazy late lunches and contemplative dinners. The menus are inviting and varied, the wait-staff know their stuff, the portions are ginormous, and junior chefs are usually around at the buffet, monitoring patron enjoyment levels. I swear I moved up a belt-notch for each day I was there.
The restaurants will get the locals flocking in, because if there’s an even bigger hole in the New Bombay leisure market than a luxury hotel, it’s in the area of fine dining. Poolside weekend buffet brunch packages and the like will bring in the yuppies in droves. And Zest? A place that stays open all night legally, that isn’t filled with smoke, rickshaw drivers and call centre kids; that’s something New Bombay desperately needed.
Overall, the place will do well, since it has a monopoly on the high end of the market. Once a few other majors move in (many are, I hear), it won’t be quite so much a walk in the Park.
Published in Outlook Traveller, April 2007.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
Friday, 23 March 2007
Zest
Zest
Twenty four-hour restaurants are a novelty in that middle-class haven, New Bombay. Well, there are a few dives that stay open all night, once the lair of thirsty mildly anti-social elements, now also home to equally dehydrated call-centre kids. But a legitimately open fine dining establishment in a fancy hotel, one you can seriously dent the credit card with? Nada.
Well, gentlefolk, you and your expense account now have Zest, at The Park, in Belapur. Zest says it serves coastal Indian and Asian cuisine, and we took a while to browse through the long menu, with the aid of attentive wait-staff, and to scope out the buffet. The interiors are bright and shiny—too much metal and glass—and garish red-orange-and-white-patterned tiles cover an entire wall. The buffet occupies centre stage, a marble-topped ring choc-a-bloc with serving dishes.
The friend who’d opted for the buffet (Rs 625) circled his prey, then scorned the inviting salads and cold cuts and loaded up on the meat and a side-plate of cheeses.
The rest of the table went a la carte. The lager prawns (Rs 706) were delicious, large and succulent, with a lovely tamarindy dip. The Black Snapper (Rs 511) was well-presented, with a delicate flavour to the sauce, but the fish itself was unevenly cooked. We attacked the vegetarian Khow Swey (Rs 488) with relish; it was almost as authentic as the dish my grandmother, who lived in pre-war Burma, used to make. The Bheja Gurda Kaleji Kheema Fry with parathas (Rs 484), the menu confided, was from a recipe by an old man in Bhendi Bazar. It lives up to billing, but at perhaps ten times the price of the original, I hope that gentleman is getting a percentage.
Thanks to all the selfless sampling for the benefit of this review, we were too full now to order dessert. Instead, we nibbled off the eclectic selection on the buffet-eater’s plate. If the staff noticed this robust display of bad manners, they chose to smile indulgently; we did not get our just desserts in our bill. Clever folks. Because now we’ll be back. Peter Griffin
Zest, The Park Navi Mumbai, No 1, Sector 10, CBD Belapur, Navi Mumbai (2758-9000). Daily 24 hours. Meal for two without alcohol, Rs 1,300. All credit cards accepted, except Diners.
Published in Time Out Mumbai, XXth XXXX, 2007.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
Twenty four-hour restaurants are a novelty in that middle-class haven, New Bombay. Well, there are a few dives that stay open all night, once the lair of thirsty mildly anti-social elements, now also home to equally dehydrated call-centre kids. But a legitimately open fine dining establishment in a fancy hotel, one you can seriously dent the credit card with? Nada.
Well, gentlefolk, you and your expense account now have Zest, at The Park, in Belapur. Zest says it serves coastal Indian and Asian cuisine, and we took a while to browse through the long menu, with the aid of attentive wait-staff, and to scope out the buffet. The interiors are bright and shiny—too much metal and glass—and garish red-orange-and-white-patterned tiles cover an entire wall. The buffet occupies centre stage, a marble-topped ring choc-a-bloc with serving dishes.
The friend who’d opted for the buffet (Rs 625) circled his prey, then scorned the inviting salads and cold cuts and loaded up on the meat and a side-plate of cheeses.
The rest of the table went a la carte. The lager prawns (Rs 706) were delicious, large and succulent, with a lovely tamarindy dip. The Black Snapper (Rs 511) was well-presented, with a delicate flavour to the sauce, but the fish itself was unevenly cooked. We attacked the vegetarian Khow Swey (Rs 488) with relish; it was almost as authentic as the dish my grandmother, who lived in pre-war Burma, used to make. The Bheja Gurda Kaleji Kheema Fry with parathas (Rs 484), the menu confided, was from a recipe by an old man in Bhendi Bazar. It lives up to billing, but at perhaps ten times the price of the original, I hope that gentleman is getting a percentage.
Thanks to all the selfless sampling for the benefit of this review, we were too full now to order dessert. Instead, we nibbled off the eclectic selection on the buffet-eater’s plate. If the staff noticed this robust display of bad manners, they chose to smile indulgently; we did not get our just desserts in our bill. Clever folks. Because now we’ll be back. Peter Griffin
Zest, The Park Navi Mumbai, No 1, Sector 10, CBD Belapur, Navi Mumbai (2758-9000). Daily 24 hours. Meal for two without alcohol, Rs 1,300. All credit cards accepted, except Diners.
Published in Time Out Mumbai, XXth XXXX, 2007.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
Sunday, 18 March 2007
Something’s Fishy
Something’s Fishy
In the welter of buildings that have sprung up over the last few years in Sector 30, Vashi, one of the newest is the Tunga Regency, all cement and blue glass.
This magazine told me to wander over and pick one the three restaurants to review. The choice was easy: Café Vihar, the vegetarian place, was overrun with noisy brats, partly open-air and looked like a food court in an amusement park mall, not a restaurant. This writer scuttled off quickly, in search of ACs and peace.
We started off at Crimson, the coffee shop, whose signage beckoned with promises of spirits, coffee and grills. It was a dry day, so we sipped a fresh lime soda (Rs 45) and a chaas (Rs 55) while we sniggered at the typos and fractured English in the menu. For what at first glance looked to be a quiet, subdued haven, Crimson was noisy. Not because it was full or patrons were yelling, but because of sheer bad design. The constant clatter of cutlery, every movement and word is preserved and amplified echoed through the room. I’m notoriously cranky about those things (“ossified old curmudgeon,” my politer friends say), so I checked with my dinner companion, younger, more tolerant, more inclined to smile. Nope, it wasn’t me. The place gave her a headache, she said. The food on offer seemed uninviting, so we decided to head next door to eat. To do so, we had to step through the hideousness that is the atrium (imagine the inside of a jukebox) into the even noisier Something’s Fishy.
The interior motif here is glass and silly curtains dangling coyly a third of the way down from the ceiling, and the tables are jammed way too close to each other. The senior waitstaff wear pinstripes and gold braid. ’Nuf said? And the acoustics are even worse here, or perhaps it’s the number of yelling toddlers gambolling in the aisles.
The name leads one to expect seafood. But there is something black in the lentil soup. Like the presence of lentil soup. Because the place is multi-cuisine, with Indian (when a restaurant in India does that, one, um, wonders), Chinese, Malvani, Mangalorean and Goan food. Pushy waiter wants our order before the chairs were warm. He is twice dismissed. When we’re ready to order, the first three items we choose aren’t available. The place being new, he confides, it hasn’t started preparing all the items on the menu. The baby at the table to the left has started to bawl, and from the one just below (our miniature table is on a raised sort of gallery at the back), a brat shows signs of wanting to stick his fingers in my water. We order before our appetites vanish, staying with the marine section of the card, and then attempt to converse through the din.
My Crab Meat Soup (Rs 125) arrives, and it is swimming with capsicum and chillies, which effectively smother all taste of crab. Gah. I do so love crab. Comes the main meal. The Kolambiche Ambat (Rs 350) is lovely. The prawns are succulent, the gravy has a mild bite, and goes well with the steamed rice (Rs 95) that has taken the place of the appams and neer dosas that they don’t make yet. The rice sets of the Tesereya Ani Batata (Rs 195) as well; the gravy’s spicy without taking the roof off of your mouth, but alas, the potato chunks easily outnumber the shellfish morsels.
Verdict: fair enough if you live in Vashi and want to try out a new place, but hardly worth the trek from any other part of town.
Something’s Fishy, Tunga Regency Hotel, Plot 37, next to Centre One, near Vashi Station, Sector 30 A, Vashi, 400703 - Mumbai. Phone: 66801818. Meal for two, without alcohol, Rs 1200 - 1500. Service charge and VAT charged over the bill.
Published in Time Out Mumbai, XXth XXXX, 2006.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
In the welter of buildings that have sprung up over the last few years in Sector 30, Vashi, one of the newest is the Tunga Regency, all cement and blue glass.
This magazine told me to wander over and pick one the three restaurants to review. The choice was easy: Café Vihar, the vegetarian place, was overrun with noisy brats, partly open-air and looked like a food court in an amusement park mall, not a restaurant. This writer scuttled off quickly, in search of ACs and peace.
We started off at Crimson, the coffee shop, whose signage beckoned with promises of spirits, coffee and grills. It was a dry day, so we sipped a fresh lime soda (Rs 45) and a chaas (Rs 55) while we sniggered at the typos and fractured English in the menu. For what at first glance looked to be a quiet, subdued haven, Crimson was noisy. Not because it was full or patrons were yelling, but because of sheer bad design. The constant clatter of cutlery, every movement and word is preserved and amplified echoed through the room. I’m notoriously cranky about those things (“ossified old curmudgeon,” my politer friends say), so I checked with my dinner companion, younger, more tolerant, more inclined to smile. Nope, it wasn’t me. The place gave her a headache, she said. The food on offer seemed uninviting, so we decided to head next door to eat. To do so, we had to step through the hideousness that is the atrium (imagine the inside of a jukebox) into the even noisier Something’s Fishy.
The interior motif here is glass and silly curtains dangling coyly a third of the way down from the ceiling, and the tables are jammed way too close to each other. The senior waitstaff wear pinstripes and gold braid. ’Nuf said? And the acoustics are even worse here, or perhaps it’s the number of yelling toddlers gambolling in the aisles.
The name leads one to expect seafood. But there is something black in the lentil soup. Like the presence of lentil soup. Because the place is multi-cuisine, with Indian (when a restaurant in India does that, one, um, wonders), Chinese, Malvani, Mangalorean and Goan food. Pushy waiter wants our order before the chairs were warm. He is twice dismissed. When we’re ready to order, the first three items we choose aren’t available. The place being new, he confides, it hasn’t started preparing all the items on the menu. The baby at the table to the left has started to bawl, and from the one just below (our miniature table is on a raised sort of gallery at the back), a brat shows signs of wanting to stick his fingers in my water. We order before our appetites vanish, staying with the marine section of the card, and then attempt to converse through the din.
My Crab Meat Soup (Rs 125) arrives, and it is swimming with capsicum and chillies, which effectively smother all taste of crab. Gah. I do so love crab. Comes the main meal. The Kolambiche Ambat (Rs 350) is lovely. The prawns are succulent, the gravy has a mild bite, and goes well with the steamed rice (Rs 95) that has taken the place of the appams and neer dosas that they don’t make yet. The rice sets of the Tesereya Ani Batata (Rs 195) as well; the gravy’s spicy without taking the roof off of your mouth, but alas, the potato chunks easily outnumber the shellfish morsels.
Verdict: fair enough if you live in Vashi and want to try out a new place, but hardly worth the trek from any other part of town.
Something’s Fishy, Tunga Regency Hotel, Plot 37, next to Centre One, near Vashi Station, Sector 30 A, Vashi, 400703 - Mumbai. Phone: 66801818. Meal for two, without alcohol, Rs 1200 - 1500. Service charge and VAT charged over the bill.
Published in Time Out Mumbai, XXth XXXX, 2006.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
Thursday, 1 March 2007
Bombay for beginners
Bombay beggars description. Which hasn’t stopped people from trying, borrowing and adapting freely, in typical Bambaiya style. Urbs Prima in Indus. Gateway of India. Bom bahia. The Big Mango. Slumbay. Bollywood. Maximum City. The city that never sleeps. The city of opportunity.
Of course the city has inspired others who have expended more than just a catchy slogan’s worth of words on it too. Arun Kolatkar, Salman Rushdie, Suketu Mehta and so many others have left their version of the city to posterity. And then, in my own humble way, as copywriter, hack and blogger, I have written at least a novella’s worth of copy about the place. So I thought it would be a bit of an ask to try and find new things to say about it without treading on some one else’s toes or one’s own. But, having studied, worked and lived in and just outside the city for over thirty years, I find myself with far more to tell you about it than the editor will condone.
Let’s start with a brief run through of the history bit. I’m told that the area’s first known appearance in writing is at around two thousand years ago, when it was part of Asoka’s empire. At any rate, there were seven hilly islands, home to fisherfolk, and not particularly in the mainstream of history. In the 1500s, the Portuguese laid claim to the islands, and christened them Bom Bahia, which meant “good bay.” Next century, they handed over both Catherine De Braganza and the islands to Britain’s Charles II, who leased them—just the islands, not the Princess—to John Company for £10 per annum.
The Brits knocked over the hills, filled up the swampy bits between the islands and, while they were at it, flattened the name out a bit as well, to Bombay. It became their Gateway to India, quickly growing into a major centre of commerce, attracting ambitious traders and suchlike from other parts of the country. They stayed, of course, moulding the city to their needs as it outgrew the old fort walls, expanding ever northwards, through its days as capital of the Bombay Presidency and later, the smaller Maharashtra state.
Such historical structures as remain are mainly in the old Fort area, and even those lack the sweep of a Delhi’s vistas or the grandeur of even a small former princely state; there just isn’t enough space for stately showing off.
Chances are that you’ll visit for business; the city is very much the commercial capital of India, home to corporate HQs for most industrial and business houses, banking and finance, advertising, media, and yes, the Hindi film industry. Even if it isn’t commerce that brings you here, it’s pretty likely that you’ll spend a few days in the city en route to the beaches, palaces, wildlife resorts or mountains, since Bombay is conveniently connected to almost anything else of consequence in India. So hey, come on in. Let us show you a good time, hm?
When? The summer can get awfully muggy. We’re on the coast, so be prepared for major humidity. The monsoon, much as we love it, is, we admit, an acquired taste. Hell, there are times when we get kind of sick of it ourselves. But come November, when the mercury begins to dip to pleasant levels, and going up to February, we’re in the zone.
But first things first. Whenever you do come, prepare yourself to face a city that is, quite simply, one of the most congested areas on the planet, with a population the size of your average small country. There are roughly 15 million people in the island city, and if you want to include the neighbouring towns that are pretty much part of the city though technically separate municipalities, that number gets even higher. (Yes, it is relevant to include them, since vast sections of their populations commute to jobs in the city six days of the week.) One estimate predicts more people than all of Australia in less than ten years. Which, to cut out the statistics, pretty much means crowds everywhere. Heaving masses of humanity such as you will find at very few other places. Traffic jams, noise, pollution, dirt, transport infrastructure straining at the seams, it’s all there. For those unaccustomed to it, this can be traumatic. I know people who holed up in hotel rooms for the duration of their stay after a brief dose of Bombay rush hour. I kid you not.
The other thing you have to keep in mind is that Bombay is a long city, with its “centre” in the south. Think of a conventional city map as a pizza. Now cut yourself a thin slice. That’s Bombay. And the pizza analogy isn’t half-bad either. Moves to decongest the South Bombay business district have had some success, so there are a lot more toppings closer to the crust than there were a decade or so ago. You now have clusters of glass-fronted office towers, industrial estates, malls and multiplexes not just closer to the city’s geographic centre, but in the suburbs as well.
With all of this, it pays to have a basic knowledge of how to get around. A task somewhat hindered by a rash of renaming; streets, railways stations, even the airport, all have been targets of the same zeal that renamed the city itself. Most residents, of course, cheerfully ignore the official diktats, and continue referring to them by their traditional names, to the further bafflement of the visitor. But not to worry, if you get lost, just ask around, and directions will flow from all and sundry. One little Bombay quirk: unlike other parts of India, where people will tell you distances to a fraction of a kilometre, here, you will get it in units of time. A half-hour walk, a twenty minute rickshaw ride, and so on. Corrected for time of day and state of traffic, natch.
Once you figure out where you want to go, how do you get there?
Bombay has one of the most efficient—if massively overburdened—public transport systems in the country, with its commuter trains doing the bulk of the heavy lifting. Visitors to the city, though, are advised not to seriously contemplate venturing into these mobile sardine cans anywhere close to peak commute hours. Which means you do not travel North to South between 7a.m. and 11a.m., and South to North between 5p.m. and 9p.m. That in mind, it’s usually the fastest way to get anywhere in the city. Just get yourself a first-class ticket (shorter queues, and deo rather than sweat to smell once you’re in the train) and you rocket past all the traffic jams and bad roads. For shorter and cross-town jaunts, the municipality’s red BEST busses are an option. Aside from the normal crowded busses, the company also runs air-conditioned sitting-room only specials on selected routes, an airport special that runs through the night with extra space for luggage, and open-topped double-decker busses for tourists on weekends, on the picturesque Marine Drive route. Both trains and busses run from well before dawn to way after the Cinderella hour.
Of course, if you’d rather not rub shoulders with the masses, there are the black-and-yellow taxis all over the city, and three-wheeler autorickshaws in the suburbs. These run strictly by a meter—except that these meters have not been re-calibrated to keep pace with fare hikes, and so require “tariff cards” (drivers must have these, by law) which translate the difference between the fare shown and what you must pay. Note the extra column that factors in the extra 25% “night charge” that applies between midnight and 5a.m. To keep the grime and noise out, you can also find or call for an ACed blue-and-silver “Cool Cab.” Or just hire a car and driver for the day. Self-driven rentals aren’t too thick on the ground, I’m afraid, but then, would you really want to drive here? Ditto for walking—the distances are just too much—or for quaint notions like exploring on bicycles—the traffic would kill you, with exhaust fumes or by more direct methods.
When it comes to places to stay, you have the spectrum from luxury hotels, to business traveller specials, to service apartments, to family hotels and guest houses, clubs, right down to hole-in-the-wall lodges and seedy dives. You’ll find them all over the place, from tony South Bombay 5-stars to beachfront suburban spreads, to smaller places near the air and train terminals to places handy for business.
And after you get that stay and transport thing licked, what next?
History? It’s there in gobs, if you know where to look. There are ancient cave temples within city limits; Mandapeshwar, Kondivita (or Mahakali), the UNESCO World Heritage Site Elephanta Island caves, and the oldest, the 2000-year-old Kanheri caves. Remnants of forts that have survived the urban invasion: the Portuguese Vasai Fort, the British Fort St George, other ruins in Sion and Bandra. Old churches date back a century and more. South Bombay’s Raj era buildings show off a wide range of architecture, from the Indo-Saracenic to the wildly Gothic to the Art Deco.
There’s culture aplenty, for brows of various elevations, with art galleries, music concerts (Hindustani, Carnatic and Western Classical, pop, rock, jazz, indipop, trance, whatever), dance and theatre, and of course the movies, in a multiplicity of multiplexes. In the cooler months (we call it winter), there are a slew of cultural festivals, mostly free and open to the public.
Wildlife and Mama Nature? The only National Park in the world within a city’s limits sits in the middle of North Bombay, a birders paradise. And flamingos visit the wetlands along the eastern coast. The North-Western stretches have a number of quiet beaches ideal for the weekend away from the bustle. Except that you’re likely to share space with a large chunk of the madding crowds with the same idea.
When it comes to sports, cricket rules, not just in the two stadiums, the Wankhede and the Brabourne, but also in local league games all year, including the unique and loony Kanga League in the rains. But you’ll also see top level hockey, tennis, badminton, football, basketball, swimming, golf, billiards & snooker, sailing, golf and horse racing. Those so inclined can indulge in most of these directly, at any of dozens of clubs and gymnasiums.
And when it comes to the truly urban attractions, Bombay leads all the rest.
The shopaholics are spoiled for choice. Most of the world’s big name brands have outlets here, and massive malls are beginning to proliferate. Traditional shopping—and bargaining!—is there for the asking too: handicrafts, textiles, clothes, antiques, leather, jewellery and more.
Food? This is practically the Universe at the End of a Restaurant. You’ll get it all here, from handcarts to the McFood variety international franchises and the restaurants that appeal to working stiffs and families to the best and most expensive cuisines of India and the world. And if you don’t feel like queuing up for a table, most of them would be happy to deliver. As a young chef I used to know said with some amazement, “You Bombay people don’t cook at home?”
Night life rocks too, with pubs, bars and discotheques that stay open and rocking until the wee hours (not all night, alas, the Government prefers its citizens to get home before the milk). And if you’re connected, or know someone who is, there’s a high profile party practically every night of the week, where the licensing laws have no jurisdiction.
When it comes to finding ways to fill each minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Bombay kicks the rest of India’s butt. Nothing’s truly unique, I’ll grant you that, and sure, some cities do some of it better, but you won’t find the whole vibrant package anywhere else.
Don’t be a stranger.
Published in Outlook's
Tags: Outlook
Of course the city has inspired others who have expended more than just a catchy slogan’s worth of words on it too. Arun Kolatkar, Salman Rushdie, Suketu Mehta and so many others have left their version of the city to posterity. And then, in my own humble way, as copywriter, hack and blogger, I have written at least a novella’s worth of copy about the place. So I thought it would be a bit of an ask to try and find new things to say about it without treading on some one else’s toes or one’s own. But, having studied, worked and lived in and just outside the city for over thirty years, I find myself with far more to tell you about it than the editor will condone.
Let’s start with a brief run through of the history bit. I’m told that the area’s first known appearance in writing is at around two thousand years ago, when it was part of Asoka’s empire. At any rate, there were seven hilly islands, home to fisherfolk, and not particularly in the mainstream of history. In the 1500s, the Portuguese laid claim to the islands, and christened them Bom Bahia, which meant “good bay.” Next century, they handed over both Catherine De Braganza and the islands to Britain’s Charles II, who leased them—just the islands, not the Princess—to John Company for £10 per annum.
The Brits knocked over the hills, filled up the swampy bits between the islands and, while they were at it, flattened the name out a bit as well, to Bombay. It became their Gateway to India, quickly growing into a major centre of commerce, attracting ambitious traders and suchlike from other parts of the country. They stayed, of course, moulding the city to their needs as it outgrew the old fort walls, expanding ever northwards, through its days as capital of the Bombay Presidency and later, the smaller Maharashtra state.
Such historical structures as remain are mainly in the old Fort area, and even those lack the sweep of a Delhi’s vistas or the grandeur of even a small former princely state; there just isn’t enough space for stately showing off.
Chances are that you’ll visit for business; the city is very much the commercial capital of India, home to corporate HQs for most industrial and business houses, banking and finance, advertising, media, and yes, the Hindi film industry. Even if it isn’t commerce that brings you here, it’s pretty likely that you’ll spend a few days in the city en route to the beaches, palaces, wildlife resorts or mountains, since Bombay is conveniently connected to almost anything else of consequence in India. So hey, come on in. Let us show you a good time, hm?
When? The summer can get awfully muggy. We’re on the coast, so be prepared for major humidity. The monsoon, much as we love it, is, we admit, an acquired taste. Hell, there are times when we get kind of sick of it ourselves. But come November, when the mercury begins to dip to pleasant levels, and going up to February, we’re in the zone.
But first things first. Whenever you do come, prepare yourself to face a city that is, quite simply, one of the most congested areas on the planet, with a population the size of your average small country. There are roughly 15 million people in the island city, and if you want to include the neighbouring towns that are pretty much part of the city though technically separate municipalities, that number gets even higher. (Yes, it is relevant to include them, since vast sections of their populations commute to jobs in the city six days of the week.) One estimate predicts more people than all of Australia in less than ten years. Which, to cut out the statistics, pretty much means crowds everywhere. Heaving masses of humanity such as you will find at very few other places. Traffic jams, noise, pollution, dirt, transport infrastructure straining at the seams, it’s all there. For those unaccustomed to it, this can be traumatic. I know people who holed up in hotel rooms for the duration of their stay after a brief dose of Bombay rush hour. I kid you not.
The other thing you have to keep in mind is that Bombay is a long city, with its “centre” in the south. Think of a conventional city map as a pizza. Now cut yourself a thin slice. That’s Bombay. And the pizza analogy isn’t half-bad either. Moves to decongest the South Bombay business district have had some success, so there are a lot more toppings closer to the crust than there were a decade or so ago. You now have clusters of glass-fronted office towers, industrial estates, malls and multiplexes not just closer to the city’s geographic centre, but in the suburbs as well.
With all of this, it pays to have a basic knowledge of how to get around. A task somewhat hindered by a rash of renaming; streets, railways stations, even the airport, all have been targets of the same zeal that renamed the city itself. Most residents, of course, cheerfully ignore the official diktats, and continue referring to them by their traditional names, to the further bafflement of the visitor. But not to worry, if you get lost, just ask around, and directions will flow from all and sundry. One little Bombay quirk: unlike other parts of India, where people will tell you distances to a fraction of a kilometre, here, you will get it in units of time. A half-hour walk, a twenty minute rickshaw ride, and so on. Corrected for time of day and state of traffic, natch.
Once you figure out where you want to go, how do you get there?
Bombay has one of the most efficient—if massively overburdened—public transport systems in the country, with its commuter trains doing the bulk of the heavy lifting. Visitors to the city, though, are advised not to seriously contemplate venturing into these mobile sardine cans anywhere close to peak commute hours. Which means you do not travel North to South between 7a.m. and 11a.m., and South to North between 5p.m. and 9p.m. That in mind, it’s usually the fastest way to get anywhere in the city. Just get yourself a first-class ticket (shorter queues, and deo rather than sweat to smell once you’re in the train) and you rocket past all the traffic jams and bad roads. For shorter and cross-town jaunts, the municipality’s red BEST busses are an option. Aside from the normal crowded busses, the company also runs air-conditioned sitting-room only specials on selected routes, an airport special that runs through the night with extra space for luggage, and open-topped double-decker busses for tourists on weekends, on the picturesque Marine Drive route. Both trains and busses run from well before dawn to way after the Cinderella hour.
Of course, if you’d rather not rub shoulders with the masses, there are the black-and-yellow taxis all over the city, and three-wheeler autorickshaws in the suburbs. These run strictly by a meter—except that these meters have not been re-calibrated to keep pace with fare hikes, and so require “tariff cards” (drivers must have these, by law) which translate the difference between the fare shown and what you must pay. Note the extra column that factors in the extra 25% “night charge” that applies between midnight and 5a.m. To keep the grime and noise out, you can also find or call for an ACed blue-and-silver “Cool Cab.” Or just hire a car and driver for the day. Self-driven rentals aren’t too thick on the ground, I’m afraid, but then, would you really want to drive here? Ditto for walking—the distances are just too much—or for quaint notions like exploring on bicycles—the traffic would kill you, with exhaust fumes or by more direct methods.
When it comes to places to stay, you have the spectrum from luxury hotels, to business traveller specials, to service apartments, to family hotels and guest houses, clubs, right down to hole-in-the-wall lodges and seedy dives. You’ll find them all over the place, from tony South Bombay 5-stars to beachfront suburban spreads, to smaller places near the air and train terminals to places handy for business.
And after you get that stay and transport thing licked, what next?
History? It’s there in gobs, if you know where to look. There are ancient cave temples within city limits; Mandapeshwar, Kondivita (or Mahakali), the UNESCO World Heritage Site Elephanta Island caves, and the oldest, the 2000-year-old Kanheri caves. Remnants of forts that have survived the urban invasion: the Portuguese Vasai Fort, the British Fort St George, other ruins in Sion and Bandra. Old churches date back a century and more. South Bombay’s Raj era buildings show off a wide range of architecture, from the Indo-Saracenic to the wildly Gothic to the Art Deco.
There’s culture aplenty, for brows of various elevations, with art galleries, music concerts (Hindustani, Carnatic and Western Classical, pop, rock, jazz, indipop, trance, whatever), dance and theatre, and of course the movies, in a multiplicity of multiplexes. In the cooler months (we call it winter), there are a slew of cultural festivals, mostly free and open to the public.
Wildlife and Mama Nature? The only National Park in the world within a city’s limits sits in the middle of North Bombay, a birders paradise. And flamingos visit the wetlands along the eastern coast. The North-Western stretches have a number of quiet beaches ideal for the weekend away from the bustle. Except that you’re likely to share space with a large chunk of the madding crowds with the same idea.
When it comes to sports, cricket rules, not just in the two stadiums, the Wankhede and the Brabourne, but also in local league games all year, including the unique and loony Kanga League in the rains. But you’ll also see top level hockey, tennis, badminton, football, basketball, swimming, golf, billiards & snooker, sailing, golf and horse racing. Those so inclined can indulge in most of these directly, at any of dozens of clubs and gymnasiums.
And when it comes to the truly urban attractions, Bombay leads all the rest.
The shopaholics are spoiled for choice. Most of the world’s big name brands have outlets here, and massive malls are beginning to proliferate. Traditional shopping—and bargaining!—is there for the asking too: handicrafts, textiles, clothes, antiques, leather, jewellery and more.
Food? This is practically the Universe at the End of a Restaurant. You’ll get it all here, from handcarts to the McFood variety international franchises and the restaurants that appeal to working stiffs and families to the best and most expensive cuisines of India and the world. And if you don’t feel like queuing up for a table, most of them would be happy to deliver. As a young chef I used to know said with some amazement, “You Bombay people don’t cook at home?”
Night life rocks too, with pubs, bars and discotheques that stay open and rocking until the wee hours (not all night, alas, the Government prefers its citizens to get home before the milk). And if you’re connected, or know someone who is, there’s a high profile party practically every night of the week, where the licensing laws have no jurisdiction.
When it comes to finding ways to fill each minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Bombay kicks the rest of India’s butt. Nothing’s truly unique, I’ll grant you that, and sure, some cities do some of it better, but you won’t find the whole vibrant package anywhere else.
Don’t be a stranger.
Published in Outlook's
Incredible IndiaTravel Special, March 2006 under the title
Bay of Bombast,which I hate.
Tags: Outlook
Friday, 1 December 2006
Shazia Mirza, live
Shazia Mirza played to a packed house at the Juhu Mocha. And I mean packed!
Seats had filled up long before show time. People continued to push their way in: celebrities-in-their-own-right lined up six-deep in the back row; Page 3 People sat on hastily-provided cushions in the front; others squeezed in with friends, four butts on three chairs, local train style; the more athletic perched on window sills. A group of people who insisted on standing in the centre aisle turning a deaf ear to impassioned whispers from behind to sit the f*** down were finally shamed into doing so by the star of the evening. Those who could not bluster their way in watched live video in the open-air area. (Which accounts for two large tripods set up in the middle of the aisle, effectively blocking the view for a large swathe of the audience, causing even more rumbles of dissent.)
Ms Mirza took a short while to find her rhythm; she seemed unsure of her audience, and in the first few minutes, made a few patronising references that stiffened quite a few backs. As the evening progressed, there were other moments when people did not quite know how to react. Partly, I guess, we’re not used to performers using adult language, speaking of sexual acts and dissing their parents (sometimes, all three in the same sentence!) in the relatively intimate confines of a live stage act. Still, one would have thought we’re pretty used to effing and blinding in our day-to-day interaction, and we’re reasonably broad-minded about sex. But perhaps it is more that we, even the relatively worldly-wise sampling that came to the show, aren’t quite used to comedy routines that poke fun directly at us. We’re happy enough with the slapstick, mimicry and the lame witticisms of cricket commentators. But enough already with the sociology.
Ms Mirza played the crowd expertly, and once she segued into her regular routine—with, it must be said, a few repetitions and occasional checking of set notes—helped along in no small part by a face that exudes mischief even when being insulting, the initial nervous titters soon yielded to honest guffaws. Her act is based around her life as a British Muslim woman, and is laced with scathing comment on men, conservative attitudes and family life. Her cheery willingness to make herself the butt of her own jokes notwithstanding, she seems to have made herself quiet a few enemies. Undeterred, she uses her hate mail in her routine, laughing at stuff that would probably drive me to seek anonymity behind purdah.
The audience lapped it all up. And Ms Mirza, did she enjoy herself? It was a roaring success, she told me in an email. And she’ll be back; she has offers to perform in Goa, among other places.
Published in the Times of India / Outlook City Limits Mumbai, December 2006.
Tags: Outlook City Limits
Seats had filled up long before show time. People continued to push their way in: celebrities-in-their-own-right lined up six-deep in the back row; Page 3 People sat on hastily-provided cushions in the front; others squeezed in with friends, four butts on three chairs, local train style; the more athletic perched on window sills. A group of people who insisted on standing in the centre aisle turning a deaf ear to impassioned whispers from behind to sit the f*** down were finally shamed into doing so by the star of the evening. Those who could not bluster their way in watched live video in the open-air area. (Which accounts for two large tripods set up in the middle of the aisle, effectively blocking the view for a large swathe of the audience, causing even more rumbles of dissent.)
Ms Mirza took a short while to find her rhythm; she seemed unsure of her audience, and in the first few minutes, made a few patronising references that stiffened quite a few backs. As the evening progressed, there were other moments when people did not quite know how to react. Partly, I guess, we’re not used to performers using adult language, speaking of sexual acts and dissing their parents (sometimes, all three in the same sentence!) in the relatively intimate confines of a live stage act. Still, one would have thought we’re pretty used to effing and blinding in our day-to-day interaction, and we’re reasonably broad-minded about sex. But perhaps it is more that we, even the relatively worldly-wise sampling that came to the show, aren’t quite used to comedy routines that poke fun directly at us. We’re happy enough with the slapstick, mimicry and the lame witticisms of cricket commentators. But enough already with the sociology.
Ms Mirza played the crowd expertly, and once she segued into her regular routine—with, it must be said, a few repetitions and occasional checking of set notes—helped along in no small part by a face that exudes mischief even when being insulting, the initial nervous titters soon yielded to honest guffaws. Her act is based around her life as a British Muslim woman, and is laced with scathing comment on men, conservative attitudes and family life. Her cheery willingness to make herself the butt of her own jokes notwithstanding, she seems to have made herself quiet a few enemies. Undeterred, she uses her hate mail in her routine, laughing at stuff that would probably drive me to seek anonymity behind purdah.
The audience lapped it all up. And Ms Mirza, did she enjoy herself? It was a roaring success, she told me in an email. And she’ll be back; she has offers to perform in Goa, among other places.
Published in the Times of India / Outlook City Limits Mumbai, December 2006.
Tags: Outlook City Limits
Monday, 16 October 2006
BEST days
We moved to Bombay when I was ten. I missed the old place, as I’d missed others as we moved from city to city, but as young lads do, I made friends fast—school chums, colony playmates, tuition pals.
It’s not as easy to make new friends when you’re older, in a new place; I know that now. For my parents, old pals from our home town were a link to their youth. The only such lived in Colaba and we in Chembur. And so, ever so often, we’d do our mini-expedition into South Bombay. For a middle class family, a taxi all the way was an indulgence. My brother doesn’t have the use of his legs, so the local trains, with the foot overbridges, and of course, the crowds, were too much of a hassle. So we took the bus.
The most convenient was the 8 Ltd, which then, as now, ran between Chembur’s Ambedkar Udyan and Flora Fountain. But then, the busses that plied the route were all double-deckers. The pollution, we quickly discovered, gave me blinding headaches when I travelled the lower deck. So I would be handed my ticket money and packed off to the top. (My parents and brother didn’t have the option; carrying John up the narrow stair to the top was difficult.)
Those rides were my introduction to the larger city beyond the lazy tree-lined avenues of Chembur. Over the years, I’ve got to know many other sides of this vast metropolis, but so many of those first impressions still define it for me.
Alone in the top deck, without Dad to point out the sites, I learned to orient myself in the city. Street signs were way too small to read from a moving bus; many were obscured with cloth banners and branches and, besides, the names weren’t the ones that I found on the old map I pored over, and they weren’t the ones that the conductor bellowed as he rang his bell. Commerce, on the other hand, can always be relied on for visibility. So shop signs, and even better, banks (because they put their branch names on their signage), those temples to Mammon, helped me figure out the geography of this city of money, the city Dad had moved to, to give me a better start in life.
I’d have charged to the front of the bus, of course, to pretend, when I thought that no one was looking (I was all of ten, after all) that I was the driver. With the wind blowing in my face, I’d mark off the areas we passed through: the bottleneck just before Sion, where now a flyover doesn’t seem to have helped matters; then Sion Hospital, and King’s Circle, which in all the years since, I still haven’t been in; and the broad sweep of road before Dadar’s huge traffic island; and the road narrowing again; and the confusing jumble before I found Byculla, marked by a Chinese joint visited once and forever imprinted; and then the church, and another hospital before the chaos of Mohammad Ali Road, with its fragrant set of restaurants, before VT, which was my mark to reluctantly make my way to the lower deck. And then we’d take a taxi to my parents’ friends home, within sight of Radio Club, where the adults would chatter away, and I’d be waiting to get home.
We’d head back, usually, at night. The return journey started at Electric House, with the 6 Ltd. Unless it was very late, in which case Dad would splurge on a taxi. As much as I dredge my memory, I don’t recall much of those return trips. I guess I slept through them, because all I recall is a blur of light and speed. In later years, I’ve come to know those sights better, as the boy-who-had-to-be-at-school-by-seven changed to the man-who-worked-into-the-wee-hours-by-choice.
And, ever so often, just for the memory, I take a bus back through the length of the city, even it means I have to change to another one to get me home, across the creek.
Published in Outlook's City Limits Mumbai, October 16th, 2006.
Tags: Outlook, Outlook City Limits Mumbai
It’s not as easy to make new friends when you’re older, in a new place; I know that now. For my parents, old pals from our home town were a link to their youth. The only such lived in Colaba and we in Chembur. And so, ever so often, we’d do our mini-expedition into South Bombay. For a middle class family, a taxi all the way was an indulgence. My brother doesn’t have the use of his legs, so the local trains, with the foot overbridges, and of course, the crowds, were too much of a hassle. So we took the bus.
The most convenient was the 8 Ltd, which then, as now, ran between Chembur’s Ambedkar Udyan and Flora Fountain. But then, the busses that plied the route were all double-deckers. The pollution, we quickly discovered, gave me blinding headaches when I travelled the lower deck. So I would be handed my ticket money and packed off to the top. (My parents and brother didn’t have the option; carrying John up the narrow stair to the top was difficult.)
Those rides were my introduction to the larger city beyond the lazy tree-lined avenues of Chembur. Over the years, I’ve got to know many other sides of this vast metropolis, but so many of those first impressions still define it for me.
Alone in the top deck, without Dad to point out the sites, I learned to orient myself in the city. Street signs were way too small to read from a moving bus; many were obscured with cloth banners and branches and, besides, the names weren’t the ones that I found on the old map I pored over, and they weren’t the ones that the conductor bellowed as he rang his bell. Commerce, on the other hand, can always be relied on for visibility. So shop signs, and even better, banks (because they put their branch names on their signage), those temples to Mammon, helped me figure out the geography of this city of money, the city Dad had moved to, to give me a better start in life.
I’d have charged to the front of the bus, of course, to pretend, when I thought that no one was looking (I was all of ten, after all) that I was the driver. With the wind blowing in my face, I’d mark off the areas we passed through: the bottleneck just before Sion, where now a flyover doesn’t seem to have helped matters; then Sion Hospital, and King’s Circle, which in all the years since, I still haven’t been in; and the broad sweep of road before Dadar’s huge traffic island; and the road narrowing again; and the confusing jumble before I found Byculla, marked by a Chinese joint visited once and forever imprinted; and then the church, and another hospital before the chaos of Mohammad Ali Road, with its fragrant set of restaurants, before VT, which was my mark to reluctantly make my way to the lower deck. And then we’d take a taxi to my parents’ friends home, within sight of Radio Club, where the adults would chatter away, and I’d be waiting to get home.
We’d head back, usually, at night. The return journey started at Electric House, with the 6 Ltd. Unless it was very late, in which case Dad would splurge on a taxi. As much as I dredge my memory, I don’t recall much of those return trips. I guess I slept through them, because all I recall is a blur of light and speed. In later years, I’ve come to know those sights better, as the boy-who-had-to-be-at-school-by-seven changed to the man-who-worked-into-the-wee-hours-by-choice.
And, ever so often, just for the memory, I take a bus back through the length of the city, even it means I have to change to another one to get me home, across the creek.
Published in Outlook's City Limits Mumbai, October 16th, 2006.
Tags: Outlook, Outlook City Limits Mumbai
Sunday, 1 October 2006
Udaya [Restaurant review]
In the days of one’s miss-spent youth in Chembur, Udaya was one of our choices for an evening out. Simple reasons, really. Dark, dingy, not too much of a mark-up on the beer, and decent chakna. All that a growing lad needs.
Life moves on, and so do we. And a decade-and-some passes. And, one day, one hears that there was this great place for aappams in the former home-burb. Further questioning reveals that it’s a respectable place near the station, called Udaya. Could it be, could it be..? And indeed it turns out that it is. A few years ago, Udaya refurbished itself, getting all bright and cheery. And has developed a reputation for excellent Kerala food. Thanks to early exposure to said cuisine, one’s response to mentions of aapams and ishtew is, very literally, Pavlovian. So, hauling in tongue, one repaired to Chembur forthwith, drinking buddy of one’s youth in tow. Beer was quaffed (purely for old times’ sake, one hastens to assure you), while waiters were commissioned. Obviously, the punjabi/mughlai/chinese sectionn was scorned, and we debated the merits of chicke, fish and mutton. And, in a bit, soft, fragrant aapams arrived, accompanied with a bowl of Irachi Ishtu (mutton stew to you and me). Heretic friend opted for Meen Urukiyathu (fish flavoured very heavily with tamarind) and Neichoru (a rather heavy rice preparation) and then proceeded to tick into my stew. The quantity, fortunately, was enough to survive his depradations, or old friendships be damned, one would have finished his beer. Yes, excellent stew it was. And you know what? The waiter told us that the place had always served Mallu food. I guess we, erm, didn’t notice back then in the day.
~ Peter Griffin
Udaya Family Restaurant
Shrama Safalya Building, Near Railway Station, Chembur, Mumbai 400071
Phone: 25214628, 25218792 (Home delivery available)
Hours: 11.00am-4.00pm - 07.00pm-12.00pm
Cuisine: Kerala. Also Chinese, Punjabi, Moghlai. Serves beer.
Published in Time Out.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
Life moves on, and so do we. And a decade-and-some passes. And, one day, one hears that there was this great place for aappams in the former home-burb. Further questioning reveals that it’s a respectable place near the station, called Udaya. Could it be, could it be..? And indeed it turns out that it is. A few years ago, Udaya refurbished itself, getting all bright and cheery. And has developed a reputation for excellent Kerala food. Thanks to early exposure to said cuisine, one’s response to mentions of aapams and ishtew is, very literally, Pavlovian. So, hauling in tongue, one repaired to Chembur forthwith, drinking buddy of one’s youth in tow. Beer was quaffed (purely for old times’ sake, one hastens to assure you), while waiters were commissioned. Obviously, the punjabi/mughlai/chinese sectionn was scorned, and we debated the merits of chicke, fish and mutton. And, in a bit, soft, fragrant aapams arrived, accompanied with a bowl of Irachi Ishtu (mutton stew to you and me). Heretic friend opted for Meen Urukiyathu (fish flavoured very heavily with tamarind) and Neichoru (a rather heavy rice preparation) and then proceeded to tick into my stew. The quantity, fortunately, was enough to survive his depradations, or old friendships be damned, one would have finished his beer. Yes, excellent stew it was. And you know what? The waiter told us that the place had always served Mallu food. I guess we, erm, didn’t notice back then in the day.
~ Peter Griffin
Udaya Family Restaurant
Shrama Safalya Building, Near Railway Station, Chembur, Mumbai 400071
Phone: 25214628, 25218792 (Home delivery available)
Hours: 11.00am-4.00pm - 07.00pm-12.00pm
Cuisine: Kerala. Also Chinese, Punjabi, Moghlai. Serves beer.
Published in Time Out.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
Tuesday, 15 August 2006
Choupal [Restaurant review]
The worst thing about Choupal is its location. You must brave the chassis-slaughtering motocross ups and downs of Turbhe naka to get to it. I kid you not. Even the large lorries from the APMC—who are the cause of the lunar landscape—slow down to a crawl as they pass, and we saw a stalled BEST bus getting a wheel replaced as we exited.
Choupal is a couple of months old, and specialises in North West Frontier cuisine. It is not a large restaurant; 12 tables for four and one larger round-table are set around a large obviously fake tree (with blatantly unrealistic foliage and weaver-bird nests). Wood and copper feature prominently in the decor—once you tear your horrified eyes from the tree, that is. And there’s live music of an evening. Big negative in a place this small. We could barely hear each other talk.
Choupal serves liquor, so you can wash the dust of the journey down while you peruse the whacking great menu, which comes in a frame. My friend drank an Aab-E-Taskeen (Rs 30), which is a sort of jeera-based drink, and I, a beer. We had decided that if it was to be frontier food, then we would concentrate on the mutton. So we glossed over the vegetarian dishes and shuddered delicately over the Chinese section (wrong frontier, chaps). We paused at the Rann (Rs 399), but regretfully concluded that an entire leg of lamb that promised to feed 5 to 6 was too much even for our massive appetites. Instead, we ordered a couple of plates of kababs as starters: a Barra Kabab (Rs 135); and a token chicken dish, Murg Angara (Rs 145). Both were delicious, succulent and not too spicy. As we finished smacking our lips over these, our main course arrived. Gustaba (Rs 145), minced meatballs in a thick gravy with a hint of sweetness to it, and Nalli Rogan Josh (Rs 145), a house specialty, mutton on the bone with the marrow, accompanied by a couple of paranthas (Rs 20 each), some slices of tomato, cucumber and onion that go by the glorified name of Baagichey Ka Salad (Rs 49), and a Ghosht Dum Biriyani (Rs 155). The paranthas were a mistake—too oily, a dryer naan would have gone better with the meat and gravy—but the Gustaba was good, and the Nalli was excellent, with the tender meat falling easily from the bone, and the marrow yielding to a most genteel sucking. The biriyani was fragrant and well-cooked, with generous chunks of meat. Most of the dessert menu was unavailable, thanks to a chef being on leave, so I couldn’t try the intriguingly-named Benaami Kheer, and had to settle instead for a Gajar Halwa (rs 55), which wasn’t anything to write home about. My pal ordered a Gulab Jamun Kesari (Rs 55), which came to the table piping hot—and tasted bloody awful.
The Verdict. Ambience, passable, and the tree is a good for a few jokes, though they should really dispense with the music. Very attentive and helpful wait-staff. Good food, decent portions, but the desserts seem avoidable. There’s a 10% service charge on your bill (I’m biased against restaurants which do that), but it’s not too heavy on the pocket. We ran up a much larger bill, because we were experimenting (and, erm, we’re gluttons) but you should be able to get a meal for two moderate eaters for between five and seven hundred rupees. My pal plans to take his wife and daughters there soon, so, yes, it’s worth risking the Turbhe road to eat here.
Choupal, in Centre Point, Dc1, TTC Industrial Area, Turbhe, Navi Mumbai. 27683311/22.
Published in the Time Out Mumbai. XXth XXXX, 2006.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
Choupal is a couple of months old, and specialises in North West Frontier cuisine. It is not a large restaurant; 12 tables for four and one larger round-table are set around a large obviously fake tree (with blatantly unrealistic foliage and weaver-bird nests). Wood and copper feature prominently in the decor—once you tear your horrified eyes from the tree, that is. And there’s live music of an evening. Big negative in a place this small. We could barely hear each other talk.
Choupal serves liquor, so you can wash the dust of the journey down while you peruse the whacking great menu, which comes in a frame. My friend drank an Aab-E-Taskeen (Rs 30), which is a sort of jeera-based drink, and I, a beer. We had decided that if it was to be frontier food, then we would concentrate on the mutton. So we glossed over the vegetarian dishes and shuddered delicately over the Chinese section (wrong frontier, chaps). We paused at the Rann (Rs 399), but regretfully concluded that an entire leg of lamb that promised to feed 5 to 6 was too much even for our massive appetites. Instead, we ordered a couple of plates of kababs as starters: a Barra Kabab (Rs 135); and a token chicken dish, Murg Angara (Rs 145). Both were delicious, succulent and not too spicy. As we finished smacking our lips over these, our main course arrived. Gustaba (Rs 145), minced meatballs in a thick gravy with a hint of sweetness to it, and Nalli Rogan Josh (Rs 145), a house specialty, mutton on the bone with the marrow, accompanied by a couple of paranthas (Rs 20 each), some slices of tomato, cucumber and onion that go by the glorified name of Baagichey Ka Salad (Rs 49), and a Ghosht Dum Biriyani (Rs 155). The paranthas were a mistake—too oily, a dryer naan would have gone better with the meat and gravy—but the Gustaba was good, and the Nalli was excellent, with the tender meat falling easily from the bone, and the marrow yielding to a most genteel sucking. The biriyani was fragrant and well-cooked, with generous chunks of meat. Most of the dessert menu was unavailable, thanks to a chef being on leave, so I couldn’t try the intriguingly-named Benaami Kheer, and had to settle instead for a Gajar Halwa (rs 55), which wasn’t anything to write home about. My pal ordered a Gulab Jamun Kesari (Rs 55), which came to the table piping hot—and tasted bloody awful.
The Verdict. Ambience, passable, and the tree is a good for a few jokes, though they should really dispense with the music. Very attentive and helpful wait-staff. Good food, decent portions, but the desserts seem avoidable. There’s a 10% service charge on your bill (I’m biased against restaurants which do that), but it’s not too heavy on the pocket. We ran up a much larger bill, because we were experimenting (and, erm, we’re gluttons) but you should be able to get a meal for two moderate eaters for between five and seven hundred rupees. My pal plans to take his wife and daughters there soon, so, yes, it’s worth risking the Turbhe road to eat here.
Choupal, in Centre Point, Dc1, TTC Industrial Area, Turbhe, Navi Mumbai. 27683311/22.
Published in the Time Out Mumbai. XXth XXXX, 2006.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
Friday, 14 July 2006
Flavour of Kolkatta [Restaurant Review]
Flavour of Kolkata seems to be in some sort of identity crisis. Under the parent brand, it squeezes in Chowringhee, for Bengali food, Shahi Darbar (Mughlai), Tangra (Chinese), Southern Avenue (South Indian) and Aadda (Cal street food).
But, we learn, it is a food court in a mall, so I ignore my allergy to multi-cuisine food vendors—all the food is suspect, we think—and on the grounds that (a) it would be the most genuine, (b) I’m partial to fish and nuts about mishti, (c) the Anglo-Indian blood has to show up somewhere and (c) my parents honeymooned in Cal, we plumped for the Chowringhee menu.
It’s a bit of the beaten track. Correction. Make that bang on the beaten, rutted lunar landscape of a track that passes for a road between Vashi and Turbhe. The trucks that keep the Agricultural Produce Marketing Committee (APMC) Market stocked are not kind to the asphalt. So getting here can be a bit of a spondylitis-inducer.
It had been pouring non-stop for a few days, and it was late at night on a weekday, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves. A quick telecon with our Bong food oracle later, we ordered a mutton chop (Rs80) and a Chicken Kabiragee (Rs85) as starters.
The chop (which I would have called a cutlet) was a bit too mirchified for my taste buds, but one is assured that this is the real thing. The chicken was pure cholesterol—a large chunk of chicken in a lacy eggligé, and oily—and heavy, and could well have been in the main course section.
Yes. The main course. Pabda Sorse (Rs165), fish cooked in mustard had, to my palate, way too much mustard. The “butter fish” was soft and delicate, but completely overwhelmed by its flavouring. Our big indulgence, the Crab Jhol (Rs500), was we concluded, overpriced but good. A large crab that required much wrist action with that thing you use to break crab shells up when you’re trying to be dignified. Better by far to abandon pretense and eat with both hands, no? My personal favourite: the Daab Chingri (Rs205), prawns in a coconut milk gravy, cooked and served in the tender coconut shell; succulent prawns, just a hint of sweetness in the gravy. I almost forgot. Our token veg dish was a first time experience for me: banana flowers, or Mochaar Ghanto (Rs105) was very nice indeed. Desert had to be Mishti Doi (Rs45) of course. I can never get enough of the stuff.
Overall, the food is worth the visit, and the ambience adds to the experience. The staff (Bengali to a man we were told) are extremely helpful with menu choices, and attentive. Bengali songs played softly through our meal. They also offer a membership scheme: fill out a form, and you get a card which entitles you to discounts on subsequent visits.
~ Peter Griffin
Chowringhee, in Flavour of Kolkata food court, City Mall, B-1016 (on the road to Turbhe, past the APMC), Sector 19, Vashi, Navi Mumbai 400703. Ph: 2783 2773 / 2738, 8716. tr&h@hotmail.com. Make a reservation on the weekend. You should get a table without a problem at any other time.
Published in Time Out, Mumbai, 14th July edition.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
But, we learn, it is a food court in a mall, so I ignore my allergy to multi-cuisine food vendors—all the food is suspect, we think—and on the grounds that (a) it would be the most genuine, (b) I’m partial to fish and nuts about mishti, (c) the Anglo-Indian blood has to show up somewhere and (c) my parents honeymooned in Cal, we plumped for the Chowringhee menu.
It’s a bit of the beaten track. Correction. Make that bang on the beaten, rutted lunar landscape of a track that passes for a road between Vashi and Turbhe. The trucks that keep the Agricultural Produce Marketing Committee (APMC) Market stocked are not kind to the asphalt. So getting here can be a bit of a spondylitis-inducer.
It had been pouring non-stop for a few days, and it was late at night on a weekday, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves. A quick telecon with our Bong food oracle later, we ordered a mutton chop (Rs80) and a Chicken Kabiragee (Rs85) as starters.
The chop (which I would have called a cutlet) was a bit too mirchified for my taste buds, but one is assured that this is the real thing. The chicken was pure cholesterol—a large chunk of chicken in a lacy eggligé, and oily—and heavy, and could well have been in the main course section.
Yes. The main course. Pabda Sorse (Rs165), fish cooked in mustard had, to my palate, way too much mustard. The “butter fish” was soft and delicate, but completely overwhelmed by its flavouring. Our big indulgence, the Crab Jhol (Rs500), was we concluded, overpriced but good. A large crab that required much wrist action with that thing you use to break crab shells up when you’re trying to be dignified. Better by far to abandon pretense and eat with both hands, no? My personal favourite: the Daab Chingri (Rs205), prawns in a coconut milk gravy, cooked and served in the tender coconut shell; succulent prawns, just a hint of sweetness in the gravy. I almost forgot. Our token veg dish was a first time experience for me: banana flowers, or Mochaar Ghanto (Rs105) was very nice indeed. Desert had to be Mishti Doi (Rs45) of course. I can never get enough of the stuff.
Overall, the food is worth the visit, and the ambience adds to the experience. The staff (Bengali to a man we were told) are extremely helpful with menu choices, and attentive. Bengali songs played softly through our meal. They also offer a membership scheme: fill out a form, and you get a card which entitles you to discounts on subsequent visits.
~ Peter Griffin
Chowringhee, in Flavour of Kolkata food court, City Mall, B-1016 (on the road to Turbhe, past the APMC), Sector 19, Vashi, Navi Mumbai 400703. Ph: 2783 2773 / 2738, 8716. tr&h@hotmail.com. Make a reservation on the weekend. You should get a table without a problem at any other time.
Published in Time Out, Mumbai, 14th July edition.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
Saturday, 1 July 2006
Bright Lights, Wet City
Our passion for the monsoon took a bit of a beating last year. There’s something about 944 millimetres of rain in a matter of a few hours that can, um, dampen one’s ardour.
The memories—of flooded houses, possessions irretrievably damaged, of trudging for hours through a murky soup of sewage and rain water, of being stranded in offices, busses and God knows where else, some of us for days—have faded away over a pleasant winter (yes, ye shivering snobs from the north, we know it’s hardly a winter, but we’re proud of it, so there) and a scorching, sweaty summer. But for many of us, the first rain this year didn’t bring on the usual grins of delight. Instead, there were quickened pulses, a what-if tension in the air. Worried calls were made, family and friends checked on. Though once we knew all was well, we got back to our favourite monsoon hobby: swearing at the municipality.
But we’re losing the plot.
Let’s start again.
We luhrve our monsoon. We adore how it unceremoniously interrupts summer, flushing the grime out of our buildings and our trees, washing away the smog. We coo over that special fresh green of new leaves, new grass, new weeds (we’re not picky, as long as it’s green). We joyfully anticipate fewer water cuts as our lakes fill up, and, perhaps, less load shedding.
And we smile indulgently when petulant out-of-towners ask what there is to do in this blasted city when it’s pouring. Come, sit down. A nice hot adhrak chai while we chat?
We have a lot to offer you, we do, from the sastha-sundar-tikao (roughly translated Bambaiya for “simple and won’t kill you”) to the mildly expensive or somewhat loony. Caveat: you won’t find much here about the lives of the very rich—much the same all year, one ACed environment to the next—or the very poor, for whom the rains are even more misery. This is a largely middle class list, my own favourite indulgences plus the recommendations of friends.
On, then, with the show.
If you have time for only one monsoon indulgence in Bombay, you must do this: walk in the rain along one of the seaside promenades. Marine Drive for choice, where waves smash against tetrapods, exultations of foam and salt splashing twenty, thirty feet into the air, the spray hurled over the retaining wall by the wind, drenching anyone in the vicinity, reaching as far as the other side of the road. There is no experience more quintessentially Bombay In The Rains than that.
Reasonable facsimiles of this can also be had at Worli Sea Face, and at Bandra’s Carter Road or Bandstand. If you’d prefer wet sand under your feet instead of pavement, head to one of the chowpattys: the northern end of Marine Drive, or Dadar or Juhu. (Stay out of the water, it can be dangerous. Foolhardy people die there every year.) Or wander around near Powai Lake, beautiful any time of the year for water without the wave action.
If you’d rather not walk, take a bus! Get a top deck seat right in front, on the BEST’s route 123. It starts in Colaba, hits Marine Drive near Churchgate, and traces its length all the way to Wilson College, carrying on from there to Naik Chowk (near Grant Road station). From where you can take the same route back. The 108 between VT and Kamala Nehru Park, via the entire length of Marine Drive from Nariman Point to Walkeshwar, is worth a ride too, though it’s a single decker. Bonus: it takes you to Hanging Gardens, another beautiful place to watch the rain: Chowpatty below you, and the curve of Marine Drive stretching out; you know the rain is on its way when Nariman Point disappears from view. At nine bucks per head for the entire route, these are the cheapest joy rides in Bombay. No, wait, any rainy afternoon, after the morning commuter madness is done, and before the evening return match, take a Harbour line train from Mankhurd and stand at the door all the way across the creek to Vashi. Get off, come back. Repeat. Check pulse. See? Lower already.
What about slightly longer diversions?
One classic city getaway is the Aarey Colony, near Goregaon. Green through the year, it is particularly lovely in the rains. Get thee to the area halfway in, called Chota Kashmir, where you can frolic on the grass, picnic, even row a boat on a little lake. Or just stop by for a chai at one of the stalls.
In Thane, the Yeoor Hills area on the fringes of the National Park is dotted with hotels and restaurants which, during the monsoon, get brisk custom from people out for a drive in the rain.
New Bombay, fringed with hills, offers many delights for the nature lover. Short drives out and off the beaten track can take you to small waterfalls, ponds and much greenery. Carry a plastic groundsheet if you’re finicky about getting muddy, stow some towels in the car and go find yourself a picnic spot.
For the more energetic, the waterfalls at Chinchoti and Tungareshwar near Vasai in the North are hugely popular day-trips during the rains, and will mean a bit of a hike before you get to the falls. If you’re feeling energetic, the rains are also when hiking season starts in the city. Most weekends see energetic groups of all descriptions heading off by the last train on Saturday night or pre-dawn on Sunday, out to the nearer ghats, where they will spend the day clambering joyously up hill and down dale, getting wet. It’s really the only time when these hills are remotely friendly; they’re hot, desiccated and brown the rest of the year, but now they’re green, waterfalls are everywhere, birds chirrup... you get the picture.
Of course, walk, ride or wade, you must eat.
Buttas for choice, corn-on-the-cob roasted over hot coals as you wait, then smeared with lime and chilly powder. Or the city’s signature snack, the vada-pau, mashed potato balls spiked with bits of chilly, coated in batter and fried, then slipped into the bread, with lashings of chilly powder. Or bhajiyas, if you prefer them, batter-fried onion or potato slices usually, but also spinach, whole chillies, even slices of bread. There’s the rest of the panoply of the city’s street food, of course, but careful about bhelpuri, panipuri and the like—they’re not cooked on the spot, and water-borne diseases are a real danger in the monsoon months. Tea to wash it down, bambaiya-style cutting chai, over-boiled, over-sweet. (Avoid the sugarcane juice: jaundice lies that way.) Everybody swears by a different area or vendor for the best munchies, so I won’t name names here. Ask around; you’ll be spoiled for choice.
Prefer to sit someplace comfy while you eat and a snack, while you watch the rain?
If you’re picky about the view, a personal favourite is Samovar, at the Jehangir Art Gallery: open on one side, looking on to the Museum grounds. Tea by the pot, or beer, excellent food and snacks (try the mutton samosas). The management is fighting a court case, and if things don’t work out, this city landmark may just down shutters, so go soon!
Aside from that... Cafe Sea Side at Bandra Bandstand is beautifully located and won’t break the bank. The coffee franchises have a few good well-positioned outlets too—Cafe Coffee Day at Carter Road, Bandra, and the Barista at Bandra Bandstand are the best, in my opinion.
When you’ve managed to get drenched and have picked up a sniffle, head over to one of the South Indian restaurants around King’s Circle and Sion for some sinus-clearing rasam (and of course wonderful dosas and other good stuff). Or look for red carts with pseudo-Chinese brushstroke signboards proclaiming names like Hungry Eys and down a bowl of soup China has never heard of.
Strictly carnivorous? Paya soup at Saarvi, near Naigaum police station, Biryani at City Cafe, or kababs and naans at any Muslim restaurant in Mohammad Ali, Bombay Central, Mahim or Bandra. They tend to be open enough for you to watch the rain while you pig out. A roadside kababwalla is even better; you can warm your hands over the coals while your kababs are being done.
What if you’re with that special someone, or on an expense account, and have an itchy credit card? The 5-star options: in South Bombay, The Sea Lounge at the Taj, the Oberoi’s coffee shop, the Dome at the Intercontinental all give you achingly beautiful sea-and-rain panoramas; likewise, restaurants at the Taj Land’s End and Searock (a friend swears by their Arabian Lounge) in Bandra, and most of the Juhu beachfront hotels (the coffee shop at the J W Marriott has the best view).
Oh yes. An editor not unconnected to this magazine speaks fondly of popping across the creek for lunch at Admiral Pereira’s Uran Plaza. Not as impossible as it sounds. Simply call them up first to see what’s on the menu (the Admiral gently brags that his kitchen can give you anything from daal chaval to Lobster Thermidore). Then head to Bhaucha Dhakka (Ferry Wharf), where a boat will get you across in an hour or thereabouts. Except for the boats for Uran, Mora and JNPT, the other ferry services don’t operate during the monsoon, so sailing further South isn’t an option.
But there are times when you want to get away from the city’s bustle.
For a slice of the beach-in-the-rains experience, within city limits, but in the North-Western corner, there’s The Resort at Aksa and The Retreat at Erangal, who will give you the 5-star treatment. U-tan (at Uttan), Manoribel, Domonica’s Beach Resort and Domonica Hotel (Manori) and a slew of cottages at Gorai will lighten your wallet far less.
Or you could drive to the mainland beaches, Alibag, Kihim, Kashid and Murud to the South, or Dahanu or Daman Northwards. Cottages and holiday homes abound. And private homes are available for short stays.
For a little hill air, take a train, bus or drive to Khandala, Lonavala or Matheran, or closer by, the Karnala Bird Sanctuary, on the road to Goa. Or drive to Malshej, park near a convenient waterfall, and get wet!
Whatever it is you decide to do when you’re visiting Urbs Prima in Indus, you may find that friends in the city seem reluctant to join you in your explorations, claiming bad traffic or ill health. Fact is, for most of us, the sweetest thought of all is staying home when it’s really coming down in buckets. A pot of tea, or a hot, spiced brandy (boil water with cinnamon, cloves and pepper corns, add a little honey, brandy to taste, sip slowly), something just-fried, a good book or a DVD, feet up, listening to the rain, knowing you don’t have to venture out... That, my energetic friend, is Bambaiya Heaven.
Info
BEST route finder: bestundertaking.com/transport/index.htm, or IIT Bombay’s Mumbai Navigator, cse.iitb.ac.in/navigator/index.html.
Nature walks and camps with experts: Bombay Natural History Society (weekends): 22821811, bnhs@bom4.vsnl.net.in, bnhs.org or World Wide Fund For Nature (monthly hikes): 22071970, wwfindia.org
Weekend hikes in the ghats and other outdoor activity: Wanderstruck: 9820552995, wander@bom5.vsnl.net.in. India Outdoors: 24186360, info@indiaoutdoors.com, indiaoutdoors.com. Outbound Adventure: 26315019, outboundadventure@hotmail.com, outboundadventure.com, Odati Adventures: 9820079802, odati@vsnl.com, odati.com
Uran Plaza: 27222318 (resort), 28510731 (city).
U-tan: 28451151, 28452345 (resort); 26206063, 26282653 (city booking), utan@rediffmail.com, u-tan.com
Manoribel: 28452806/7/8/9 (resort); 22691301, 22692108 (city booking), manoribel@vsnl.net, manoribel.com
Domonica’s Beach Resort: 28452163, 28452178 (resort); 24462161, 24469735 (city booking).
Domonica Hotel: 28452643, 28452280.
MTDC: 2202 6713 / 7762 / 4627, maharashtratourism.gov.in
Little Chef’s Danny Denson is an agent who can fix you up with a beach house for a few days in the Alibag-Murud stretch: 9850239157, danden47@rediffmail.com.
Add “022” for calls from India, but out of Bombay. Add “+9122” or “009122” for calls from outside India.
-x-x-x-
For the party animal, pubs and discotheques function as normal, but there is one genus that is monsoon specific. Each year there’s bound to be at least one rain dance somewhere in the ’burbs. A large open-air venue, whatever music is popular at that very second, played very loud, and dancing in the rain and slush. And if the weather gods don’t play ball? No problem. The organisers help things along with sprinklers and hoses.
Published in Outlook Traveller, July 2006 issue.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
The memories—of flooded houses, possessions irretrievably damaged, of trudging for hours through a murky soup of sewage and rain water, of being stranded in offices, busses and God knows where else, some of us for days—have faded away over a pleasant winter (yes, ye shivering snobs from the north, we know it’s hardly a winter, but we’re proud of it, so there) and a scorching, sweaty summer. But for many of us, the first rain this year didn’t bring on the usual grins of delight. Instead, there were quickened pulses, a what-if tension in the air. Worried calls were made, family and friends checked on. Though once we knew all was well, we got back to our favourite monsoon hobby: swearing at the municipality.
But we’re losing the plot.
Let’s start again.
We luhrve our monsoon. We adore how it unceremoniously interrupts summer, flushing the grime out of our buildings and our trees, washing away the smog. We coo over that special fresh green of new leaves, new grass, new weeds (we’re not picky, as long as it’s green). We joyfully anticipate fewer water cuts as our lakes fill up, and, perhaps, less load shedding.
And we smile indulgently when petulant out-of-towners ask what there is to do in this blasted city when it’s pouring. Come, sit down. A nice hot adhrak chai while we chat?
We have a lot to offer you, we do, from the sastha-sundar-tikao (roughly translated Bambaiya for “simple and won’t kill you”) to the mildly expensive or somewhat loony. Caveat: you won’t find much here about the lives of the very rich—much the same all year, one ACed environment to the next—or the very poor, for whom the rains are even more misery. This is a largely middle class list, my own favourite indulgences plus the recommendations of friends.
On, then, with the show.
-x-x-x-
If you have time for only one monsoon indulgence in Bombay, you must do this: walk in the rain along one of the seaside promenades. Marine Drive for choice, where waves smash against tetrapods, exultations of foam and salt splashing twenty, thirty feet into the air, the spray hurled over the retaining wall by the wind, drenching anyone in the vicinity, reaching as far as the other side of the road. There is no experience more quintessentially Bombay In The Rains than that.
Reasonable facsimiles of this can also be had at Worli Sea Face, and at Bandra’s Carter Road or Bandstand. If you’d prefer wet sand under your feet instead of pavement, head to one of the chowpattys: the northern end of Marine Drive, or Dadar or Juhu. (Stay out of the water, it can be dangerous. Foolhardy people die there every year.) Or wander around near Powai Lake, beautiful any time of the year for water without the wave action.
If you’d rather not walk, take a bus! Get a top deck seat right in front, on the BEST’s route 123. It starts in Colaba, hits Marine Drive near Churchgate, and traces its length all the way to Wilson College, carrying on from there to Naik Chowk (near Grant Road station). From where you can take the same route back. The 108 between VT and Kamala Nehru Park, via the entire length of Marine Drive from Nariman Point to Walkeshwar, is worth a ride too, though it’s a single decker. Bonus: it takes you to Hanging Gardens, another beautiful place to watch the rain: Chowpatty below you, and the curve of Marine Drive stretching out; you know the rain is on its way when Nariman Point disappears from view. At nine bucks per head for the entire route, these are the cheapest joy rides in Bombay. No, wait, any rainy afternoon, after the morning commuter madness is done, and before the evening return match, take a Harbour line train from Mankhurd and stand at the door all the way across the creek to Vashi. Get off, come back. Repeat. Check pulse. See? Lower already.
-x-x-x-
What about slightly longer diversions?
One classic city getaway is the Aarey Colony, near Goregaon. Green through the year, it is particularly lovely in the rains. Get thee to the area halfway in, called Chota Kashmir, where you can frolic on the grass, picnic, even row a boat on a little lake. Or just stop by for a chai at one of the stalls.
In Thane, the Yeoor Hills area on the fringes of the National Park is dotted with hotels and restaurants which, during the monsoon, get brisk custom from people out for a drive in the rain.
New Bombay, fringed with hills, offers many delights for the nature lover. Short drives out and off the beaten track can take you to small waterfalls, ponds and much greenery. Carry a plastic groundsheet if you’re finicky about getting muddy, stow some towels in the car and go find yourself a picnic spot.
For the more energetic, the waterfalls at Chinchoti and Tungareshwar near Vasai in the North are hugely popular day-trips during the rains, and will mean a bit of a hike before you get to the falls. If you’re feeling energetic, the rains are also when hiking season starts in the city. Most weekends see energetic groups of all descriptions heading off by the last train on Saturday night or pre-dawn on Sunday, out to the nearer ghats, where they will spend the day clambering joyously up hill and down dale, getting wet. It’s really the only time when these hills are remotely friendly; they’re hot, desiccated and brown the rest of the year, but now they’re green, waterfalls are everywhere, birds chirrup... you get the picture.
-x-x-x-
Of course, walk, ride or wade, you must eat.
Buttas for choice, corn-on-the-cob roasted over hot coals as you wait, then smeared with lime and chilly powder. Or the city’s signature snack, the vada-pau, mashed potato balls spiked with bits of chilly, coated in batter and fried, then slipped into the bread, with lashings of chilly powder. Or bhajiyas, if you prefer them, batter-fried onion or potato slices usually, but also spinach, whole chillies, even slices of bread. There’s the rest of the panoply of the city’s street food, of course, but careful about bhelpuri, panipuri and the like—they’re not cooked on the spot, and water-borne diseases are a real danger in the monsoon months. Tea to wash it down, bambaiya-style cutting chai, over-boiled, over-sweet. (Avoid the sugarcane juice: jaundice lies that way.) Everybody swears by a different area or vendor for the best munchies, so I won’t name names here. Ask around; you’ll be spoiled for choice.
Prefer to sit someplace comfy while you eat and a snack, while you watch the rain?
If you’re picky about the view, a personal favourite is Samovar, at the Jehangir Art Gallery: open on one side, looking on to the Museum grounds. Tea by the pot, or beer, excellent food and snacks (try the mutton samosas). The management is fighting a court case, and if things don’t work out, this city landmark may just down shutters, so go soon!
Aside from that... Cafe Sea Side at Bandra Bandstand is beautifully located and won’t break the bank. The coffee franchises have a few good well-positioned outlets too—Cafe Coffee Day at Carter Road, Bandra, and the Barista at Bandra Bandstand are the best, in my opinion.
When you’ve managed to get drenched and have picked up a sniffle, head over to one of the South Indian restaurants around King’s Circle and Sion for some sinus-clearing rasam (and of course wonderful dosas and other good stuff). Or look for red carts with pseudo-Chinese brushstroke signboards proclaiming names like Hungry Eys and down a bowl of soup China has never heard of.
Strictly carnivorous? Paya soup at Saarvi, near Naigaum police station, Biryani at City Cafe, or kababs and naans at any Muslim restaurant in Mohammad Ali, Bombay Central, Mahim or Bandra. They tend to be open enough for you to watch the rain while you pig out. A roadside kababwalla is even better; you can warm your hands over the coals while your kababs are being done.
What if you’re with that special someone, or on an expense account, and have an itchy credit card? The 5-star options: in South Bombay, The Sea Lounge at the Taj, the Oberoi’s coffee shop, the Dome at the Intercontinental all give you achingly beautiful sea-and-rain panoramas; likewise, restaurants at the Taj Land’s End and Searock (a friend swears by their Arabian Lounge) in Bandra, and most of the Juhu beachfront hotels (the coffee shop at the J W Marriott has the best view).
Oh yes. An editor not unconnected to this magazine speaks fondly of popping across the creek for lunch at Admiral Pereira’s Uran Plaza. Not as impossible as it sounds. Simply call them up first to see what’s on the menu (the Admiral gently brags that his kitchen can give you anything from daal chaval to Lobster Thermidore). Then head to Bhaucha Dhakka (Ferry Wharf), where a boat will get you across in an hour or thereabouts. Except for the boats for Uran, Mora and JNPT, the other ferry services don’t operate during the monsoon, so sailing further South isn’t an option.
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But there are times when you want to get away from the city’s bustle.
For a slice of the beach-in-the-rains experience, within city limits, but in the North-Western corner, there’s The Resort at Aksa and The Retreat at Erangal, who will give you the 5-star treatment. U-tan (at Uttan), Manoribel, Domonica’s Beach Resort and Domonica Hotel (Manori) and a slew of cottages at Gorai will lighten your wallet far less.
Or you could drive to the mainland beaches, Alibag, Kihim, Kashid and Murud to the South, or Dahanu or Daman Northwards. Cottages and holiday homes abound. And private homes are available for short stays.
For a little hill air, take a train, bus or drive to Khandala, Lonavala or Matheran, or closer by, the Karnala Bird Sanctuary, on the road to Goa. Or drive to Malshej, park near a convenient waterfall, and get wet!
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Whatever it is you decide to do when you’re visiting Urbs Prima in Indus, you may find that friends in the city seem reluctant to join you in your explorations, claiming bad traffic or ill health. Fact is, for most of us, the sweetest thought of all is staying home when it’s really coming down in buckets. A pot of tea, or a hot, spiced brandy (boil water with cinnamon, cloves and pepper corns, add a little honey, brandy to taste, sip slowly), something just-fried, a good book or a DVD, feet up, listening to the rain, knowing you don’t have to venture out... That, my energetic friend, is Bambaiya Heaven.
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Info
BEST route finder: bestundertaking.com/transport/index.htm, or IIT Bombay’s Mumbai Navigator, cse.iitb.ac.in/navigator/index.html.
Nature walks and camps with experts: Bombay Natural History Society (weekends): 22821811, bnhs@bom4.vsnl.net.in, bnhs.org or World Wide Fund For Nature (monthly hikes): 22071970, wwfindia.org
Weekend hikes in the ghats and other outdoor activity: Wanderstruck: 9820552995, wander@bom5.vsnl.net.in. India Outdoors: 24186360, info@indiaoutdoors.com, indiaoutdoors.com. Outbound Adventure: 26315019, outboundadventure@hotmail.com, outboundadventure.com, Odati Adventures: 9820079802, odati@vsnl.com, odati.com
Uran Plaza: 27222318 (resort), 28510731 (city).
U-tan: 28451151, 28452345 (resort); 26206063, 26282653 (city booking), utan@rediffmail.com, u-tan.com
Manoribel: 28452806/7/8/9 (resort); 22691301, 22692108 (city booking), manoribel@vsnl.net, manoribel.com
Domonica’s Beach Resort: 28452163, 28452178 (resort); 24462161, 24469735 (city booking).
Domonica Hotel: 28452643, 28452280.
MTDC: 2202 6713 / 7762 / 4627, maharashtratourism.gov.in
Little Chef’s Danny Denson is an agent who can fix you up with a beach house for a few days in the Alibag-Murud stretch: 9850239157, danden47@rediffmail.com.
Add “022” for calls from India, but out of Bombay. Add “+9122” or “009122” for calls from outside India.
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For the party animal, pubs and discotheques function as normal, but there is one genus that is monsoon specific. Each year there’s bound to be at least one rain dance somewhere in the ’burbs. A large open-air venue, whatever music is popular at that very second, played very loud, and dancing in the rain and slush. And if the weather gods don’t play ball? No problem. The organisers help things along with sprinklers and hoses.
Published in Outlook Traveller, July 2006 issue.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
Wednesday, 14 June 2006
Jai Hind and Janata
Bandra is pretty much the restaurant hub of the city, with, arguably, more restaurants tables per square foot than a food court in a mall. New ones seem to open every second week, each one out-exoticising the last.
Amidst all the quite literally flavour-of-the-month joints with their fancy menus, some old favourites are still holding firm. In the bustle of the bottle-neck of Pali Market, two of them have faced each other amicably for years.
Both restaurants are hugely popular, but have kept their prices modest. You’d be hard-pressed to find an item much over fifty rupees a serving, and except for a few “chicken full” dishes, there’s nothing over a hundred bucks. You could have a very decent meal for around Rs 70–80 per stomach in either place. And no, despite the prices, neither is a dive—female patrons aplenty, though in one of them, they’re unlikely to be without a male or two in the party.
Jaihind Lunch Home is the smaller of the two—twenty diner simultaneously who aren’t very fond of each other would lead to overflow—and has the shorter menu. It concentrates on food from the Konkan coast, largely sea food, and does it very well indeed. Connoisseurs recommend it highly, and its modest, no fripperies décor has given it a kind of reverse snob cachet. There’s usually a wait before you get a table at peak hours, and that isn’t just because of the size of the premises.
Across the road, Janata Lunch Home is much larger, with several sections, including two with air-con up the narrow stairs. It is better known as a bar (and in the bad old days of, oh, a few years ago, one that stayed open well into the wee hours, thereby gaining a loyal media clientele). They do good sea food here as well, augmented with the many varieties of greasy finger food beloved by drinkers. It also stays open later, though not, alas, past legal drinking hours any more. Many’s the day I’ve scrambled over to get a quick bite after other restaurants in the area have closed for business. This is usually when I have more work to do, so I don’t drink. Inevitably, a former advertising colleague will pass by on the way out (or more usually, in), grin a greeting, notice the bottle-less table and do a double-take: “You came here to eat?”
While on the booze, Janata doesn’t have a huge mark-up over MRP, and is available by the quarter as well as per drink or per bottle.
The last time I was there to drink, I was tagging along with several friends, helping a certain Award-winning Author celebrate the award he’d just won. He had a rather large cheque in his pocket, and was in an expansive mood. “Chivas,” he said to the waiter. Much conferring happened among the staff, and a worried emissary came back to ask, “Quarter?” Our Author waved a casual hand, indicating that he would like the Maximum, naturally, a full bottle. Dubious looks were exchanged by the waiters; writers do not, apparently, inspire confidence. Or perhaps it was the two editors at our table. But a bottle was brought to us, and toasts were drunk. And I did notice a certain relief on the face of the waiter when the bill was paid. In cash. Good ol’ Janata. Never change!
Published in the Times of India, Mumbai edition, 14th June, 2006, a part of the Mission Mumbai series. This one was about "no-frills eateries that stick to the noble business of producing food for every mood."
Also, a correction. Naresh Fernandes reminded me after this was published that the celebratory bottle was Vat 69, not Chivas. Blame it on the liquor.
Tags: The Times of India
Amidst all the quite literally flavour-of-the-month joints with their fancy menus, some old favourites are still holding firm. In the bustle of the bottle-neck of Pali Market, two of them have faced each other amicably for years.
Both restaurants are hugely popular, but have kept their prices modest. You’d be hard-pressed to find an item much over fifty rupees a serving, and except for a few “chicken full” dishes, there’s nothing over a hundred bucks. You could have a very decent meal for around Rs 70–80 per stomach in either place. And no, despite the prices, neither is a dive—female patrons aplenty, though in one of them, they’re unlikely to be without a male or two in the party.
Jaihind Lunch Home is the smaller of the two—twenty diner simultaneously who aren’t very fond of each other would lead to overflow—and has the shorter menu. It concentrates on food from the Konkan coast, largely sea food, and does it very well indeed. Connoisseurs recommend it highly, and its modest, no fripperies décor has given it a kind of reverse snob cachet. There’s usually a wait before you get a table at peak hours, and that isn’t just because of the size of the premises.
Across the road, Janata Lunch Home is much larger, with several sections, including two with air-con up the narrow stairs. It is better known as a bar (and in the bad old days of, oh, a few years ago, one that stayed open well into the wee hours, thereby gaining a loyal media clientele). They do good sea food here as well, augmented with the many varieties of greasy finger food beloved by drinkers. It also stays open later, though not, alas, past legal drinking hours any more. Many’s the day I’ve scrambled over to get a quick bite after other restaurants in the area have closed for business. This is usually when I have more work to do, so I don’t drink. Inevitably, a former advertising colleague will pass by on the way out (or more usually, in), grin a greeting, notice the bottle-less table and do a double-take: “You came here to eat?”
While on the booze, Janata doesn’t have a huge mark-up over MRP, and is available by the quarter as well as per drink or per bottle.
The last time I was there to drink, I was tagging along with several friends, helping a certain Award-winning Author celebrate the award he’d just won. He had a rather large cheque in his pocket, and was in an expansive mood. “Chivas,” he said to the waiter. Much conferring happened among the staff, and a worried emissary came back to ask, “Quarter?” Our Author waved a casual hand, indicating that he would like the Maximum, naturally, a full bottle. Dubious looks were exchanged by the waiters; writers do not, apparently, inspire confidence. Or perhaps it was the two editors at our table. But a bottle was brought to us, and toasts were drunk. And I did notice a certain relief on the face of the waiter when the bill was paid. In cash. Good ol’ Janata. Never change!
Published in the Times of India, Mumbai edition, 14th June, 2006, a part of the Mission Mumbai series. This one was about "no-frills eateries that stick to the noble business of producing food for every mood."
Also, a correction. Naresh Fernandes reminded me after this was published that the celebratory bottle was Vat 69, not Chivas. Blame it on the liquor.
Tags: The Times of India
Sunday, 21 May 2006
Golden Wok [Restaurant Review]
What, I ask the captain, would he recommend? He looks puzzled. I rephrase. What’s popular, special kya hai? He hesitates. The place is still very new, he confides, and they haven’t quite figured out. Charming.
But true, that. The place has only been around since the beginning of April. And not too soon for me. Vashi and its environs, as far as I know, had only one Chinese restaurant which doesn’t pander to the Hindi-Chini-Bhai-Bhai palate, so I’m here with high hopes.
Atmosphere? Golden Wok is spacious, but uncluttered – two floors, ten tables on top, eight below. Not a red wall or a paper lantern in sight, though there are a few vaguely oriental prints on the walls, and spotlit shelves have little pots and thingummies as thematic concessions. Next to our table, nestled in a large urn, is one of those tennis-racquet-shaped thingies that electrocute bugs while improving your backhand. Way too much shiny glass for my taste, even, for some strange reason, a very large mirror covering one wall. But the cacophony that could result from all those hard reflective surfaces is muted by the sound of an indoor waterfall, and 80s disco music, played softly enough to be inoffensive. The seating, I’m afraid, isn’t conducive to long, lounging repasts.
A warning sign, for both the aficionado of genuine Chinese cuisine and the ones who prefer theirs bastardised: the table accessories include that trio of pungent sauces that no self-respecting Chinese cook would permit in his premises, which means that they’re kind of expecting you to smother all taste out of their food. I prefer the ones who look like they might throw you out if you ask for chilly sauce.
The menu has a fair mix of the usual suspects, plus some more exciting looking stuff. You have pages based around fish, prawns, squid (just a few items), lamb, chicken (a couple of pages worth), and a largish vegetarian selection. Strangely, no pork, which practically disqualifies a place from calling itself a Chinese restaurant.
We pick a soup and a starter. The Golden Wok Special (Rs 95), a thick soup loaded with fish, prawns, crab, tofu and mushrooms, is delicious, though a tad over-salted, but satisfactorily fishy. The Crispy Thread Chicken (Rs 120), chicken pieces wrapped in noodles and fried, is also very good, and quite a substantial serving for a starter.
(Chinese tea to sip between dishes and cleanse the palate isn’t on the menu, but it is served if you ask for it. Default cutlery is spoon, knife and fork. If you want chopsticks, you must ask. )
My Prawns in Orange Sauce (Rs 190) is delightful; just the right tang and not too sweet, the taste of the prawn getting through. The Chicken Hakka Noodles (Rs 110) that the staff suggest as an accompaniment is a bad idea. Oily and bland. Steamed rice or noodles work better.
From the other dishes we ordered, the Chicken Burnt Ginger Garlic Rice (Rs 110) was my clear winner, even if a little too oily. The Roast Lamb with Mushroom and Bamboo Shoot (Rs 140) seemed to have lost an argument with the soya sauce, and the lamb was stringy and tough.
Dessert has limited options if you want to stay true to the mission. We picked the Honey-glazed Noodles with Ice-cream (Rs 70) and Date Pancakes (Rs 80). The noodles win hands-down, crisp, not ultra-sweet, and blending beautifully with the ice-cream.
The verdict: Food, decent. Excellent value for money in terms of serving sizes. A starter and a main course are more than enough for two moderate eaters. We ate heavy, but still got change out of thousand. The clincher? Warm, very friendly, attentive service. I’ll be eating there again soon.
~ Peter Griffin
The Golden Wok, 1 & 2, A Wing, Prithvi Park, Sector 30, Vashi. (Near Sanpada Station, next to the Lokmat building.) Phone: 27632312/3.
Open for lunch and dinner. Make a reservation on the weekend, or you could wind up waiting for nigh on an hour, swatting mosquitoes as the trucks roar past on the Sion-Panvel Highway.
Time Out, Mumbai
But true, that. The place has only been around since the beginning of April. And not too soon for me. Vashi and its environs, as far as I know, had only one Chinese restaurant which doesn’t pander to the Hindi-Chini-Bhai-Bhai palate, so I’m here with high hopes.
Atmosphere? Golden Wok is spacious, but uncluttered – two floors, ten tables on top, eight below. Not a red wall or a paper lantern in sight, though there are a few vaguely oriental prints on the walls, and spotlit shelves have little pots and thingummies as thematic concessions. Next to our table, nestled in a large urn, is one of those tennis-racquet-shaped thingies that electrocute bugs while improving your backhand. Way too much shiny glass for my taste, even, for some strange reason, a very large mirror covering one wall. But the cacophony that could result from all those hard reflective surfaces is muted by the sound of an indoor waterfall, and 80s disco music, played softly enough to be inoffensive. The seating, I’m afraid, isn’t conducive to long, lounging repasts.
A warning sign, for both the aficionado of genuine Chinese cuisine and the ones who prefer theirs bastardised: the table accessories include that trio of pungent sauces that no self-respecting Chinese cook would permit in his premises, which means that they’re kind of expecting you to smother all taste out of their food. I prefer the ones who look like they might throw you out if you ask for chilly sauce.
The menu has a fair mix of the usual suspects, plus some more exciting looking stuff. You have pages based around fish, prawns, squid (just a few items), lamb, chicken (a couple of pages worth), and a largish vegetarian selection. Strangely, no pork, which practically disqualifies a place from calling itself a Chinese restaurant.
We pick a soup and a starter. The Golden Wok Special (Rs 95), a thick soup loaded with fish, prawns, crab, tofu and mushrooms, is delicious, though a tad over-salted, but satisfactorily fishy. The Crispy Thread Chicken (Rs 120), chicken pieces wrapped in noodles and fried, is also very good, and quite a substantial serving for a starter.
(Chinese tea to sip between dishes and cleanse the palate isn’t on the menu, but it is served if you ask for it. Default cutlery is spoon, knife and fork. If you want chopsticks, you must ask. )
My Prawns in Orange Sauce (Rs 190) is delightful; just the right tang and not too sweet, the taste of the prawn getting through. The Chicken Hakka Noodles (Rs 110) that the staff suggest as an accompaniment is a bad idea. Oily and bland. Steamed rice or noodles work better.
From the other dishes we ordered, the Chicken Burnt Ginger Garlic Rice (Rs 110) was my clear winner, even if a little too oily. The Roast Lamb with Mushroom and Bamboo Shoot (Rs 140) seemed to have lost an argument with the soya sauce, and the lamb was stringy and tough.
Dessert has limited options if you want to stay true to the mission. We picked the Honey-glazed Noodles with Ice-cream (Rs 70) and Date Pancakes (Rs 80). The noodles win hands-down, crisp, not ultra-sweet, and blending beautifully with the ice-cream.
The verdict: Food, decent. Excellent value for money in terms of serving sizes. A starter and a main course are more than enough for two moderate eaters. We ate heavy, but still got change out of thousand. The clincher? Warm, very friendly, attentive service. I’ll be eating there again soon.
~ Peter Griffin
The Golden Wok, 1 & 2, A Wing, Prithvi Park, Sector 30, Vashi. (Near Sanpada Station, next to the Lokmat building.) Phone: 27632312/3.
Open for lunch and dinner. Make a reservation on the weekend, or you could wind up waiting for nigh on an hour, swatting mosquitoes as the trucks roar past on the Sion-Panvel Highway.
Published in TimeOut Mumbai, issue dated May 19th, 2006 edition.
Time Out, Mumbai
Monday, 1 May 2006
Bombay Biriyani
Rule One. Don’t ask for Bombay Biriyani in Bombay. It’s one of those things like Chicken Tikka Masala and French Toast, unknown – at least by those names – in the lands of their alleged origins. (Aside: in the South where I spent most of my childhood, we ate Bombay Toast; when we moved to Bombay, we realised that the natives called it French Toast.)
As in so many cosmopolitan metros, you get food from all over the world, some authentic, some bastardised, but very little that’s truly native to the city. So if you would sup on biriyani, you have it easy.
The area around DN Road and Fountain gives you an excellent selection of regional varieties, including, I’m told, beef biriyani, though I haven’t come across it. As do the Muslim-dominated parts of Mahim (Kerala-style) and Bandra (more Bohri). The rest of the extended city yields a sprinkling of biriyani joints, as far afield as a five minute walk from my home in Vashi (where the kababwalla near the mosque cooks an excellent dum biriyani by the kilo, strictly by prior order), and even a truck-stop restaurant in Panvel.
But the mother-lode is in South-Central Bombay.
Mohammad Ali Road and its bylanes are practically lined with restaurants and carts, all of which will offer you fragrant mounds of the stuff, cooked in vast quantities, precise measures of the yellow, oily rice shovelled on to two pieces of meat and potato that have been simmering in gravy. In some places, a boiled egg is included, Hyderabadi style. There’s also the more expensive dum biriyani, layers of rice and meat cooked together in flour-sealed vessels. This happy situation extends northwards, to the belt that stretches from Byculla to Bombay Central, with one major outpost just off Haji Ali, the famous Noorani, much loved for its combination of tastiness, reasonable prices and very liberal meat:rice ratio. Aside from the standard varieties, Noorani does a mean Kerala-style fish biriyani, and if memory serves, a mild Arabi Biriyani, sprinkled with nuts and dry fruit, that caters to the Middle East clientele. And yes, come to think of it, there’s the Reshmi Tikka Biriyani, which, if I remember my Busybee right, is a uniquely Bombay concoction. Mildly, but definitely, spiced, with little boneless tikkas. Burp.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
As in so many cosmopolitan metros, you get food from all over the world, some authentic, some bastardised, but very little that’s truly native to the city. So if you would sup on biriyani, you have it easy.
The area around DN Road and Fountain gives you an excellent selection of regional varieties, including, I’m told, beef biriyani, though I haven’t come across it. As do the Muslim-dominated parts of Mahim (Kerala-style) and Bandra (more Bohri). The rest of the extended city yields a sprinkling of biriyani joints, as far afield as a five minute walk from my home in Vashi (where the kababwalla near the mosque cooks an excellent dum biriyani by the kilo, strictly by prior order), and even a truck-stop restaurant in Panvel.
But the mother-lode is in South-Central Bombay.
Mohammad Ali Road and its bylanes are practically lined with restaurants and carts, all of which will offer you fragrant mounds of the stuff, cooked in vast quantities, precise measures of the yellow, oily rice shovelled on to two pieces of meat and potato that have been simmering in gravy. In some places, a boiled egg is included, Hyderabadi style. There’s also the more expensive dum biriyani, layers of rice and meat cooked together in flour-sealed vessels. This happy situation extends northwards, to the belt that stretches from Byculla to Bombay Central, with one major outpost just off Haji Ali, the famous Noorani, much loved for its combination of tastiness, reasonable prices and very liberal meat:rice ratio. Aside from the standard varieties, Noorani does a mean Kerala-style fish biriyani, and if memory serves, a mild Arabi Biriyani, sprinkled with nuts and dry fruit, that caters to the Middle East clientele. And yes, come to think of it, there’s the Reshmi Tikka Biriyani, which, if I remember my Busybee right, is a uniquely Bombay concoction. Mildly, but definitely, spiced, with little boneless tikkas. Burp.
Published in the May 2006 edition of Outlook Traveller, as part of a multi-contributor feature on biriyani in various parts of India.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
Sunday, 1 May 2005
Where books go after they’re down-sized.
New and Secondhand Bookshop
A hundred years ago, Jamalbhai Ratansi, who ran a business in the raddi trade, decided to start a shop on the Kalbadevi Road, near what is now the Metro junction. You see, along with the old newspapers, he also frequently bought bundles of discarded books by weight. So he decided to start selling them piecemeal, at prices way below the original cost, but still a tidy mark-up from what he paid for them.
Thus was born New And Secondhand Bookshop, Bombay institution and landmark. In 1917, it moved to its current location, just across the street from the now-demolished building that was its previous home.
Jamalbhai has since departed for the Reading Room in the Sky, but N&S is still very much here, run by Sultan Vishram, Jamalbhai’s grandson and the current proprietor.
Over the years, N&S has had a long string of famous customers. Sultanbhai pulls out a fat file of press clippings, and tells me that B R Ambedkar, R K Narayan, Manohar Malgaonkar, Mulk Raj Anand, P L Deshpande and Osho Rajneesh all bought books from the shop.
Ambedkar, he says, never came in, always staying in his car outside, while someone else bought his books. Rajneesh (then plain Acharya) would come in at least once a week, and spend an hour browsing, before bargaining vigorously over the books he wanted, “He would say he was a sadhu, and the books should be given free. But my uncle would tell him, ‘Aap sadhu hain, hum to sansari hain na?’”
Which is not to say, he continues, after the chuckles have subsided, that commerce ever dominated love of books. Jamalbhai would frequently told customers who couldn’t afford books, “Go ahead, pay later. Learn, learn!” And his son, Sultanbhai’s uncle, loved to say “Saraswati and Lakshmi can’t sit in the same place.”
The “New” in the shop’s name is technically accurate – they do stock new titles on certain subjects like interior decoration and art – but the tight margins in that trade make it an unattractive business proposition, so they make up less than 10% of inventory. It’s the musty smell of old books that dominates. The very rare finds are stored under lock and key. But out there in the open is the gamut from a 1955 Encyclopaedia Britannica set and Shaw’s Complete Prefaces to elderly pulp paperbacks and mildly bruised coffee-table books. (My personal finds dating back from impoverished college years include a treasured 25th Anniversary Peanuts Collection, a stack of cloth-bound Wodehouses, and much crime and science fiction.)
Sultanbhai only began managing the shop actively in the last few months, after the retirement of his manager, Chandrakant Mankame. Mr Mankame had served the shop for sixty years, starting at age 11, as the founder’s gofer. Jamalbhai had sent him to night school, where he learned English. As he grew up, he was given more and more responsibility, till he became manager.
He has a mind like a computer, Sultanbhai tells me. In sixty years, he had bought almost every book in the shelves, and could remember exactly which dusty pile in which crammed shelf in which narrow row housed a certain book. Without this human database (in January, after seeing the shop into its centenary year, Mankame finally retired), Sultanbhai has begun to reorganise the shop so that less elephantine memories can cope, rearranging sections, making out an inventory, and perhaps, if he can bring himself to go entirely modern, a computerised database.
“There’s no other proper shop like ours in Bombay,” says Sultanbhai. And, unfortunately, there soon might be none.
“The book trade on the whole is suffering,” he says, “There is TV, computers… People don’t read that much anymore. And all these books, until we get a customer, they’re just someone’s discarded junk. [The reorganisation and renovation] is my last effort. If business does not improve, I will have to close down and sell.”
Isn’t there a market for rare books, I ask him. He shakes his head. “Once, yes, we’d find some rare books in our purchases. Now,” wry smile, “people are smart. They know what’s rare.”
Yes, I murmur to myself on the way out. But then New And Secondhand is rare too. And I hope to hell enough customers keep trooping in to take it into its second century, that Lakshmi can give Saraswati the teensiest helping hand.
New And Secondhand Bookshop, 526, Kalbadevi Road, Mumbai 400002. Ph: +91 22 22013314 Fax (care of): +91 22 22072024.
Published in the Outlook Traveller, May 2005 edition, in the column Favourite Things, under the title "Old Curiosity Shop" or some such.
Tags: Outlook Traveller, Favourite Things
Monday, 1 November 2004
Beaches of Suburbia
Bom Bahia, “good bay,” Portuguese colonisers named it, before packaging it with the princess Catherine De Braganza when she was married off to Charles II of Britain.
The Brits, congenitally incapable of pronouncing names that originate West of Dover, called it Bombay, and proceeded to fill in the gaps between the islands.
Bombay, Bambai, Mumbai, call it what you will, still has oodles of coastline. The Arabian Sea to the West; and the Thane Creek separating it from the mainland on the East. Add the indentations of several creeks. And if, like most of us, you also include mainland municipalities and their littoral stretches in your concept of this megapolis, there should be an embarrassment of beaches to stroll around, paddle in and picnic at.
That, unfortunately, isn’t the case.
The bits of the West that aren’t concrete up to the waterline are more Bhelpuri vending zones than beaches. Or, in villages within the city, they host the the fishing communities that were the area’s original inhabitants, and the shore is lined with drying bombil and shrimp. Or they’re separated from the sea by mangrove swamps. Besides, the city’s effluents don’t make any of these the ideal place to waggle a contemplative toe in the water. The East is either navy or port land, or salt pans or mangrove. On the mainland, mangrove again, rocky shores, or water that’s so polluted it’s lightly diluted sewage.
So where does the city go for its sun, sand ’n’ sea getaways?
There are some pleasant alternatives for the shorter weekend getaways. And we visited them for you. Yes, tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.
We started just out of city limits, near the Vasai creek, into which the Ulhas river empties itself.
The Uttan-Gorai-Manori stretch.
Uttan isn’t much of a beach. Gorai was once lovely, now packed with all manner of riffraff on the weekends - avoidable. Manori is quieter, cleaner, but more expensive.
Getting there: Drive in via Bhayandar, or park at Marve (many of the family properties there offer Pay&Park facilities). Or a train to Malad, then bus or rickshaw to Marve, BEST ferry across the creek, autorickshaw or tonga to your resort.
U-tan Sea Resort
Nestled on the crest of a hill just out of Uttan village, the resort gives you a breathtaking view of the sea: it seems to stretch much, much further, wider and deeper than a view from lower down would have you believe.
The architecture is an acquired taste, but I found it growing on me over the night we spent there. Dr Gopal, who developed the resort on ancestral land, is a bit of an architecture buff, and has given his fancy free rein here. The “cottages” are two-storied cubes, all straight lines, sharp angles, white paint, black metal and glass, softened by the trees they nestle amongst, set in a staggered line, so that each room has its own share of the breeze and sea view through the trees, with a bit of the next cottage’s porch thrown in as well. Aside from the cottages, there are two suites, plus four service apartments. The restaurant’s glass walls and the poolside give you a truly panoramic view. The beach, a longish walk downhill is rocky, and lined with drying fish, and the water rather filthy from the creek and river’s effluents. Avoid. The resort has a pool, and a wooded stretch above the main buildings where you could stroll, or sit under a tree with a book while the brats play Veerapan-Police. You could also wander down to the “tableland” that overlooks the junction of creek and sea; take a boat ride across the creek to see the Bassein fort; visit the lighthouse or the old churches in Uttan. Esselword and Waterworld, if you absolutely insist, are also nearby.
Accommodation: 5 Classic rooms, 5 standard rooms, 2 suites, 4 apartments. All ACed, 2-bed, attached bath.
Best rooms: Sunset suite or top floor apartments, for the view.
Food: Limited menu, but good. No bar.
Service: Warm, friendly.
Tariffs: Rs 1500 for standard rooms to Rs 3000 for suites and apartments. Taxes extra. Discounts on weekdays. Packages available.
Contact: Phone: (022) 28451151, 28452345 (resort); 26206063, 26282653 (city booking). Email: utan@rediffmail.com. Web: www.u-tan.com
Domonica’s Beach Resort and Domonica Hotel
Once a single entity, these two resorts are owned by brothers who once helped their parents manage the undivided place. They share a common entrance gate, access to the beach, and ambience, and are only separated by a knee-high wall and different staff members, so to avoid repetition, we’ll cover them together.
They offer unpretentious accommodation at decent prices. The cottages are strewn in friendly disorder around the tree-lined property. Most have a small balcony or porch, hammocks abound, plus a play area for the kids, games and indoor sports, and organised activity on weekends. The main drawback is lack of a sea view, with even the breeze filtered by the thicket of trees in the land between resort and sea shore. But it’s just a minute’s walk down to the beach.
On weekends, don’t expect silence and solitude. There’s a fair mix of people, with a slight bias towards the city’s Christian population. It’s light and cheery, lots of families and groups of friends, full iceboxes, music from either guitars and singers or boom boxes fills the air.
Domonica’s Beach Resort
Accommodation: 8 AC 2-bed rooms, 6 non-AC doubles, 5 4-bed rooms, 5 Dormitory rooms. All with attached bathroom.
Best rooms: N.A.
Food: Satisfactory. The standard Indian-Chinese-Mughlai mix, with a few Goan and East Indian dishes thrown in. No alcohol.
Service: Friendly.
Tariffs: From Rs 150 per head per day in the dorms, to Rs 1000 for an AC 2-bed. Packages available. Lower rates on week days.
Contact: Phone: (022) 28452163, 28452178 (resort); 24462161, 24469735 (city booking).
Domonica Hotel
Accommodation: Double rooms, 1 AC, 4 non-AC. 4-bed rooms. 1 AC 2 non-AC. 1 Dormitory room. All with attached bathroom.
Best rooms: N.A.
Food: Satisfactory. As above. No alcohol.
Service: Not tested.
Tariffs: From Rs 150 per head per day in the dorms, to Rs 700 for an AC 2-bed. Packages available. Lower rates on week days.
Contact: Phone: (022) 28452643, 28452280.
Manoribel
Across the wall from the conjoined Domonicas, the ambience here is more yuppie, upmarket. It’s quieter, with a lot more open space, and it’s more expensive.
Stone arches predominates, and no groves or other properties block view or breeze. Large, airy rooms, with the best ones facing the sea. There’s a machchan to watch the sunset from, and the beach just over the low wall. The restaurant roof is supported by stone pillars, but no walls, so you eat serenaded by wave sounds and the sea breeze flirting with the coconut palms. The restaurant serves set lunches and dinners at a reasonable Rs 200, one of which, supplemented with an extra item from the à la carte menu, is enough to feed two moderate appetites.
Accommodation: 8 semi-detached 2-bed AC sea-facing cottages (1 and 1A can be joined to become a 4-bed suite), 2 non-AC sea-facing cabins, 1 non-AC 3-bed apartment, 1 AC 4-bed apartment, 3 standard 2-bed AC rooms, 5 standard non-AC rooms.
Best rooms: Cottage 6 or 7.
Food: Good. No alcohol.
Service: Not really tested, but seems professional and warm.
Tariffs: From Rs 901 for a 2-bed non-AC to Rs 2120 for cottages 6 or 7. Price inclusive of taxes. (The refreshing feature in their price list is they clearly state room rates, exact taxes and totals.) Lower weekday rates. Extra bed at Rs 100. If friends visit you during the day, you pay Rs 100 per person per day.
Contact: Phone: (022) 28452806/7/8/9 (resort); 22691301, 22692108 (city booking). Email: manoribel@vsnl.net. Web: www.manoribel.com
Aksa
Do not, repeat, do not swim here. Treacherous shifting sands claim lives every year. Nice to stroll on, but stay near the vegetation line. If you wander closer to the water, you might find yourself stranded on a sandbar as the tide changes.
Getting there: Tell the driver to turn left at Malad, darling.
The Resort
We’re going high end now. This is 5 star holidaying, and if you’re here, it really doesn’t matter how inhospitable the beach is, there’s enough to keep you occupied. And of course you’re paying for the luxury, so you might as well enjoy it.
There’s all that you’d expect - large pool with great view, gym, sports facilities, kiddie room, massages, steams, business centre, you name it. Sea-facing rooms have their own private balconies. Suites are larger, with a sitting area and a bigger balcony. Overall, nothing to really blow you away. The villas - actually they’re semi-detached apartments - are more luxurious. two bedrooms, private lawn, plus your own steam, sauna and jacuzzi. Both Abhijit and I though the decor, was a little, um, loud.
Accommodation: 36 double occupancy rooms, facing groves of coconut palms, 54 sea-facing double occupancy rooms with private balcony, 2 suites, 2 semi-detached 2-storied villas.
Best rooms: The villas, natch. That’s if you’re ready to pay the price. Otherwise any sea-facing room.
Food: 2 restaurants (one multi-cuisine, with a leaning towards Indian food, the other a standard issue coffee shop). Good food.
Service: Professional.
Tariffs: From Rs 3600 for a standard room to Rs 14990 for a villa. Taxes extra. Includes breakfast. Packages available.
Contact: Phone: 022 28808888, 26443333. Fax: 28818641. Email: rahres@vsnl.com, resv@theresortmumbai.com. Web: www.theresortmumbai.com
Erangal
Not much of a beach for the holiday-maker. The available sandy space is covered with drying fish, and the smell overpowers the sea air.
Getting there: As above, honey. Except keep going after you pass The Resort.
The Retreat
We’re still in Luxury Land. And this was pretty much the place where we pampered ourselves the most. There’s an overall feel of airiness and space here that won us over. The curved lines of the the pool, with its little island and waterfall, blending into a covered area with a sunken bar where you can swim right up to your drink and sip it sitting on a submerged barstool or clamber out for a snack, all make for a charming and attractive centre-piece. The hotel building curves around one side of the pool, lawns separate it from the sea on the other. There’s all the standard 5-Star amenities, of course, gym, health club, sports, lounges, including a dance floor with wooden flooring (unsprung, though). The suites are impressive, and huge. And they share a private lounge area on their floor. The pool facing rooms go for a slightly higher rate than the ones that look onto the land side.
Accommodation: 77 pool-facing rooms, 66 other rooms, 7 suites of varying degrees of magnificence.
Best rooms: The Presidential suite.
Food: Three restaurants - Chinese, a coffee shop and a poolside snackbar. Excellent food.
Service: Professional and warm.
Tariffs: From Rs 3000 for a standard room to Rs 12000 for the Presidential suite.
Contact: Phone: (022) 28816383, 28825335. Fax: 28825171. Email: retreat@krahejahospitality.com Web: www.krahejahospitality.com
The Mainland
A short ferry ride from Ferry Wharf or Gateway of India, across the creek, another wonderful set of beaches beckon, most of them still unspoiled by the city’s marauding hordes, enough of them to do a whole article about, but for now, here’s a very small sampling.
Uran
As the crow flies (and ferries sail), Uran is level with South Mumbai.By road, it’s an hour’s drive past the Mankhurd check naka, down the Sion Panvel Road, and then turn off via either via Palm Beach Road, or at Uran Phata near Belapur, and then further south over the Panvel Creek to Uran.
Hotel Uran Plaza
Run by a retired Admiral, this resort has relied almost purely on word of mouth publicity from satisfied customers. Right on the beach, it inlcudes six acres of cocunut plantation behind it, and has played host to visitors from around the world, many of them from the oil rigs, the nearby JNPT port or other industrial projects further down the coast. Admiral Pereira speaks proudly of his cusine, which is truly international. Anything from Lobster Thermidore to daal chaval. His 6 ACed rooms go for Rs 1100 (+4% tax) and the 2 non-AC rooms for Rs 550 (+4% tax). Phone: (022) 7222318 (resort), 28510731 (city).
The Mandwa-Kihim-Alibag stretch.
Mandwa has no rentable accommodation - most of it is owned by Mumbai’s richest, the ones who sail across to their weekend bungalows in their own yachts or zoom over by chopper. If you move in those circles, you won’t be reading this article.
But if you cross over by the more plebeian ferries (an hour’s ride at most) there’s much to enjoy.
Alibag. Fehgeddaboudit.
The central part of Kihim, thanks to MTDC’s Tent Resort (http://www.maharashtratourism.gov.in/mtdc/Beaches.aspx?strpage=beaches-mandwa-kihim.html, phone: (022) 22026713 / 7762 / 7784) can get moderately crowded, though not as bad as the Mumbai beaches. The rest of Kihim is mile upon mile of deserted, clean beach, rocky in places, but mainly safe. They’re deserted because most of the stretch is privately owned. I know this because I go there frequently - i have friends there. And no, i won’t give you their numbers. What i will - reluctantly - give you is Danny Denson’s number. He liaises with various private property owners, who let out their properties occasionally. He can get you a house for anything from Rs 1000 to Rs 40,000 a day, not just in Kihim, but in places as far south as Murud and Kashid. He can be reached at (02141) 232427 or (0) 9850239157.
There are also a bunch of smaller places - a few rooms, each, with meals as part of the deal. One example: Sanidhya, with three double rooms at Rs 700 per day, including all meals. Near the beach. Phone (02141) 232202, 232077 or (0)9822999085. Email: sanidhya_24@yahoo.co.in.
If you prefer a resort and the attached luxuries, a little away from Kihim, but easily accessible, is the lovely Windmill Resort. 16 Deluxe rooms at Rs 3000, plus taxes, and 6 Super-Deluxe at Rs 3500. The rates include bed tea and breakfast. The resort is wonderfully green, has a pool and a few sports facilities, a good restaurant, and warm, friendly service. Phone: (02141) 232630. 232627. Fax 232629. Email info@windmillresort.com. Web: www.windmillresort.com.
For a completely different experience, contact Dilip Mhatre at (02141) 237307. He runs a small outfit near Mhatre Phata (just ask for him by name), a short drive from Mandwa. A few huts artfully finished with mud walls and thatched roofs, around a courtyard of packed mud, the shade of banian trees to sit under, a large covered area for group activities and a short drive away from the beach. Rates: Rs 400 per person, per 24 hours including all meals. Phone: (02141) 237307, (022) 23610011. Mhatre also has relatives and friends who are opening small, very basic resorts at nearby Sasone beach and other places, and he will happily introduce you to them.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
The Brits, congenitally incapable of pronouncing names that originate West of Dover, called it Bombay, and proceeded to fill in the gaps between the islands.
Bombay, Bambai, Mumbai, call it what you will, still has oodles of coastline. The Arabian Sea to the West; and the Thane Creek separating it from the mainland on the East. Add the indentations of several creeks. And if, like most of us, you also include mainland municipalities and their littoral stretches in your concept of this megapolis, there should be an embarrassment of beaches to stroll around, paddle in and picnic at.
That, unfortunately, isn’t the case.
The bits of the West that aren’t concrete up to the waterline are more Bhelpuri vending zones than beaches. Or, in villages within the city, they host the the fishing communities that were the area’s original inhabitants, and the shore is lined with drying bombil and shrimp. Or they’re separated from the sea by mangrove swamps. Besides, the city’s effluents don’t make any of these the ideal place to waggle a contemplative toe in the water. The East is either navy or port land, or salt pans or mangrove. On the mainland, mangrove again, rocky shores, or water that’s so polluted it’s lightly diluted sewage.
So where does the city go for its sun, sand ’n’ sea getaways?
There are some pleasant alternatives for the shorter weekend getaways. And we visited them for you. Yes, tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.
We started just out of city limits, near the Vasai creek, into which the Ulhas river empties itself.
The Uttan-Gorai-Manori stretch.
Uttan isn’t much of a beach. Gorai was once lovely, now packed with all manner of riffraff on the weekends - avoidable. Manori is quieter, cleaner, but more expensive.
Getting there: Drive in via Bhayandar, or park at Marve (many of the family properties there offer Pay&Park facilities). Or a train to Malad, then bus or rickshaw to Marve, BEST ferry across the creek, autorickshaw or tonga to your resort.
U-tan Sea Resort
Nestled on the crest of a hill just out of Uttan village, the resort gives you a breathtaking view of the sea: it seems to stretch much, much further, wider and deeper than a view from lower down would have you believe.
The architecture is an acquired taste, but I found it growing on me over the night we spent there. Dr Gopal, who developed the resort on ancestral land, is a bit of an architecture buff, and has given his fancy free rein here. The “cottages” are two-storied cubes, all straight lines, sharp angles, white paint, black metal and glass, softened by the trees they nestle amongst, set in a staggered line, so that each room has its own share of the breeze and sea view through the trees, with a bit of the next cottage’s porch thrown in as well. Aside from the cottages, there are two suites, plus four service apartments. The restaurant’s glass walls and the poolside give you a truly panoramic view. The beach, a longish walk downhill is rocky, and lined with drying fish, and the water rather filthy from the creek and river’s effluents. Avoid. The resort has a pool, and a wooded stretch above the main buildings where you could stroll, or sit under a tree with a book while the brats play Veerapan-Police. You could also wander down to the “tableland” that overlooks the junction of creek and sea; take a boat ride across the creek to see the Bassein fort; visit the lighthouse or the old churches in Uttan. Esselword and Waterworld, if you absolutely insist, are also nearby.
Accommodation: 5 Classic rooms, 5 standard rooms, 2 suites, 4 apartments. All ACed, 2-bed, attached bath.
Best rooms: Sunset suite or top floor apartments, for the view.
Food: Limited menu, but good. No bar.
Service: Warm, friendly.
Tariffs: Rs 1500 for standard rooms to Rs 3000 for suites and apartments. Taxes extra. Discounts on weekdays. Packages available.
Contact: Phone: (022) 28451151, 28452345 (resort); 26206063, 26282653 (city booking). Email: utan@rediffmail.com. Web: www.u-tan.com
Domonica’s Beach Resort and Domonica Hotel
Once a single entity, these two resorts are owned by brothers who once helped their parents manage the undivided place. They share a common entrance gate, access to the beach, and ambience, and are only separated by a knee-high wall and different staff members, so to avoid repetition, we’ll cover them together.
They offer unpretentious accommodation at decent prices. The cottages are strewn in friendly disorder around the tree-lined property. Most have a small balcony or porch, hammocks abound, plus a play area for the kids, games and indoor sports, and organised activity on weekends. The main drawback is lack of a sea view, with even the breeze filtered by the thicket of trees in the land between resort and sea shore. But it’s just a minute’s walk down to the beach.
On weekends, don’t expect silence and solitude. There’s a fair mix of people, with a slight bias towards the city’s Christian population. It’s light and cheery, lots of families and groups of friends, full iceboxes, music from either guitars and singers or boom boxes fills the air.
Domonica’s Beach Resort
Accommodation: 8 AC 2-bed rooms, 6 non-AC doubles, 5 4-bed rooms, 5 Dormitory rooms. All with attached bathroom.
Best rooms: N.A.
Food: Satisfactory. The standard Indian-Chinese-Mughlai mix, with a few Goan and East Indian dishes thrown in. No alcohol.
Service: Friendly.
Tariffs: From Rs 150 per head per day in the dorms, to Rs 1000 for an AC 2-bed. Packages available. Lower rates on week days.
Contact: Phone: (022) 28452163, 28452178 (resort); 24462161, 24469735 (city booking).
Domonica Hotel
Accommodation: Double rooms, 1 AC, 4 non-AC. 4-bed rooms. 1 AC 2 non-AC. 1 Dormitory room. All with attached bathroom.
Best rooms: N.A.
Food: Satisfactory. As above. No alcohol.
Service: Not tested.
Tariffs: From Rs 150 per head per day in the dorms, to Rs 700 for an AC 2-bed. Packages available. Lower rates on week days.
Contact: Phone: (022) 28452643, 28452280.
Manoribel
Across the wall from the conjoined Domonicas, the ambience here is more yuppie, upmarket. It’s quieter, with a lot more open space, and it’s more expensive.
Stone arches predominates, and no groves or other properties block view or breeze. Large, airy rooms, with the best ones facing the sea. There’s a machchan to watch the sunset from, and the beach just over the low wall. The restaurant roof is supported by stone pillars, but no walls, so you eat serenaded by wave sounds and the sea breeze flirting with the coconut palms. The restaurant serves set lunches and dinners at a reasonable Rs 200, one of which, supplemented with an extra item from the à la carte menu, is enough to feed two moderate appetites.
Accommodation: 8 semi-detached 2-bed AC sea-facing cottages (1 and 1A can be joined to become a 4-bed suite), 2 non-AC sea-facing cabins, 1 non-AC 3-bed apartment, 1 AC 4-bed apartment, 3 standard 2-bed AC rooms, 5 standard non-AC rooms.
Best rooms: Cottage 6 or 7.
Food: Good. No alcohol.
Service: Not really tested, but seems professional and warm.
Tariffs: From Rs 901 for a 2-bed non-AC to Rs 2120 for cottages 6 or 7. Price inclusive of taxes. (The refreshing feature in their price list is they clearly state room rates, exact taxes and totals.) Lower weekday rates. Extra bed at Rs 100. If friends visit you during the day, you pay Rs 100 per person per day.
Contact: Phone: (022) 28452806/7/8/9 (resort); 22691301, 22692108 (city booking). Email: manoribel@vsnl.net. Web: www.manoribel.com
Aksa
Do not, repeat, do not swim here. Treacherous shifting sands claim lives every year. Nice to stroll on, but stay near the vegetation line. If you wander closer to the water, you might find yourself stranded on a sandbar as the tide changes.
Getting there: Tell the driver to turn left at Malad, darling.
The Resort
We’re going high end now. This is 5 star holidaying, and if you’re here, it really doesn’t matter how inhospitable the beach is, there’s enough to keep you occupied. And of course you’re paying for the luxury, so you might as well enjoy it.
There’s all that you’d expect - large pool with great view, gym, sports facilities, kiddie room, massages, steams, business centre, you name it. Sea-facing rooms have their own private balconies. Suites are larger, with a sitting area and a bigger balcony. Overall, nothing to really blow you away. The villas - actually they’re semi-detached apartments - are more luxurious. two bedrooms, private lawn, plus your own steam, sauna and jacuzzi. Both Abhijit and I though the decor, was a little, um, loud.
Accommodation: 36 double occupancy rooms, facing groves of coconut palms, 54 sea-facing double occupancy rooms with private balcony, 2 suites, 2 semi-detached 2-storied villas.
Best rooms: The villas, natch. That’s if you’re ready to pay the price. Otherwise any sea-facing room.
Food: 2 restaurants (one multi-cuisine, with a leaning towards Indian food, the other a standard issue coffee shop). Good food.
Service: Professional.
Tariffs: From Rs 3600 for a standard room to Rs 14990 for a villa. Taxes extra. Includes breakfast. Packages available.
Contact: Phone: 022 28808888, 26443333. Fax: 28818641. Email: rahres@vsnl.com, resv@theresortmumbai.com. Web: www.theresortmumbai.com
Erangal
Not much of a beach for the holiday-maker. The available sandy space is covered with drying fish, and the smell overpowers the sea air.
Getting there: As above, honey. Except keep going after you pass The Resort.
The Retreat
We’re still in Luxury Land. And this was pretty much the place where we pampered ourselves the most. There’s an overall feel of airiness and space here that won us over. The curved lines of the the pool, with its little island and waterfall, blending into a covered area with a sunken bar where you can swim right up to your drink and sip it sitting on a submerged barstool or clamber out for a snack, all make for a charming and attractive centre-piece. The hotel building curves around one side of the pool, lawns separate it from the sea on the other. There’s all the standard 5-Star amenities, of course, gym, health club, sports, lounges, including a dance floor with wooden flooring (unsprung, though). The suites are impressive, and huge. And they share a private lounge area on their floor. The pool facing rooms go for a slightly higher rate than the ones that look onto the land side.
Accommodation: 77 pool-facing rooms, 66 other rooms, 7 suites of varying degrees of magnificence.
Best rooms: The Presidential suite.
Food: Three restaurants - Chinese, a coffee shop and a poolside snackbar. Excellent food.
Service: Professional and warm.
Tariffs: From Rs 3000 for a standard room to Rs 12000 for the Presidential suite.
Contact: Phone: (022) 28816383, 28825335. Fax: 28825171. Email: retreat@krahejahospitality.com Web: www.krahejahospitality.com
The Mainland
A short ferry ride from Ferry Wharf or Gateway of India, across the creek, another wonderful set of beaches beckon, most of them still unspoiled by the city’s marauding hordes, enough of them to do a whole article about, but for now, here’s a very small sampling.
Uran
As the crow flies (and ferries sail), Uran is level with South Mumbai.By road, it’s an hour’s drive past the Mankhurd check naka, down the Sion Panvel Road, and then turn off via either via Palm Beach Road, or at Uran Phata near Belapur, and then further south over the Panvel Creek to Uran.
Hotel Uran Plaza
Run by a retired Admiral, this resort has relied almost purely on word of mouth publicity from satisfied customers. Right on the beach, it inlcudes six acres of cocunut plantation behind it, and has played host to visitors from around the world, many of them from the oil rigs, the nearby JNPT port or other industrial projects further down the coast. Admiral Pereira speaks proudly of his cusine, which is truly international. Anything from Lobster Thermidore to daal chaval. His 6 ACed rooms go for Rs 1100 (+4% tax) and the 2 non-AC rooms for Rs 550 (+4% tax). Phone: (022) 7222318 (resort), 28510731 (city).
The Mandwa-Kihim-Alibag stretch.
Mandwa has no rentable accommodation - most of it is owned by Mumbai’s richest, the ones who sail across to their weekend bungalows in their own yachts or zoom over by chopper. If you move in those circles, you won’t be reading this article.
But if you cross over by the more plebeian ferries (an hour’s ride at most) there’s much to enjoy.
Alibag. Fehgeddaboudit.
The central part of Kihim, thanks to MTDC’s Tent Resort (http://www.maharashtratourism.gov.in/mtdc/Beaches.aspx?strpage=beaches-mandwa-kihim.html, phone: (022) 22026713 / 7762 / 7784) can get moderately crowded, though not as bad as the Mumbai beaches. The rest of Kihim is mile upon mile of deserted, clean beach, rocky in places, but mainly safe. They’re deserted because most of the stretch is privately owned. I know this because I go there frequently - i have friends there. And no, i won’t give you their numbers. What i will - reluctantly - give you is Danny Denson’s number. He liaises with various private property owners, who let out their properties occasionally. He can get you a house for anything from Rs 1000 to Rs 40,000 a day, not just in Kihim, but in places as far south as Murud and Kashid. He can be reached at (02141) 232427 or (0) 9850239157.
There are also a bunch of smaller places - a few rooms, each, with meals as part of the deal. One example: Sanidhya, with three double rooms at Rs 700 per day, including all meals. Near the beach. Phone (02141) 232202, 232077 or (0)9822999085. Email: sanidhya_24@yahoo.co.in.
If you prefer a resort and the attached luxuries, a little away from Kihim, but easily accessible, is the lovely Windmill Resort. 16 Deluxe rooms at Rs 3000, plus taxes, and 6 Super-Deluxe at Rs 3500. The rates include bed tea and breakfast. The resort is wonderfully green, has a pool and a few sports facilities, a good restaurant, and warm, friendly service. Phone: (02141) 232630. 232627. Fax 232629. Email info@windmillresort.com. Web: www.windmillresort.com.
For a completely different experience, contact Dilip Mhatre at (02141) 237307. He runs a small outfit near Mhatre Phata (just ask for him by name), a short drive from Mandwa. A few huts artfully finished with mud walls and thatched roofs, around a courtyard of packed mud, the shade of banian trees to sit under, a large covered area for group activities and a short drive away from the beach. Rates: Rs 400 per person, per 24 hours including all meals. Phone: (02141) 237307, (022) 23610011. Mhatre also has relatives and friends who are opening small, very basic resorts at nearby Sasone beach and other places, and he will happily introduce you to them.
Published in Outlook Traveller's November 2004 issue. The official online version is here.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
Friday, 1 October 2004
Drool, Britannia
A year or so ago, a friend lunched at Britannia with his mentor, a famous film director. The mentor, he says, has “this dictatorially democratic set-up” where the hired help often eats with her in the same restaurant. So her driver – let’s call him A-bhai – was ensconced at the next table. Lunch, which included the restaurant’s signature Berry Pulao, made with berries imported from Iran, was ordered, and consumed. (“And their orgasmic Caramel Custard for desert,” Vijay adds, misty-eyed.)
Sated, they trundled out to the car, where A-bhai, who had preceded them, held the door open. As he closed the door behind them, to his horror, the car rolled backwards and crunched into a tree, smashing its rear window. The shaken chauffeur had no explanation for the car’s behaviour, but film folks are nothing if not resilient, and since there was no further damage to vehicle or passengers, the company moved on, unruffled, no doubt to make Better Cinema.
Many days later, Vijay managed to cajole A-bhai into admitting, “Saab, sach boloon toh, jab madamne humko khaane ko aane ke liye bolaa, to hum uss Pulao ke khayal me itne kho gaye ki handbrake lagaana bhool gaye.”
Such, gentle reader, is the power of Britannia’s Berry Pulao.
Britannia looks like a generic member of that fast-disappearing breed, the Bombay Irani joint. High ceiling, peeling paint, bentwood chairs, thick glass protecting chequered tablecloths, a wooden mezzanine, elderly gentleman presiding over high counter at the entrance, dispensing change to the waiters, unlocking drawers to ration out precise measures of special ingredients.
But it doesn’t offer the traditional Irani dawn-to-midnight chai, bun-maska and bread pudding. It is open for only lunch, six days a week, and serves mainly Parsi food.
The owner of the mischievous eyes that greet me from behind the counter is Boman Kohinoor, who has been here since he was a schoolboy (he’s a spry eighty-four now). His father, Rashid, opened Britannia in 1923, serving mainly western food to toffs – Collectors, Officers and suchlike. During World War II, the restaurant was requisitioned for use as barracks. By 1948, when it reopened, its time in the sun had passed.
We move to one of the tables, and he delightedly shakes my hand again, on discovering that I had studied in his alma mater. His late wife, Bachan, he says, spent many years working in Iran, and returned with a trove of Iranian recipes to add to the Parsi dishes she already knew. She trained the cooks to prepare all these, and Britannia revived.
Aside from the famous Iranian Berry Pulao, the other specialities are: Fish Patra, Fried Bombay Duck, and of course, Dhansak, which like the berry pulao, is available in mutton, chicken and vegetarian varieties. But, as that inimitable Bombay foodie, the late Behram Contractor, said: “Of course, there is nothing like a vegetarian dhanshak, just as there is nothing like a non-alcoholic beer or an eggless omelette. Still, there you are. And, while I am at it, I would like to add, the only bona fide dhanshak is with mutton, not chicken.”
The usual clientele is wall-to-wall officewallas. Today, a public holiday, the pace is filled with families out to lunch. People drive in from far and near, says Kohinoor. Gerson Da Cunha, Anil Dharker, Farzana Contractor, they’re all regulars here. Dilip Vengsarkar, like so many others, sends in for takeaway. And there was this editor who would sit alone at the table near the door, reading a book while he ate his lunch. (Later, when i am leaving, the old gentleman gently, but firmly refuses my efforts to pay my bill. Mr Vinod Mehta has given us enough business, he chortles.)
A rooster’s picture adorns one wall. A stylised version on the menus is surrounded by this cheery motto: “There is no love greater than the love of eating.” Kohinoor reminisces about that rooster, a family pet, which strutted the counter in the eighties. It drank only Mangola and ate only pista-badam, except now and then, when it ate chicken. “He was a cannibal!” he informs me gleefully.
Running Britannia is tough, Romin, Kohinoor’s son, tells me. He personally buys supplies, supervises the cooks – “It’s manufacture, not trading, not like those places that only open your beer for you.”
But change is imminent. Option One: a face-lift, spruce up the place, bring the old marble-topped tables back from the godown, and, abandoning decades-old tradition, open for dinner on Fridays and Saturdays. Or the family may sell – a potential buyer has come to talk to Kohinoor Sr as we chat.
If that happens, Britannia’s devotees will be bereft. But A-bhai has no cause for gloom. Romin will then start a small Britannia takeaway counter somewhere in Fort. So if Madam sends him to fetch lunch, all A-bhai must remember is to use that handbrake.
Britannia & Co Restaurant, Wakefield House, 11 Sprott Road, 16, (opp. New Customs House, nr. War Memorial), Ballard Estate, Mumbai 38. Ph: (022) 2261 5264. Open Mon-Sat, 11.30-4.00.
Berry Pulao: Ch. Rs 160; Mut. Rs 180; Veg. Rs 90. Dhansak: Ch. Rs 130, Mut. Rs 150, Veg. 90. (Huge servings: two moderate eaters can share one dish.) Also, Chicken Farcha Rs 110, Fry Bombay Duck, Fish Patra (price varies as per size), Mutton Sali Boti Rs 130. All chicken/mutton served boneless. No alcohol. No exclusively snack orders between 12.30 & 2.30.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
Sated, they trundled out to the car, where A-bhai, who had preceded them, held the door open. As he closed the door behind them, to his horror, the car rolled backwards and crunched into a tree, smashing its rear window. The shaken chauffeur had no explanation for the car’s behaviour, but film folks are nothing if not resilient, and since there was no further damage to vehicle or passengers, the company moved on, unruffled, no doubt to make Better Cinema.
Many days later, Vijay managed to cajole A-bhai into admitting, “Saab, sach boloon toh, jab madamne humko khaane ko aane ke liye bolaa, to hum uss Pulao ke khayal me itne kho gaye ki handbrake lagaana bhool gaye.”
Such, gentle reader, is the power of Britannia’s Berry Pulao.
Britannia looks like a generic member of that fast-disappearing breed, the Bombay Irani joint. High ceiling, peeling paint, bentwood chairs, thick glass protecting chequered tablecloths, a wooden mezzanine, elderly gentleman presiding over high counter at the entrance, dispensing change to the waiters, unlocking drawers to ration out precise measures of special ingredients.
But it doesn’t offer the traditional Irani dawn-to-midnight chai, bun-maska and bread pudding. It is open for only lunch, six days a week, and serves mainly Parsi food.
The owner of the mischievous eyes that greet me from behind the counter is Boman Kohinoor, who has been here since he was a schoolboy (he’s a spry eighty-four now). His father, Rashid, opened Britannia in 1923, serving mainly western food to toffs – Collectors, Officers and suchlike. During World War II, the restaurant was requisitioned for use as barracks. By 1948, when it reopened, its time in the sun had passed.
We move to one of the tables, and he delightedly shakes my hand again, on discovering that I had studied in his alma mater. His late wife, Bachan, he says, spent many years working in Iran, and returned with a trove of Iranian recipes to add to the Parsi dishes she already knew. She trained the cooks to prepare all these, and Britannia revived.
Aside from the famous Iranian Berry Pulao, the other specialities are: Fish Patra, Fried Bombay Duck, and of course, Dhansak, which like the berry pulao, is available in mutton, chicken and vegetarian varieties. But, as that inimitable Bombay foodie, the late Behram Contractor, said: “Of course, there is nothing like a vegetarian dhanshak, just as there is nothing like a non-alcoholic beer or an eggless omelette. Still, there you are. And, while I am at it, I would like to add, the only bona fide dhanshak is with mutton, not chicken.”
The usual clientele is wall-to-wall officewallas. Today, a public holiday, the pace is filled with families out to lunch. People drive in from far and near, says Kohinoor. Gerson Da Cunha, Anil Dharker, Farzana Contractor, they’re all regulars here. Dilip Vengsarkar, like so many others, sends in for takeaway. And there was this editor who would sit alone at the table near the door, reading a book while he ate his lunch. (Later, when i am leaving, the old gentleman gently, but firmly refuses my efforts to pay my bill. Mr Vinod Mehta has given us enough business, he chortles.)
A rooster’s picture adorns one wall. A stylised version on the menus is surrounded by this cheery motto: “There is no love greater than the love of eating.” Kohinoor reminisces about that rooster, a family pet, which strutted the counter in the eighties. It drank only Mangola and ate only pista-badam, except now and then, when it ate chicken. “He was a cannibal!” he informs me gleefully.
Running Britannia is tough, Romin, Kohinoor’s son, tells me. He personally buys supplies, supervises the cooks – “It’s manufacture, not trading, not like those places that only open your beer for you.”
But change is imminent. Option One: a face-lift, spruce up the place, bring the old marble-topped tables back from the godown, and, abandoning decades-old tradition, open for dinner on Fridays and Saturdays. Or the family may sell – a potential buyer has come to talk to Kohinoor Sr as we chat.
If that happens, Britannia’s devotees will be bereft. But A-bhai has no cause for gloom. Romin will then start a small Britannia takeaway counter somewhere in Fort. So if Madam sends him to fetch lunch, all A-bhai must remember is to use that handbrake.
Britannia & Co Restaurant, Wakefield House, 11 Sprott Road, 16, (opp. New Customs House, nr. War Memorial), Ballard Estate, Mumbai 38. Ph: (022) 2261 5264. Open Mon-Sat, 11.30-4.00.
Berry Pulao: Ch. Rs 160; Mut. Rs 180; Veg. Rs 90. Dhansak: Ch. Rs 130, Mut. Rs 150, Veg. 90. (Huge servings: two moderate eaters can share one dish.) Also, Chicken Farcha Rs 110, Fry Bombay Duck, Fish Patra (price varies as per size), Mutton Sali Boti Rs 130. All chicken/mutton served boneless. No alcohol. No exclusively snack orders between 12.30 & 2.30.
Published in Outlook Traveller's October 2004 issue.
Tags: Outlook Traveller
Monday, 1 March 2004
Lean Cuisine
When your wallet is on a diet.
Perhaps no one wants your dotcom shares. Or your pocket got picked on the train. Maybe you’re PGing, and they don’t let you cook, and there isn’t much money left over after the rent anyway. Or it’s the month end and Accounts has been sneering at your food vouchers. You still have to eat, but the happening joints are out of the question.
Bombay is a kind city.
There might just be a zunka bhakhar stall around, offering you wholesome Maharastrian peasant fare for the ludicrous sum of Re 1. But there aren’t many of those left after our state last changed governments.
So you look around.
There’s the sandwichvala. Choose your filling: cheese, jam, tomato-cucumber-potato-onion-beetroot. And do you want it toasted? It’s chopped into six bite-sized pieces, slid onto a piece of paper, and you’re offered a splash of ersatz ketchup with more pumpkin in it’s lineage than tomato, despite what the label says. You’re wallet’s lighter by just ten to 15 rupees. Plus a tenner for fruit juice at the next cart, the one with the mixer stealing BMC electricity.
In Nariman Point or Bandra, or near just about any local train station, search for a red cart, with the name painted in white pseudo nib stroke. Take a friend. You can do a one-by-two bowl of soup that you’ll never find in all of China for less than twenty bucks.
You want to sit down and eat? Find a street corner in South Bombay, and you’ll also find an Irani joint. Ten bucks will get you a chai and bun-maska, with sugar sprinkled on it. Or perhaps you prefer the crusty bruns? Another fiver, maybe a rupee or two more, and you can have a bread pudding as well. Or maybe you want to do a mutton potato “pattice” or a samosa with your chai instead? You’ll still get change back from a twenty.
(Oh yes, anywhere except the posh joints - read “non-AC” - tea comes pre-sweetened. If you like yours without sugar, then you’ll have to stump up extra cash for a ‘special’ tea.)
Need meat? A decent kheema at a small Muslim-run place near Mohammadali Road, Mahim, or Bandra won’t cost you more than 20 rupees. Actually, you’re unlikely to find anything on the menu that costs more than 25 bucks, with the possible exception of the Biriyani, Full.
A Maharashtrian joint (Dadar, and what used to be the mills district is a good place to find them) will serve you a spicy, soggy missal, or just the ussal, with a couple of paus. Rs 15, tops, and that’s if the man behind the counter is wearing a shirt. If he’s in a ganji, and also doing the cooking, cheaper. A plate of bhajias, or sticky, sweet malpoas would cost about the same, and the chai - very sweet, very strong - will probably cost one or two rupees more.
Of course there’s daal-rice, roasted paapad and a smidgen of pickle gratis, which you can get at almost any restaurant. Depending on the grade of the place you could pay from Rs 10 up to Rs 30, if the place has uniformed waiters.
The nearest Udupi will get you an idli sambhar, vada sambhar, or, go ahead, go wild, an idli-vada sambhar, for about Rs 12. Dosas start under Rs 20.
Those quintessentially Bombay snacks, bhelpuri and its siblings, sevpuri, dahibatatapuri, paanipuri, can be found everywhere, walking vendors, their dabbas suspended from their necks, cycles, handcarts, hole-in-the-wall stalls, family restaurants, beach stalls. Prices differ, depending on who’s serving you.
And there’s yummy pau-bhaji. The rule of thumb: the cheaper it is, the less likely you are to be able to tell the ingredients, and the more likely it is to blow the top of your head off. Anyway, there’s likely to be a man squeezing the juice out of sugarcane within earshot. Yell, and tell him no ice. You don’t want jaundice, as well as indigestion now, do you?
Need something cheaper?
Hmm. Two or three bucks almost anywhere will get you a hot vada-pau, liberally sprinkled with chilly powder. Or perhaps you’re in the mood for mixed bhajias. Potato slices, onions, chillies, if you’re lucky, spinach too, dunked in batter and fried golden brown. Eat them plain, or crammed into a pau. Look around for the guy selling ‘cutting’ chai. Half a minuscule tumbler for a buck.
Hot boiled channa shouldn’t be hard to find either, with a sprinkling of chopped onion, tomato and chilli, lime squeezed over it.
And as a last resort, there’s peanuts. Which is probably what I’m going to get paid for this column...
Published in It’s a Guy Thing (GT, for short) the Times of India Group’s Men’s magazine.
Tags: The Times of India, In Search of the Perfect..
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