It’s been a wait for the Bamboo. I first noticed the space many months ago, on another visit to The Park, but it only opened its doors in late August. When we visited, it was empty. On a Saturday evening. A cricket match being telecast at that time probably had much to do with it; there’s no widescreen TV Bamboo, unlike the bar and Zest, their other restaurant, to the disappointment of your dedicated reviewer. But there’s a lot else missing here—no paper lanterns, no red walls, not a brush-stroke typeface in sight—hoorah! But the design overdoes, it I think. Stainless-steel chopsticks? Doesn’t work for me. But enough about the decor.
We start by asking whether there was any Chinese hooch to wash down the travel dust, and whether there was a tasting menu. ‘No,’ and ‘huh?’ respectively, we’re told. So we decide on a beer with our starters. The sea bass baked in the hollow of a split length of bamboo (Rs 695), our waiter’s recommendation, is impressively presented and tastes wonderful, but to my mind, not wonderful enough for the price. The barbequed pork ribs (Rs 225) are excellent—tender, meat easily persuaded off the bone, nice sauce. Our other big production number is the Peking Duck (Rs 350 for a quarter portion). Pancakes ceremonially placed on plates, sweet bean sauce proffered for us to smear, then some crunchy greens and the strips of duck. Lips smacked all around.
Main course. The Lo Han noodles (Rs 245) with extra shrimp topping (Rs 50) is light and tasty, though the topping is all at the bottom (I got four of them off the last spoonful served to us). The Bamboo Rice (Rs 195), sticky rice served in a bamboo vessel, has us wondering why such a fuss was being made of steamed rice. The Beef Tenderloin (Rs 395) got the twelve-year-old at out table up in arms: not another sweet sauce, she says in disgust, stabbing it with the wooden chopsticks the waiter provided us with when we made fun of the metal stuff. She is mollified somewhat by the Fuyang Prawns (Rs 525), prawn wrapped in thin slices of chicken, which has a distinct bite too the sauce, but, to my relief (I’m a wimp when it comes to spicy food), not enough to overwhelm the prawn. The Long Jing tea I sip between courses isn’t complementary (Rs 95 for a cup barely larger than a thimble). Its task could have been as well performed by a glass of water. Chef Li’s Sweethearts (Rs 245), dimsum with ice cream, for dessert is okay—it looks like modak, says the pre-teen—but underwhelming considering it bears the chef’s name.
We pay, we scuttle off quickly. We can still catch the last of the match at Zest for the price of a coffee. India wins!
Peter Griffin
Bamboo, The Park Navi Mumbai, No 1, Sector 10, CBD Belapur, Navi Mumbai 400614. Tel: +91 22 2758 9000. Open 7.00pm-11.45pm. No service tax , 12.5% VAT. Meal for two without alcohol, Rs 1200.
Published in Time Out Mumbai, September 2007.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Saturday, 15 September 2007
Monday, 10 September 2007
Vicious Circle
In the building where I once lived in the quieter, older, mainly residential part of Vashi, there was a bar that had, ahem, waitresses. It meant that there were always autorickshaws available near my house late in the night, and frequent entertaining vocabulary enhancement when the ladies had disagreements behind the joint. The place went through several changes of management and name—the basic service offering staying constant—until, just before we moved, the place got respectable. It still served booze, but the ladies were replaced with surly lads, families were welcome (the new owner invited the entire colony over for a meal when it opened) and it kept legal closing hours.
Some months ago, in synch with the property boom in Concreteville-by-the-creek, the place reinvented itself once more. Now called Vicious Circle, the place looks like a haven for the moderately well-heeled BPO exec: all glass, gleam and, well, decor. But. A large TV screen occupies one wall, making conversation a little difficult. The seating looks good, but is made uncomfortable by the way the table are jammed together; you’re constantly treading on the toes of your dinner partner.
Reading the long menu (the usual personality-challenged multi-cuisine mix) was thirsty work; we needed a beer to keep us going. Sneering at the papad and slices of cucumber and carrot that came with the drinks, we selected the Mutton Boti Kabab (Rs 170) for a starter. Pretty good, juicy boneless botis and a layer of kheema, mildy spiced; but it could do without the wilting bits of veggie garnish.
Next, slaves to duty, we sampled briefly from the cocktail menu. My friend’s Rain Killer (dark rum, white rum, OJ and honey, Rs 120) surprised me by being rather good; I hate rum, usually. But we both agreed that my Scotch Sour (scotch, fresh lime, sugar syrup and egg white) was even better, with more mule ancestry too, though I didn’t like the sticky after-taste of the egg-white froth. One must note here that while the service is attentive and prompt, our waiter kept rearranging things unasked. When he moved my glass for the second time, after I had moved it back where I wanted it with a very ostentatious thump, he lost two-thirds of his tip.
The Paya Soup (Rs 70) came in, and was pronounced genuine by my friend, a Sarvi connoisseur. I skipped that to save room for dessert. Our Mutton Vindaloo (Rs 160) was quite palatable, but didn’t taste at all like a vindaloo should; they seem to have forgotten the vinegar. My Rumali Roti (Rs 25) worked better with the mutton curry—that’s really what it was—than my companion’s rather injudicious Cheese Naan (Rs 40), which was a respectable snack on its own.
The desserts section on the menu was the slimmest, and rather uninviting. I plumped for the Doodhi Halwa (Rs 55), and regretted it: oily, rather tasteless.
Burping genteelly, we exited into the night, the last customers out. There were no rickshaws. The ladies must be giggling.
Peter Griffin
Vicious Circle, Shop 1 &2, F-Type, Sector 7, Vashi, Navi Mumbai. (2782-7272). Meal for two without alcohol, Rs 600. All credit cards accepted, except Diners. No debit cards.
Published in Time Out Mumbai, September 2007.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
Some months ago, in synch with the property boom in Concreteville-by-the-creek, the place reinvented itself once more. Now called Vicious Circle, the place looks like a haven for the moderately well-heeled BPO exec: all glass, gleam and, well, decor. But. A large TV screen occupies one wall, making conversation a little difficult. The seating looks good, but is made uncomfortable by the way the table are jammed together; you’re constantly treading on the toes of your dinner partner.
Reading the long menu (the usual personality-challenged multi-cuisine mix) was thirsty work; we needed a beer to keep us going. Sneering at the papad and slices of cucumber and carrot that came with the drinks, we selected the Mutton Boti Kabab (Rs 170) for a starter. Pretty good, juicy boneless botis and a layer of kheema, mildy spiced; but it could do without the wilting bits of veggie garnish.
Next, slaves to duty, we sampled briefly from the cocktail menu. My friend’s Rain Killer (dark rum, white rum, OJ and honey, Rs 120) surprised me by being rather good; I hate rum, usually. But we both agreed that my Scotch Sour (scotch, fresh lime, sugar syrup and egg white) was even better, with more mule ancestry too, though I didn’t like the sticky after-taste of the egg-white froth. One must note here that while the service is attentive and prompt, our waiter kept rearranging things unasked. When he moved my glass for the second time, after I had moved it back where I wanted it with a very ostentatious thump, he lost two-thirds of his tip.
The Paya Soup (Rs 70) came in, and was pronounced genuine by my friend, a Sarvi connoisseur. I skipped that to save room for dessert. Our Mutton Vindaloo (Rs 160) was quite palatable, but didn’t taste at all like a vindaloo should; they seem to have forgotten the vinegar. My Rumali Roti (Rs 25) worked better with the mutton curry—that’s really what it was—than my companion’s rather injudicious Cheese Naan (Rs 40), which was a respectable snack on its own.
The desserts section on the menu was the slimmest, and rather uninviting. I plumped for the Doodhi Halwa (Rs 55), and regretted it: oily, rather tasteless.
Burping genteelly, we exited into the night, the last customers out. There were no rickshaws. The ladies must be giggling.
Peter Griffin
Vicious Circle, Shop 1 &2, F-Type, Sector 7, Vashi, Navi Mumbai. (2782-7272). Meal for two without alcohol, Rs 600. All credit cards accepted, except Diners. No debit cards.
Published in Time Out Mumbai, September 2007.
Tags: Time Out, Mumbai
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
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
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
Wednesday, 1 June 2005
The Sula Vineyards Tasting Room
If you find yourself passing Nashik, and you feel the need to irrigate your throat a bit, drop by the Sula vineyards.
You can take a guided tour of the winery, with a tasting and a mini wine appreciation session thrown in (swirl, sniff, sip, repeat). If you wanna drink shome more, you can hook a leg on the bar rail, or shtagger out – glass door, be careful – to the sheating area, a large balcony, open on three shides, with a panra... panoram... lovely view of vineyards, lake in middle distansh, and the hillsh for, wossisname, variety. Wee li’l chairsh. You could fall off. And when you’re done, you can buy up a few botts at factory ratesh. Cheersh. Don’t drink and drive, now.
The Sula Tasting Room is open to the public (Sun, Tue-Thu: 11:00 am – 7:30 pm, Fri-Sat: 11:00 am – 9:30 pm, Closed Mondays). Tour + Tasting, Rs 100. More wine as per rate card. You can nibble at a cheese platter while you sip. No meals served, but lunch can be organised for large groups with prior notice. Email visitsula@sulawines.com or call 0253 2331663 to arrange your tour. Sula’s website - sulawines.com - has instructions on how to get there.
Photo: Abhijit Bhatlekar
Published in Outloook Traveller, June edition, as the text below a photospread.
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..
Thursday, 30 May 2002
Á la cart
In Search Of... A Midnight Snack.
’Tis late. Hunger strikes. The fridge is either empty or far away. You are solvent, of sane mind and reasonably cast-iron digestion.All the “decent” restaurants are closed. If you want to sit down and eat, it’s either a shady bar, with loud music and, ahem, waitresses, or a 5-Star coffee shop, where the obscenities are all in the right hand column.
Fear not. For the price of a cab ride (or petrol money, if ye are of independent wheels), sustenance may be had without too much of a pain-in-the-billfold. For thou art in Mumbai, Urbs Primus in Indus, the city that never sleeps (borrowed, that, but true), but loves to eat. Just hit the road, and keep an ear peeled for the clatter of ladle against tavaa. Then follow your nose to the nearest cart.
For a start, there’s the pau-bhaji chappies who peddle their fiery fare near VT, on the edge of Azad Maidan. Also available, vada paus, eggs – bhurji, omelettes, half-fry, or as-you-like-it- provided-it’s-oily, and boiled eggs – and sweet, overboiled “cutting” chai. Churchgate’s environs offer similar fare, but not as late, and there’s less variety.
Moving on, and north, Mohammadali Road during Ramzan is a good idea. Especially if it’s so late it’s very early. The restaurants and carts are all abuzz, rustling up delicious, decidedly non-vegetarian pre-dawn sustenance for the faithful. Ditto for Mahim and the area near Bandra station.
Further afield, if you’re near Worli Naka, cast your eyes down the shadowy minor roads. If haven’t been shooed away by the cops, you’ll find carts with the usual bhurji and pau-bhaji.
Dadar station yields provender too. On the West, mainly bhurji vendors under the flyover, but the East, thanks to Central Railway’s terminating a few trains there, and even more thanks to the usual tardiness of the said trains, offers a leetle more. Eggs, of course, plus sundry dishes with “masala” tacked on to the end of their names - which means there’s gravy. A few minutes away, on the main road, there’s a sandwich guy - not a cart, a roadside stall, but he’s in this piece for variety and your cholesterol. Peer carefully - post midnight, his lights are off. But he’ll make you a simple sandwich - jam, cheese, or tomatoes and whatever other veggies are going, and i do believe i once saw baked beans. He’ll even toast it for you for a coupla bucks extra. He also has fruit juices.
In Sion, near the railway station, you kind find simple South Indian fare. Steaming idlis, dosas too. The sambhar is usually excellent, but be wary of the chutney; coconut tends to spoil easily. Yes, more eggs.
All the way into the suburbs, the story continues. Enough people stagger home from the sapping commute to keep many a cart in business. Which is why you’re more likely to find them near railways stations.
Don’t expect much more, though, than the greasy fare you find downtown. But, as consolation, you can wash down your meal with a little steel tumbler of coffee, retailed by entrepreneurial lads on bicycles. They’re easily spotted, here, and near traffic signals, because of the large stainless steel urn tied to the back of the bike, and rinsing bucket slung from the handlebars. Besides giving them a far wider range – they’re usually on the move from signal to taxi stand to bus stop – i guess the cycles also let them disappear more quickly down the nearest bylane when a spoilsport cop van is spotted.
(To be fair, the police don’t normally get tough with the night carts. They seem to recognise that they’re just hardworking souls catering to other hardworking souls and turn a blind eye. Besides, our tireless boys in khaki need food and caffeine too!)
Ah yes, the coffee. It isn’t filter, just a cheap instant, and the hot milk-water mixture in the urns is pre-sweetened, so sucks to you if you’re calorie counting.
But it’s strong, and hot, just what you need to keep you awake on your way home to your antacids.
Published in the Times of India’s Mumbai edition, In Search Of, under the completely grotty title, "Midnight Chowboy."
In Search Of was a weekly column that focussed on a different food-related topic each week. Another sadly discontinued TOI feature.
Tags: The Times of India, In Search of the Perfect..
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