Fritters for the Road

 

My Korean friend here loves eating fried food. Anything crispy, deep-fried, scrumptious. When he turns up without notice one evening, I decide to address his hunger pangs by making pakodas, quick, easy, and amazingly tasty. He is mesmerised by the first sample, and very soon, I have made two full batches of the delicacy.

Over the lip-smacking linner, he has multiple questions - Was it a Mother’s recipe? Was it an eclectic dish in India? Where had I learnt the culinary art of frying pakodas? I patiently answer all his questions over the fritters and a cup of ambrosial tea. No, it was not a mother’s recipe (maybe the tiny bits of ginger with the pinch of asafoetida was); it was a very common snack, rather street food, to be found in the lanes and by-lanes of India; as for where had I learnt the art of frying pakodas – that was a slightly longer story, perfect for the cool autumn evening laden with coke, tea and bhaji.

And the story took us years back halfway round the globe – no, not Paris this time but to the Swiss capital of Zurich.  We were heartily – and hungrily – travelling around Europe in our student exchange program. But it came at a cost – with our paltry budget, and with limited food options with vegetarian folks in the group, travelling was never easy. Our one redeemer was a biscuit brand called Sondey. High value for money, no hanky-panky content, pure chocolaty thick biscuits – a couple would be enough to make for a quick easy meal. But there were that many Sondeys you could eat – naturally, after the first few weeks, the marginal value of the biscuits began to plummet faster than a TGV train returning to Paris. And the outburst came from an unexpected person at a rather underwhelming tourist attraction.

It was none of the usual unruly suspects – not the discerning ­Daddu or his pugnacious protégé, nor the brooding-for-corporate-valuation-lessons-madam. It was the usually calm and sober Beaucoup (pronounced ‘Boku’). Now, Boku was branded with this moniker on our first day at the University when we were dragged to our French classes, and our astute instructor recognised that our friend’s surname – Agarwal – was quite common in India, that there lots of – beaucoup – Agarwals in India. What next? Forget the millions of Agarwals, our friend got uniquely re-christened to Boku for the rest of eternity. Now, as I said, Boku was of a very peaceful and calming demeanour, who hardly complained. But that day in Zurich seemed to have stretched him a bit too far. We were – as usual – a bit starved, for globetrotting was categorically prioritised over gormandizing. We also got off at an earlier stop, which meant we had to walk extra, which was perhaps over 30 mins of a hike – and the hard work to see of all of Europe’s wonders – the Rhine Falls.

The Rhine Falls is voluminous and powerful, but if you look at the drop of the water, you will admit it is an embarrassment in the world of cataracts. One look at it, and we couldn’t help laughing how ignominious was this waterfall that we had hiked ardently to tick-off our Swiss list. One of us jovially remarked that we could get to see deeper falls in the monsoon floods of Mumbai and Delhi – that was it worth the circuitous hike. It was the straw that broke Boku’s back. The next moment, Agarwal Hulk lashed at all of us, particularly the tour planners who had to seek every nook and cranny of Europe.

Boku ranted.

We listened.

He was tired - tired of the long hungry walks across towns, tired of me dragging everyone to see tiny skulls (a mistake in Bruges) or agricultural markets (another mistake in Nice), tired of Map-boy whose pages of tick-list ran thicker than the Lonely Plant guidebook on Europe, tired of this cest la vie land that dished out half cooked oysters and mustardy-rabbits as food, and finally - tired of the Sondey biscuits. If Boku was crowned the next King Louis for one second, we would have all been guillotined right there, and the Sondey biscuits from across Europe drowned in those very waters of the Rhine. He ended his rant in classic Jab we met – Anshuman style – ‘Why should I eat the Sondey biscuits? What’s so special about the Sondey biscuits? I don’t want to eat the Sondey biscuits!’  Period.

Mount Boku calmed down in no time. But the minute of Vesuvian fury left us speechless, racking our brains. What do we do? Mapboy was not forsaking any checkbox on his list, nor would we have the heart to split the Group. Our erstwhile saviour Mr. Sondey was already cenotaph-ed on the Rhine Falls. So, what then? 

Well, as the saying goes, if they can’t eat bread, let them have cakes. On that journey back, we discussed what could we do, and Mapboy - reflecting on everyone’s enthusiasm on finding hot samosas at the base of Mt Titlis - suggested to try making Pakodas.

Daddu scientifically supported the idea, given besan would expand in the tummy while the spices would release endorphins and dopamine, making the brain feel happy and excited. Now it was up to me, mister chef, to execute the plan. The only problem was I never made pakodas all my life. But with Paris as the muse, what was not possible? (We could see the Eiffel Tower glowing up with lights every day at 8pm in the kitchen, as if telling us, in the City of Lights, mon ami, what is holding you back?)

The next week passed away in testing and tasting – we got hold of besan, kalonji and mustard oil and tried a few samples. It was not bad, so on the night before our next journey, Boku and I spent considerable time in the kitchen till 1 in the night – chopping, churning, blending, beating, frying, degreasing and finally standing triumphant with beaucoup de pakodas! And food next day, on the go, was a welcome break – the fritters were not crunchy, but were tasty and filling. People were naturally in a good mood, so much so they even had Sonedays for dessert (I had sneaked in one packet).

And so it was over the next few weeks – every night prior to our journey, we would be up till late in the kitchen, perfecting the art of making pakodas, adding a bit of cumin here, basting a bit of chillis there, mastering the operations of shallow frying while Rafi and Kishore songs played in the background…Phir wohi raat hain….

As always, the group stayed together. Mapboy would finalise our travel plans, Protégé and Daddu would finish our collective homework while the latter would drop by occasionally near the stove, shivering as always in his shorts and tees, hands tucked in Vivekananda style, only to be released to whisk away a hot crispy gobi pakoda.

And that was how Boku and I turned pundits in pakoda-frying. Weeks later, when we returned to the luxury of our campus, our cooking ceased, but not the chronicles. Everytime we would find fritters on the menu, we had to go back to the ruckus near the Rhine Falls, simultaneously laughing and marvelling at the lengths we went to prove that necessity indeed was the mother of invention.

The chronicles didn’t stop at campus. Years later, even now, we do think about those days and smile.

And sometimes, I get to recount them to eager ears such as my Korean friend who has finished all the fritters and is now eying the chilled bottle of Coke – which does wonders to wash the greasy oily food off the palate.

What about drinks, he asks, as he unabashedly pours half the bottle into a long tumbler.

Drinks….Boissson (pronounced ‘bwa-son’)

Of course, there was, plenty of them, but that has to wait for another soiree on another day….

15^th July, 2023