After that dish, I was ready for the main event. Pressed duck is an entire roasted duck, cooked at a very high temperature for only twenty-five or thirty minutes, which essentially crisps the skin and ensures that the rest of the duck is warm but very rare. At that point, the muscle just begins to tighten with the heat, allowing you to cut away the legs and carcass, as well as bone out the breasts with ease, slicing the meat paper thin. The bones, skin, and all the rest of the body-cavity viscera are placed in a cup that resides in a large, silver contraption resembling a giant French coffee press. The cup has many holes and works as a colander as you wind a handle, which smashes the contents, releasing the blood and liquids from the duck into a beautiful silver bowl. Next, it is skimmed and strained. The juices are reduced tableside with wine and stock. This deep, rich, earthy wine sauce—basically thickened with the animal’s own blood and juices—is poured over the thinly sliced duck. And that’s all it is; that’s what the dish is about. For anyone who appreciates food, it’s a must-see, must-eat. Words cannot describe the simplicity of this dish and the complexity of its flavor. It’s deep and minerally in a good way, but the tannic wine notes pull back the sanguine quality of the rest of the sauce. The duck itself dissolves in the mouth.
After tasting Rostang’s pressed duck, I’d come full circle, tasting my way across all of Paris. I thanked him profusely, then excused myself from the table (surprise, I had no room for dessert), flopped into the car, and crawled up to my hotel room. I took a long shower and crashed into bed to try and digest. I reflected on this incredible food day, trying to wrap my head around all the amazing things I’d eaten and just how lucky I was.
I spotted my knapsack in the corner of the room and noticed a small bag poking out of it. I crept over and pulled out a bag of cookies and mini tarts that I still hadn’t finished from my morning trip to Poilâne Bakery. I ended my day as I had started it, with a little sweet from Poilâne Bakery, and if you have a food day that can beat that one, I’d love to hear about it.
Welcome to a Wazwan
The Meal That Nearly Killed Me
ne of the best meals of my life also happened to take the longest to physically consume. It also was the meal that began the latest in the evening and finished the earliest in the morning. To get the full picture of it, we sort of have to backtrack.
India, much like its food, is complex and teeming with contrasts. Its capital city of Delhi perfectly exemplifies the zeitgeist: gritty and ugly, yet simultaneously elegant. It’s modern and ancient, affluent and poor. It’s a city of Sikh temples and red clay mosques. There is poverty and sickness. There are beggars in the streets, as well as serene parks and gorgeous architecture. It’s an international megacity, with more than 13 million people, making it the second largest in India. There are dozens of indigenous ethnic groups and religious cultures. Throw in the expats and the thriving tourist business and you can see why Delhi is a pretty potent cultural masala. From some of the best restaurants in the world to humble everyday cafés, you can find every one of the many Indian cuisines represented in Delhi. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to dive mouth first into several.
Delhi is the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, going back at least 2,500 years. The ruins of seven other cities have been discovered there, and it is said that Delhi’s food descended from the medieval lashkars who were garrisoned around the forts of the old capitol. Today Shahjahanabad, or Old Delhi, is home to an army of office-goers and shopkeepers who trade in everything from spices to tapestries, bridal trusseaux to electrical fittings. If you venture through the tangle of streets and dark alleys into busy boulevards, you are likely to find surprises lurking around the corner, especially when it comes to street food.
Traditional street foods are continuously bulldozed under in a busy, hectic city like Delhi; the creep and crawl of expansionism forces them out physically, and the legal process forces them out before they ever go into business. But you can find cold, spiced milk froth, tiny stands that serve nahari, and vendors selling fruit puree sandwiches. I explored Charri Road and sampled all these goodies there. Food and eating are such a strong element of each and every Indian culture. And interestingly, the one thing that brings most people together in most parts of the world is often what keeps people apart in India. Culture and religion in India segregate people, especially when it comes to food. Some eat meat. Some won’t even allow meat inside their homes. Some fast in order to be closer to God; some others say fasting is the path to weakness and is therefore evil.
I visited one place, however, where all cultures, all religions, all walks of life can sit down side by side and share a meal: the Langar of the Gurdwara Bangla Sahib, also known as the Kitchens of the Sikh Temples. Sikh culture promotes nonviolence and vegetarianism. Sikhs are strong believers in Karma and attribute karmic values to everything they do, including the air they breathe, the water they use, the light of the sun and moon, as well as the food they eat. Sikhs are considered the most egalitarian society in the world. This ideology is embodied in the two daily meals served at Gurdwara Bangla Sahib, where anyone can volunteer to cook in the langar, or kitchen, and thousands of people from every race and religion are welcome to eat free of charge. They serve between eight and nine thousand visitors daily, with no division between a lunch and dinner hour. It’s always mealtime at the langar, and everyone who enters understands that the food is an offering from God. It’s more a place of community and spiritual experience than simply a setting for a meal.
The food served at the temple is by no means fancy, consisting of basic staples: dahl, a spicy dish made from lentils, tomatoes, and onions; roti, an unleavened griddle-baked flatbread; and curried vegetables. I helped roll out roti, then stew the dahl and vegetables, which went on to feed thousands of my newest friends. As we all ate together on the cold, marble floor of the temple, I couldn’t help but think that this meal was what humanity is all about. Literally sharing food and culture. It was quite fantastic, although I must admit, I was glad to be excluded from dishwashing duty.
Interestingly, a simple ingredient also has the ability to bridge the gap between religious and cultural sects. Where religions demand adherence to exclusive diets, milk is one of the only items common in India in homes across the nation. To the Hindus, who make up more than 80 percent of the Indian population, the cow is revered as sacred. Thus, milk is a sacred ingredient, often used not only in food, but for spiritual cleansing purposes as well. Believe it or not, India is the largest producer of milk in the world (eat your heart out, Wisconsin). Drinking milk isn’t all that weird to Americans, although I find it incredibly interesting that human beings thrive on this white secretion from the mammary glands of cows.
From main dishes to specialty drinks, milk plays a huge role in Indian cooking. Not all Delhites are comfortable with the suspect processed version that you and I buy at the supermarket. Instead, they rely on fresh milk from the cows down the street, and, yes, in one of the largest cities in the world, the milkman keeps his own cows in his own house and delivers milk daily. He milks the cows into large cans, hangs them off the handlebars of his scooter, and off he goes. I tagged along with one of these guys and watched his delivery, which allowed me to visit the Indian sweetshops where they use milk to make some of the world’s best desserts. Kulfi, a favorite dessert of mine, is essentially the Indian ice cream that comes in a variety of unlikely flavors, such as rosewater, pistachio, and saffron. The milk used in this treat is simmered down, not whipped, which results in a solid, dense frozen dessert similar to frozen custard. We always think of Paris and Italy as the global leaders in the sweet departments. Nobody ever thinks of countries like India and Japan, despite their great tradition with them.
I encountered many other unique dining traditions in the city. Old Delhi’s jam-packed and bustling Nizamuddin neighborhood is the place to experience the red-meat-rich (they typically opt for buffalo) Muslim cuisine firsthand. Located just outside Jamaat Khana Masjid, Delhi’s largest
Muslim mosque, this area boasts many authentic Moghul cafés, where I indulged in nayaab maghz masala, or mutton brain, cooked with cheese curds and curry. They’re also well-known for kalije, which is a savory liver-and-kidney stew, chopped kidneys and testicles, as well as nalli nihari, a spicy stew made with buffalo marrow and buffalo feet and skin.
And then there is Bengali cuisine, which hails from India’s eastern state of West Bengal. Bengal’s culinary traditions are founded on the rich selection there of grains, sea foods, bananas, and spices, primarily their customized blend of nygela, made of black mustard, fenugreek, fennel, and cumin seeds. I visited one of Delhi’s newer neighborhoods, Nehru Place, where I had the pleasure of cooking lunch with chef Joy Banerjee. Joy is an expert on Bengali food and specializes in re-creating family recipes of a bygone era. He mans the kitchen at Oh! Calcutta, named after the avant-garde Broadway musical from the 1960s.
Despite the fact that Oh! Calcutta may be one of the worst restaurant names of all time, cooking lunch with Joy was one of the best eating experiences of my Indian sojourn. The banana is extremely popular in Bengali cuisine, mostly because it’s convenient and abundant. Additionally, every part of the plant—flower to trunk—is edible. After watching the complex preparation of each banana specialty, which included peeling the banana tree trunk itself and exposing the heart of a foot-long blossom and stuffing the leaves, I feasted on Bengali dishes like sautéed tree trunks, fish bathed in mustard oil and wrapped in banana leaves, and moocher ghona, a dish whose centerpiece are the foot-long banana flowers.
In addition to offering some amazing street food and wonderful cafés, Delhi also houses some of the best fine dining in the world. Bukhara, a tandoori eatery Restaurant Magazine has often touted as the best restaurant in Asia, is one such place. It’s a see-and-be-seen favorite of rock stars, presidents, and royalty, and a must-go for any restaurant aficionado. The food is exquisite. Their tandoori is beyond compare, and I’ve eaten tandoori in the best street stalls and most elegant restaurants globally. Bukhara does simple tandoori cooking better than anybody—it’s magical. What’s more, the casual atmosphere in a place as renowned as Bukhara is rather bizarre in and of itself. The dishes are unpretentious, and patrons are urged to eat not with silverware but with their hands. In fact, the chef insists on it, claiming it brings the whole eating experience to a heightened level, giving diners a deeper connection to the food.
These snapshots of Delhi’s dining scene depict a piece of a puzzle that, when put together, create the vibrant food culture that is Delhi. Each piece on its own would make for a great story; however, no single experience can compare to the deeply complex and lavish meal I had with a group of Kashmiri hipsters.
Food in the Indian state of Kashmir isn’t just about eating, it’s an all-sensory sacred tradition. Kashmir cuisine is as much about art and style and ritual as it is about the food. I’ve met Kashmirs while traveling through India, growing up in New York, as well as in Minnesota, where I’ve been living for nearly eighteen years. Without question, these folks are some of the most outgoing and outrageous personalities I’ve ever met. They are all about the party. That boisterous characteristic is not very surprising, considering that the state was a big hub for every spice and silk route that you have ever seen on an ancient map. Persian, Afghan, and Central Asian merchants passed through the area, and while for many it was just a stop along the way, their influence stuck with the Kashmir people.
Kashmir dining traditions are lavish and decadent, with an obvious passion for hospitality. Traditionally, Kashmir hosts lay out all the food that he has at home before his guests. Then the guests fulfill their role by doing full justice to the meal—and thus was the Wazwan feast born. A Wazwan meal can consist of as many as forty courses. Organizing this meal is not for the faint of heart (nor is eating it, as I soon found out). Not only must the host select the numerous courses, he or she must also be willing to perform certain traditional ceremonies that accompany each dish.
Leave it to renowned Kashmiri fashion designer Rohit Bal to take on the daunting task of creating one seriously over-the-top Wazwan feast. These meals often entail many days of preparation and hours of cooking. I received the invite the first night that I landed in Delhi. And while I was completely wiped from traveling, I could not resist the opportunity to hang with this guy. Torturously fun-loving Ronit enjoys a good party—I mean, he’s the Isaac Mizrahi of India, after all. I couldn’t think of a better host for this kind of spirited feast, which is typically for special occasions and weddings these days. The colorful meal is really a ritual in and of itself, the preparation of which is considered an art form. The chefs, who are called wazas, pass this trade on through the apprentice system, from chef to chef to chef. While the traditional number of courses is thirty-six, there are sometimes a few more or less, and the preparation is traditionally done by the vasta vasa, or head chef, with the assistance of wazas.
I arrived at Rohit’s home, located in one of the glitzier sections of Delhi. His neighborhood is absolutely beautiful, complete with parks and oversized three- and four-story brownstone homes. Rohit lives on the top floor of one of these gorgeous buildings. Even though it was 10 P.M., I was one of the first guests to arrive. As we entered Bal’s home, I could smell food coming from all over the place, but curiously, his kitchen was empty. Apparently, the wazas had spent the previous twenty-four hours cooking, chopping, dicing, pureeing, boiling, sautéing, and baking in the hallways of his building. The wazas arrive with pots and pan, burners and bowls, cutting boards and curios, and they take over. I may have been the first guest to arrive, but I was certainly not the first to start partying. The host and a couple of his inside coterie started partying much earlier. You know how some people have a cocktail or two before guests arrive, just to kind of quiet the nerves? That’s Rohit Bal in the extreme. They were nervous hosts, and if I’d been in his shoes, I may have been on edge as well. The parade of models, filmmakers, restaurateurs, designers, and TV anchors … it was as if a Who’s Who of Delhi society paraded into his house that night, as well as several childhood friends from Kashmir. Drinks flowed heavily, and food was absent. There were no appetizers. I found that really curious until I realized that no person in their right mind would want an appetizer before downing a thirty-six course meal.
So there I am, the American sober guy, surrounded by beautiful Indian A-listers, downing booze like frat boys on spring break. I was nervous. I mean, I didn’t know anybody at the party, and everybody looked so fabulous. Within no time, the Kashmiri knack for hospitality kicked in, and I started getting into the groove. The evening ended up being a real learning experience in Indian high society. I didn’t just learn about food, I learned how to pose for a picture. Rohit, who regards events as an art form, hired a photographer to document everything. Apparently, a great photo involves leaning out over your waist slightly and tilting your head down just enough to hide a double chin. And you must stare down the camera, looking very severe. It’s quite something.
After about an hour and a half, we finally sat down for dinner. Rohit cleared out his entire living room, outfitted with bright lights and a Cashmerian silk carpet. Everyone was seated on the floor, in groups of three or four, on top of gorgeous pillows in a semicircle, where we began with the first ritual of the evening. A Tash-t-Nari, an ornate silver basin, is passed by the attendants for guests to wash their hands. This ritual is less about hygiene than it is about symbolizing the cleansing of the soul and ridding yourself of negative energies.
Next, large serving dishes are piled high with heaps of rice, then divided into four quadrants with seekh kebabs, which are made up of ground, tubular meat sausages that have been skewered and grilled. It’s perfect for this kind of shared meal—four guests get to eat off the same plate, but everyone has their own personal zone. Four pieces of different types of purees and yogurt sauces and sides of barbecued lamb ribs sit in the platter as well. The meal is accompanied by yogurt that is garnished with Kashmiri saf
fron and different salads and pickles and dips, and you just kind of start eating the moment the food arrives.
One of the cornerstones of the wazwan is making a whole lamb part of the process, ensuring that every piece of the lamb is utilized. The most notable ingredients in Kashmiri cuisine are lamb and mutton. More than thirty varieties of lamb are raised in that part of the world, and this multicourse meal makes use of the animal in nearly every dish. It’s even considered a sacrilege in some serious Kashmir homes to serve any dishes that are based around lentils or grains during the feast. We were offered handfuls of fried lamb ribs dusted in turmeric, chilies, and lime. It was deliciously fatty and rich, which from a flavor standpoint I absolutely love. However, and I kid you not, after two or three of these mini racks of ribs I was almost full. At that point, it was almost midnight; I’m ready to go to sleep. But the next thing you know, the food starts pouring in.
Every time you finished a course, more food would arrive. Fried lotus stems. Cottage cheese squares. Bowls of chilies and radishes and walnut chutneys. A parade of four or five different stewed lamb dishes, one after another after another. Lamb curry cooked in milk. Jellied bouillon made from the meat and bones. Eggplant and apple stew. Rogan josh, a very spicy lamb stew. Another lamb stew made with tree resin. Mustard oil-based roast lamb. Cockscombs. Saffron-infused lamb. But the highlight was gushtab. I know this doesn’t sound very luxurious, but I think of this hallmark dish as lamb bologna balls. Food books describe them as balls of chopped lamb with spices, and cooked in oil, milk, and curds. That doesn’t even begin to describe the process. The chefs take raw lamb, a bit of garlic, and some mild spices and begin to pound it with a mortar and pestle, adding handfuls of minced fat as they go. I spoke to one of the wazas, who explained how they literally pound this stuff for hours, basically fluffing it up, then demolishing it into a paste. They don’t pass it through a sieve, but it literally takes on the texture of a hot dog. It sounds almost like I’m denigrating it to say it tastes like bologna, but it tastes like the best lamb bologna you ever ate. So light, with so much fat beaten into it. It holds a ball shape so you can cut it with a knife, and even though it has a hot dog-like chew to it, it also has this melting, unctuous quality—it disappears down your throat as quickly as you’re chewing it. It’s one of the most glorious dishes that I have ever tasted.
The Bizarre Truth Page 13