The Food

I'm sorry I have no pictures. I left my phone in the room when I wandered down to the kitchen to grab a Kingfisher from the fridge and caught a meal in the making. A viscous white liquid bubbled in a very large pot, while the wok next to it simmered furiously, a collection of vegetables and chili and ingredients not unforeign to MacBeth. Green lentils stood by. Around the counter something seethed in a pan, obscured by an ill-fitting lid, steam escaping. Upon reflection, I think that was the point. A black cat wandered through, complaining loudly.

I've never eaten this well in India. After yesterday's rava dosa, and the following dinner (can I talk to you more about those prawns? and the pepper mango swathed in the devil's own chutney?), today's lunch combined the known—murgh makhani, onion pulao—with the unknown—a red pickle of sorts coated with sesame—to my favorite thing of all: tava keema.

The tava is a sort of Mongolian grill, but smaller. It's a barbeque on a plancha, ridiculously hot cast iron over a flame. Lamb shanks on one side, and seriously marinaded, seriously hot ground lamb on the other. Wrap that stuff in a paratha, dump some raita and salad on top, and you've got what I call an Indian taco. It is easily the best taco on the planet, though I got some funny looks for the innovative assembly.

Speaking of which, there's a market for good Mexican street food here.

Anyway, my hosts are most gracious, and they humor me. I want to learn everything, and the one older gentleman who speaks limited English put up with my inquiries: they purchase 4.5 pounds of red chili powder every month; 12 onions each day is normal for four people; all the burners use individual propane because you can't trust the power; and, oh, what's under that pan with the ill fitting lid?

I caught a peek. I got a bite, or five, but not until I'd examined the scaling, the scoring, the seasoning. Salt, red chili, and lime. That's all. In an old cast iron skillet, in a quarter inch of sunflower oil. It must be sunflower.

River fish. Small, maybe 8 inches long. They pulled one out for me because that's the kind of people they are. It was perfect. It was glorious.

I tend to write a lot about food because I regard the planet as one enormous buffet and I've tried nearly everything on the menu, but this fish, from this little faculty residence, managed by a small family with one very cute kid, there is no comparison.