beingdesh

Tag: Shimla

  • Recalling Indian Coffee House

    I am a frequent visitor to the multiple coffee shops in Mumbai. During these visits I have developed a special affection for the filter coffee joints at Matunga, and a growing admiration for the multiple homegrown and international brands setting shop in the city. But for me, and many more like me, coffee had humble beginnings. Sometime it was the whisked, often cardamom-flavored home made Nescafe, or the shake-shake-shake blue plastic shaker mixed cold coffee, or the tongue-tingling espresso served at weddings. But none of the experiences have left a deeper impression on my memory than the turban-clad waiters of the Indian Coffee House. And more than the Coffee, this note is about the institution which will always remind me of the word Coffee.

    Indian Coffee House or ICH are restaurants run by a set of co-operative societies across the country with strong presence across Kerala, Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, and some other cities including Bangalore, Kolkata and Shimla. They have their origins in the Coffee Board of India, and were the first proponents of the coffee-promotion movement some 60 odd years back. Apart from the Coffee they serve, their menu also includes breakfast snacks, primarily South Indian, eggs made in different styles, cutlets, their unique version of Chana-bhaturas, with some branches even serving the full meal. They also have a catering business spawning majorly Public Sector Enterprises.

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    Indian Coffee House at NTPC Township, Korba

    As a child growing up in a small Chhattisgarh township in Korba, ICH was the epitome of having a good time. In those days when eating out was a rarity and swallowing fizzy drinks a luxury, ICH was a break from the routine, one of the only ways of us spending some money on pampering ourselves. It was a destination for family dinners and get-togethers, for some memorable birthday treats, and the best place for watching the annual ritual of township Dusshera celebration (it was mighty difficult to get a good spot, but a Gold Spot did come to rescue).

    Drawing from the words of my childhood friend, there was and always will be a certain charm about ICH. I might expect some of the younger kids to go in and find the place a bit morose by coffee shop standards, but then perceptions of all things which I fancied as a kid has changed.

    At ICH the dishes were served on thick china plates, something we were not used to at home. The waiters moved around in a quick orderly fashion, with the right hand carrying the serving tray, exactly raised to shoulder length. Their walking was accompanied with a clinging sound of shiny Salem steel cutlery hitting the china. We also learned our first lessons of slightly alien-table manners (using cutlery- knife and fork, wiping hands using tissues), although I personally never got a hang of it. I am still not comfortable eating that way. The glasses reminded me of a curved conical frustum, something which we did come to haunt us during our Xth board Mathematics examination.

    The interiors were mostly dull with the only striking colors noticed on the ribbon stripes of turbans wore by waiters. I could never figure out the color coding though, it was green for some, and maroon for others, with a rare occurrence of navy blue. The smell of Sambhar dominated the air, pleasantly interrupted by the fragrant whiff of Khus from the Water Cooler and the scent of freshly brewed Filter Coffee from the kitchen. Add to that the wonderful sound of forks and spoons hitting the cutlery while eating and ICH ruled all our senses.

    But the sense of taste was never undermined. All variants of Dosa were served fresh and crisp, and yes you could always ask the waiter uncle to make it extra crispy. The Chutney was more daal than coconut kinds, and the sambhar had a majority share of pumpkins and drumsticks. The Wadas were crisp, Idilis soft, Omelets as trustworthy as ever, French Toasts unique, and Cutlets delightful with those chunky pieces of beetroot and carrot. Rs. 14 could buy you a Masala Dosa, Rs. 16 a Special Masala Dosa (with two pieces of cashew nuts in the masala to make it special), Rs. 12 a plate of Idli, and Rs. 6 a filter coffee (this must be the rates in the mid 90s I guess). And yes the Coffee was a delight. I was introduced to the magic of Filter Coffee here, for which I would be forever indebted to ICH.

    I have faint memories of dessert too, they kept Dinshaw’s Ice Cream (a Nagpur based brand prevalent in Central India), a kitchen-made Vanilla Ice-Cream (frozen custard, topped with Fruits). The Lassi Ice-Cream combo was good too.

    And when the meal ended, the bill was always brought to you neatly tucked in a pile of saunf. Tips if any were all stuffed in a common piggy bank kept on the manager’s desk.

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    Indian Coffee House at The Mall, Shimla

    Over the years I have got a chance to visit Indian Coffee House across various cities. Delhi’s ICH is at Connaught Place is now a poor cousin of the much popular United Coffee House (not related to the society) and is not in a good shape, and Shimla’s ICH is a place dominated by Lawyers and Government Officers at the Mall which does give it a very true to the ICH feel (there is a new one at Kasumpti now, very dull though). ICH’s across Kerala are the busiest, with people from all age groups coming in for a Coffee and a Cutlet (Beef Cutlets were visibly selling more), and the Bangalore one has been relocated to a neat and new location on Church Street from MG Road post the Metro construction. But it is MP and Chhattisgarh which have kept the institution running outside Kerala in a well spread out and popular manner. I do want to visit the ICHs across Kolkata though, have heard they still retain the old world ICH Charm.

    I am scared that like all things good, ICH will cease to exist in a few years from now. So what is the place of an age-old institution with socialist roots in the new India with chic cafes and upmarket restaurants?

    Their place is sealed in my memories, forever.

    With inputs from Amey.

  • The Shimla Affair – Chapter II

    Continued from Part I…

    Slowly and steadily the flavors of Shimla were building on me, or probably building a better me. The daily dose of the forgettable Kadhi, the ever so delightful daal, and ghee-moistened rotis served by those beautiful long slender fingers were adding a new dimension to my life. One beyond infatuation, adding a slight crispiness to romantic fascinations of  teenage years, and semi-serious indulgences of recent times. It was a 70s movie refashioned for present day consumption, Engineer guy arrives from big city, falls for a Pahadi girl while working on a dam project, impregnates her on “that” lightening-struck, stormy evening, overcomes all difficulties and lives happily ever after. The story was slightly different though, I wasn’t working on any dam project, there were no song and dance routines, I had hardly touched her, and yes the biggest thing, I had never talked to her.

    Sitting one night at my haunted accommodation, and listening to my still talking-on-phone friend, I had an idea. Well it wasn’t a stroke of genius , but writing letters was my thing. And I knew this would work. So I added a note, written in a dyslexia-smitten Hindi writing. I had asked her to meet me at Krishna Bakery, at The Mall the day after at evening, 4 PM.

    Next night things were running as per the script. Her mom was sitting at the counter and abusing everyone from Chief Minister of Himachal to the Gandhi Family for low Apple production in Himachal this year while reading vividly colorful Punjab Kesari, my friend was still on phone, she was making those lovely rotis, and I was busy eating. She shut the stove, picked the basket and came walking towards our table. As I beamishly watched her face, she served me  and my still talking-on-phone friend. And I held her hand. She was shocked. I felt as I was being hit with the thunderbolt, just as Michael Corleone was hit by his Sicilian first wife, or Feroze Khan by an Afghani Hema Malini in Godfather’s pathetic Indian adaptation- Dharmatma.

    Her hands were powedered with bits of dry flour, but beneath the flour lay those soft beautiful slender fingers, which I could just hold on to forever. She had a timid, yet a welcoming look on her face. I guess she felt like snatching away her hand, but just couldn’t do it. I quickly took the letter folded as a small chit and pushed it in between her fingers. She snatched away her hands and with a shooting smile rushed inside her house. Behind those dirty-torn curtains, lay something special, something which was building on me, or building a better me.

    That night I could hardly sleep.

    Next day I had some work at the YMCA office next to Ritz at the mall in afternoon, so I left my office immediately after lunch. I kept thinking about the moment I could talk to her, on the bus, on the Rs. 7 lift ride to the the Mall, during my meeting with the YMCA Shimla Chairman, and all the time after that. The meeting ended around 3:30 PM and I rushed out of the Chairman’s office towards the main road of the Mall.

    I reached Krishna Bakery and ordered my favorite plate of Kurkej. Kurkejs are veggie sticks made from a mix of potatoes, carrots, cabbage, and capsicum. The sticks are rolled, coated with a bit of cheese and then baked and fried. They are served with Garlic-Chilly momo sauce, green chutney and white sauce (which tastes like packaged Garlic mayo). Strangely I haven’t found this dish anywhere else in India. Although they are horrible while they are cold, tasty yet hardly edible. I took my plate, spotted an empty bench and sat there, munching on Kurkejs. It was almost 4 PM. There was a chill in air, heightened by the anticipation of meeting, a bit of nervousness and a lot of expectation.

    And it was 4:15 PM.

    There was beauty all over, the old Victorian structures and wooden buildings, the cutest of school kids in their bright uniforms and toned blazers, beautiful people with an amazing Himachali sheen on their skin, and above all the mist filled scenery. Her presence would have completed this already complete picture.

    And it was 4:45 PM.

    I waited for some more time, slowly flicking through the Dominique Lapierre book I had been reading. Freedom at Midnight had its chapters on Shimla, especially the scenic descriptions of Viceregal Lodge (now Institute of Advanced Studies) witnessing the drafting of India’s partition plans. Me waiting for her here was a bit like the partition plan, the foolish quickness of decision making, and the absence of a sound logic were similar to the drawing of the Radcliffe Line.

    But not all decisions in life tend to be logical.

    And it was 5:30 PM already.

    There was no point waiting further. I packed some Momos for my friend and started walking down the Mall towards the bus stand. Strangely at this bakery, the Momos were plated in the exact same way as Kurkejs were, with lots of Momo sauce, Green Chutney and Mayo. I gave my friend a call and asked him to meet me at Kasumpti. I then took one of those bread-box like Shimla Transport buses towards Kasumpti.

    I met him at the bus stand and he wanted to have an early meal. Obviously given I wasn’t there, he would have missed our evening Pakods, Jalebi and couple of shots of milky tea. We started walking towards the eatery.

    We reached our daily kadhi-daal-roti adobe around 7 PM. My still-talking-on-phone entered while I stood outside. She was standing on the counter, looking at me, with an amicable smile, a really pleasing one. All of a sudden there was a mini-eruption of anger within, maybe she was smiling at my foolishness. I quickly walked past the eatery and ran towards my hostel.

    My friend didn’t even realize that I was absent till he came back to hostel that night.

    That night I could hardly sleep. There was another week to go before I moved back to Mumbai.

    So for the next seven days I kept passing her place, looking at her and walking past it. I saw an array of emotions, smiles turning to sorrow, happiness turning to fury, and amazement turing to disugust. The growing coldness in her eyes was completely in contrast with the rising temperature.

    I didn’t meet her again. Infact I never met her. I left Shimla the next week. The flavors which had dominated my life for the past few weeks had mellowed down. Life was a bit like those cold Kurkejs, tasty, yet hardly edible.

  • The Shimla Affair – Chapter I

    I hadn’t realized how close we were to our hostel. I looked at my watch, it was around 7:30 PM, but it felt like it was 11 already. The Shiv Temple which stood brightly shining in the morning sunlight looked a bit dull now. The only shops which seemed busy were the two liquor stores selling Desi Liquor. Kasumpti tends to be this way, much more humbler compared to the happenings at the mall. And even colder. Actually the hunger made me feel extremely cold.

    I spotted a few eateries, a set of shady ones serving gas inducing pulses and cold flaky jalebis. I just entered one of them, followed sheepishly by my friend, who had been busy talking to a series of brain-dead girls since an hour, or so I assume.

    A stout-looking, grumpily smiling aunty welcomed us and asked us to take a seat. The place was empty, and dimly lit, with walls having those smoky oil spots with flaky distemper,  a trait common across so many small-town eateries. The tables were dirty-white, enhancing the grimness of the place. The grimness was equally reflected on aunty’s face, wrinkled around the edges, but still carrying that rose-tainted Himachali charm.

    I asked the clichéd question, “What’s there to eat?”, she came back with an equally clichéd response, “Dinner!!!”. I didn’t think much and asked her to layout dinner for two. My friend was still on phone, the hmms and long pauses quite indicative of his boredom. Talking on phone to girls has never been my thing. Never will be.

    She cleaned the table using a dirty rag, then using the same one to clean our compartmentalized steel plates. These plates reminded me of the plates used in langar, or my favorite plate at home as a kid. I used my T-Shirt to give my plates another decent wipe. T-Shirt had a coating of cold sweat on it, but atleast it was my own sweat.

    Kadhi Pakoda and Maa Ki Daal were served first, along with some stale-looking chopped-yesterday kind off onion and green chillies  I took a spoon and started sampling stuff, the daal was hot and fresh, and minimal usage of Garlic provided a confirmatory evidence of its freshness. Kadhi felt stale, like really stale, with a strong whiff of Hing (Asafoetida) in it.

    I started looking around to kill time till the rotis arrived. There were pictures of gods and goddesses and few cut outs of Filmstars from the region’s favorite Punjab Kesari editions. There was huge blue drum next to an old creaky door, an off-color blue drum, the shades of the place giving it a rather Instagrammed feel.  Maybe it was used to store water. Maybe that’s where aunty stored this awful Kadhi, and recycled it for guests like us.

    To add insult to injury, she got some Pakodas made in evening and popped them in the Kadhi served on our dishes, as if that would help? I reminded her about the rotis. She asked me to wait for couple of minutes.

    I heard a slight creak of the door behind me, I felt someone entered the main eatery area and started walking towards us. I didn’t bother as all I had on my mind were the impending rotis. I felt a touch on my elbow, a touch of warmth on my cold elbow, a soft and special touch. I smelt a freshness in the air, it had replaced the Asafoetida smell, and all my tiredness had disappeared at that very moment. She stopped, I looked at her, and at that very moment things became exciting yet silent. The gaze of those rich brown eyes was superbly complemented with a sharp, rather pointy noise. Her complexion was clear, and the rosy Himachali sheen on her cheeks exuded freshness. Her faint green kurta and the deep blue head scarf just went so well with her beautiful face. That amazingly beautiful pahadi face.

    She walked towards the stove and started rolling the dough. Her long slender fingers rolled the dough and then divided it precisely into separate balls. She started rolling the dough balls and lighted the stove. I saw a few small drops of sweat flowing down her cold white face. It was all so beautiful. I wish I could have been a painter and captured that moment.

    The rolling seemed so seamless, and in a smooth action that dull off-white colored dough had transformed to a spotty white colored, hot air filled Roti. She piled on a 3-4 rotis in a basket and then dabbed a bit a of Ghee on it. The dab was accompanied with a smile, ghee does represent love in some way for sure. Aunty walked towards her probably to pick up the basket, but she shut the stove, picked the basket before aunty reached it and came towards our table. As I shamelessly watched her face, she served me  and my still talking-on-phone friend. How the hell can he miss this? In a way it was good that he was missing all this. I don’t think he could have appreciated it the way I did.

    The rotis kept on coming, the boring kadhi developed a lovely flavor, daal felt like the one from the Golden Temple at Amritsar, it is strange how love, or the thought of it can completely change your life. Or at least the flavors in it.

    Read part II here.

  • A Walk through Misty-cal Shimla

    It is still early in the morning and Shimla is slowly waking up to the misty morning chill and steaming tea vessels. The bus stop seems quite unprepared for 7AM in the morning, with newspaper vendors still unwrapping the Punjab Kesaris, and the bus windows being cleaned of dried vomit from yesterday’s torrid journeys. I walk towards a stall and ask for a cup of tea, sweetness much more than the heat of the first sip hits me. But I guess I require a sugar rush, for the long and tiring walk ahead.

    Walking through Shimla is as much an exercise as it’s an experience. I climb towards the mall, the city center so beautifully built by the British that you tend to forget the puffed up breath and tiredness. There is beauty all over, the old Victorian structures and wooden buildings, the cutest of school kids in their bright uniforms and toned blazers, beautiful people with an amazing Himachali sheen on their skin, and above all the mist filled scenery one can enjoy all year-round.

    Its around 8 AM now and the shops have started cleaning up for another day, I chuck the shops, shoo away the monkeys and walk towards the ridge after crossing scandal point. I buy a newspaper and sit on the old colonial style benches. Slowly the town seems to be waking up from its sleep. There is an extra-tone of brightness the sun has added to it, discussions are picking up all around, school kids are flocking the ridge area, and travel agents have started chasing the few tourists around.

    I walk down towards the Indian Coffee House, a century old institution serving Filter Coffee and breakfast to the mall’s flockers. I enter the coffee house, take a window view and order a coffee. As I look out of the window I feel a sense of completeness, it has been a morning well spent, observing people, being on the sidelines of active discussions, and just soaking in the fresh air. Well a lot of calories have been burnt, time to eat something now!

  • Positive thoughts?

    Life has been a bit off colour lately, as if what happened last month wasn’t enough here I am at home, for the past two weeks, eating boiled food and fruits and sleeping like kumbhakaran throughout the day. In the past few days I have developed love for idlis and extreme hatred for daliya, spinach, hospital and medicines. In a lazy weak format, deprived of all the chutputa food and chutputy bakar in the world here is a man just lying in his room, and bored. And uff, this needle on my hand bugs me.

    Given I sleep so much I am having my fair share of dreams, and they have been mostly horrifying. From playing with my worst fears and flirting with my weirdest nightmares they have ensured that I don’t sleep that soundly. To fight with them, I go on kickstart my own train of thoughts, those lovely memories which have kept me happy over the past few years now.

    So everytime I wake up from a bad thought here is what I do, I close my eyes, take a deep breath and think of:

    Omlettes: Of the lovely ones I had in Goa, or on that Trihun trek (with a chai sipper, choc eater, and great driver), ones which are so videshi with minimal spices and loads of cheese, ones with all the masala tones of green chilies and kanda. World’s best anda bhurji at Andheri station, or that decent one which I used to have at SP mess to help me go through with the food, or the egg biryani be at Raj Palace, or be it at Paradise Hyderabad. And those lovely Gadar Andes I cooked along with Abhishek at Gurgaon with loads of Jeera.

    Indori Food: Well I have talked about it so many times, but aloo ki kachori at lal balti/GSITS, poha/jalebi anywhere, sawariya ki sabudana khichdi, namkeen (double laung), Sarafa ki galiyo main Jaleba, shikanji, vijay chaat house ki batla patties, joshiji ke dahi vade, bhutte ka kis, garadu, gurukripa main bhojan, aur ghar pe mangode aur daal baafle. Did I mention mawa baati, shikanji and ASPI? Indore mahaan hai.

    Lazy trips: With mostly nothing to do apart from changing CDs in car, pepping up the greatest driver in the world by offering him cans of Red Bull, eating dhaba food, enjoying the scenery, talking to other car-mates. Jannat.

    Dosa: I have never tasted Dosas better than Bangalore or Korba’s Indian Coffee House. Both of them stand out. Bangalore’s Vidhyarthi Bhavan being my favorite, enjoyed with Atishay Bhaiyas khilkhilati hasi and Ananda’s coffee gulping on the day when India beat Aussies at Perth post the monkeygate match. Or the World beater Benne Dosa or Paddu served at that small shop on the way to Basvangudi, or staple on treats (just 11 rs back then) of which I had 11 in Davangare once.

    Aloo Parathas: I fell in love with them in Shimla, they were like Sharmila Tagore of Aradhna, young, hot, shiny with all the makkhan on them, I was like Kaka eager to fall in Love and make the haseen galti of munching those daily morning before I started my day. For one and half month everything in Shimla bored us, Aloo Parathas were our only hope. I tasted the ones at Moolchand once, and for me the taste is still there on some part of my tounge.

    Naturals: More than ice cream Natural’s was a remedial place, I used to take hopeless friends there, enjoy the first cup listening to them (grunts which I mostly ignored) and the second talking crap to them (which I enjoyed). There was seldom the third one (with just one exception with whom chances of fourth came up) but I loved the place. 28 Rs. bought them a malai or a tender coconut and more than that peace of their mind. Lokhandwaala one with its shoftu couch was better.

    These were a few positive thoughts, I need more, help me. Maybe I think its just the overdose of spinach and lauki speaking here…

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    If down, how do you get back to thinking positively?

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