Journey to the Centre of My Heart

ShNaajh
8 hours ago
5 min read

April, 2024. My mum and I were in Kolkata for eight days, staying at my aunt's. And with each day that passed came more plates of home-cooked food that I would never have been able to have back in Melbourne (- sorry, Maa, this is not a criticism!). Whether it was something sweet or spicy. vegetarian or non-veg, rice or bread, it was wholesome, hearty and heavenly. Every time I finished a meal, I would only wish for the next one to come sooner. I have tried countless cuisines in countless places, but none of them live up to the taste and feeling of eating home-cooked Bengali food.

Luchi, Alur Dom and Chini

Bread puffed up bigger than Trump's ego, and surely tastier than the miniature dishes they serve up at Michelin star restaurants, luchi is one of those foods that never loses its oomph. No matter how many times I have it, how accustomed I become to deflating the bread, I will never be bored with it. Almost as impressive as the human evolution from primates, my luchi-eating has evolved from a simple accompaniment of a spoonful of chini to a complex and undeniably delicious pairing with alur dom.

It was morning, sunny and boiling, the deadly combo that only the aircon could protect me from. We had already had our morning tea (and biscuits, which I'd learnt to dunk in the tea perfectly), and now it was time for our real breakfast. I could hear the clatter of pots and pans and the sizzling of spices and the smell of alur dom and fried bread as the meal from my memory came to life in the kitchen. I looked at my mum to see if I was the only one so excited over something as simple as bread and potatoes. She looked back at me with the same glimmer in her eyes! By the time we were seated at the table, I might as well have been drooling from the smell alone, and when the food was finally there on the table before me, I dug in straightaway. The luchi was soft yet crunchy in my hand, and almost as though controlled by a muscle memory strong enough to make Mr Miyagi proud, I tore off a little piece, wrapped a bit of alur dom in it and placed it straight into my mouth.

The rest of the luchis, with their beautifully golden-brown hue glimmering from the oil they were fried in, awaited their inevitable union with the alur dom and journey together to my stomach.

Mangsho-Bhat

Beautiful, fragrant, delicious, each mouthful like a trap that lures you into the next.

As with any other meal, we sat at the table, plates of rice before each of us and a lovely bowl of whatever we'd have the rice with. On that very day, it was goat-meat, i.e. 'finger lickin' good' mutton - pNathhar mangsho.

There are often times when a person, or maybe just me, eats without paying much attention to how far up their hand the rice travels. As proud as I am of my ability to eat with my hands, I must admit that I'm not the best at keeping the food from coming up to my palms. More often than not, my post-meal hands, with gravy smeared across my palm, would be a fortune teller's nightmare. But who could blame me today? The mutton was like no other. It was the kind that had the meat gloriously falling off the bone and was capable of putting any restaurant to shame. And the big pieces of potatoes were a delicacy in themselves.

The meal was so satisfying and comforting that I could see why my parents would reminisce about their Sunday lunch of mangsho-bhat followed by bhatghum, a siesta.

Jhurjhure Alubhaja

Alubhaja means fried potato, but jhujhure alubhaja is more than just fried potato; it's an art form, it's the golden child of oil and potatoes. Julienned to perfection and deep-fried until it succumbs to its fate, jhujhure alubhaja is a taste buds' heaven, the kind of indulgence that real food lovers would happily pay a fortune for (probably not a fortune, but you know what I mean!).

Jhurjhure alubhaja wasn't something new to me, but the times I had it were so few and far between that every time I did have it, it felt as though I was trying a new food.

I had chosen to have just the alubhaja for dinner that night because even though I was full from lunch, I refused to not have the heavenly potato creation. So, I sat with my humble little stainless steel bowl filled with fried little strips of potato, eating each chip one by one to savour the flavour. When I finished, I realised that in the time I had taken to eat my bowl of alubhaja, everyone else was done! I looked around and then quickly, subtly, like a thief in the night, reached for the centre of the table, towards the bowl that held the treasure, and took another generous handful of jhurjhure alubhaja, because it was too good to leave without a second serving.

Pabda Machh

Nemontonno - an invitation for a meal. We had been invited for lunch at BettyMaa's mum's house. After a long-ish Uber ride, we were at their doorstep. Greeted with big smiles and warm hugs, we moved through the apartment, talking about all sorts of things before making our way to the dining table.

From my many trips to both India and Bangladesh, I had learnt that no matter how firmly you said no to seconds at the table, you would receive them (unless, of course, you crossed your arms over the plate at the risk of them being doused with the food). However, so unique and colourful was the assortment of food on the table that not once did I think to deny seconds during that meal. There were plates and bowls of dal, torkari, chatni, achar and the start of the meal, Pabda machh.

I sat down only to have rice promptly spooned onto my plate. I split it apart into several heaps and dug a little well in each to hold the accompaniments. As each little mound disappeared, I was left with the last one, its crater ready to receive the pabda machh and jhol. Two fish and a little pond of yellow jhol that spilled out of the rice's little concave like lava seeping out of a volcano.

I love fish. I love fish so much that I've learnt to eat even the ones that are full of bones. But the bones of Pabda machh are so neatly laid on the sides of the fish that eating it is easy. Not a single bone fell on my tongue as I ate, only the fish's meat and phenomenal flavour. Even when the rice ran out and a little bit of the flavoursome jhol remained, I was not done. I finished it with an etiquette that would've disgraced the Brits. I placed my elbows on the table, lifted the plate and sipped the last of the jhol like soup.

For those who travel to Kolkata without the prospect of eating home-cooked Bengali food, 6 Ballygunge Place would be a good alternative. When we went there in 2023 for a culinary experience, we had these iconic Bengali dishes: mochar chop, luchi-alur dom, jhurjhure alubhaja, machher matha diye muger dal, chitol machher muiththha and daab-chingri. They were all very delicious.