those sizzlers, revisited

At the very end of 2007 I met the boy I'm going to be marrying next month (H.). Almost exactly 1 year ago today, I blogged about that meeting on The Gourmet Cartographer:

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eating with my eyes

January 15, 2008 by traderjanki

The sizzlers at Kobe Sizzlers

vs.

The sizzlers at my masi’s house

I prefer my masi’s sizzlers.

There’s something to be said for not feeling totally overwhelmed by your restaurant meal. I lost my appetite when confronted with the sheer quantity of steaming matter at Kobe Sizzlers. My masi’s sizzler, on the the hand, was food I could absorb with discerning colors and flavors. But Kobe Sizzlers has been a Bombay favorite for years, so maybe I’ve got it all wrong.

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H. took me to dinner at Kobe the second time we met and I didn't eat anything because all of it- the food- steaming, mountainous; the boy- cute, intelligent; the circumstance- set up by parents while I was seeing someone else...killed my appetite. So, H. left the dinner confused about why the girl who said she loves to eat refused to touch her food. I left, my mind a'jumble, and my tummy grumbling.

(sizzler steam clouds my camera lens)

(H. holds up a napkin to prevent splattering sizzler sauce from staining his shirt)

But circumstances changed and 11 months later we found ourselves at Kobe again. Unlike the first time, I didn't order the same sizzler as H. (mushrooms, cutlet, cheese, fries). I think lighter, more Asian flavors work better on a sizzling plate simmering with sauce and that day I really wanted noodles. So I ordered a mushroom and noodle sizzler with veggies, and actually finished a substantial portion of the food.

(adequate destruction)

H. loves Kobe. I don't mind going there once in a while, to relive those awkward memories...and actually eat that mountain of food.

Kobe Sizzlers, 12/13 Sukh Sagar, Hughes Road, Bombay, 22-2363-2174

massachusetts

My last day at home, in the cold (9 degrees F). Tomorrow, it's back to Bombay (82 degrees F).

I don't know what's up with the font in the first two posts but I'm tired of unsuccessfully attempting to fix it.

Indian grandmas 101

Living with one grandmother and spending a good portion of time at the other one’s flat may sound pretty boring after life in New York City, but I think it's given me a crash course on the essential skills needed to survive in India: patience, diplomacy, a firm stance, and the ability to view a situation with amusement instead of frustration. Hanging out so much with my grandmas means that my appetite is constantly embroiled in a game of tug-of-war, with my stomach as the rope each grandmother pulls with promises of tantalizing meals. That rope is going to fray and break. As I told H., my stomach has started to resemble a pillow stuffed inside a too-small pillowcase- you know, those ones that are really hard and uncomfortable to sleep on.

I live with my Nani, my maternal grandmother, but spend a lot of time with my Dadi, my paternal grandma. Although both grandmothers are around the same age, Nani seems older. Since she has no sons, she lives in a bungalow with her brothers-in-law and their progeny and much of her day revolves around religious activities: puja, or a prayer ceremony in the morning, a trip to the temple mid-day, errands, lunch, a class on scriptures or religious songs in the evening, and then dinner at night. My Dadi, who lives with my dad’s younger brother and his family, is more ambulatory and social. She lunches with friends, goes to the market to buy vegetables, sees movies in the theater with her sisters, and attends Indian classical music concerts with her brothers.

Despite the differences in their lifestyles, both Nani and Dadi are Indian grandmas who express their affection by preparing meals and feeding their grandchildren. Since for years I’ve held “visitor” status in Bombay, preparing my favorite foods in the short weeks I was in town was a fairly stressful scene, both for the grandmothers and for my stomach. And, although I’m now here for good, not much has changed in the meal pitching tactics. Picture this:

Dadi, on the phone: “Hi Janki, what would you like for lunch today? I’m thinking of making a special Gujarati shaak (vegetable dish), ambe ka raas (mango pulp) and pathra (a Gujarati delicacy of spiced besan (chickpea flour) rolled in colocassia leaves and stir-fried with mustard, bay leaves and chilies). Or, would you like something else? We could have asparagus soup and mushroom risotto.”

Nani, one hour later: "Janki, will you be home for lunch today? I’ve made handvo and samosas, if you’re interested. I also have this very nice koprapak (coconut and milk dessert flavored with saffron and cardamom) I made for puja this morning. I know you don’t enjoy Indian sweets, but why don’t you just try a small piece? I really think you’ll like it."



Although I kept telling the ladies I didn’t want anything special for meals, they didn't listen and insisted on preparing elaborate spreads. Each time I accepted one grandmother’s offer for a meal, I risked hurting the other one’s feelings because if these meals were an expression of their love...then I was reciprocating that emotion by choosing one meal over another. The thought of hurting my grandmothers troubled me quite a bit until I realized that I needed to let go of these worries.

A part of living in Bombay is becoming accustomed to people making demands on my stomach and my time. Frequent interactions with family- grandmas, parents, in-laws, aunts, cousins- is an established part of life here, and so, to keep myself sane, when it comes to food, or grandmothers, or anything in Bombay, I'm learning to do as I please. If I try to eat every meal my grandmothers cook I'm soon going to be bursting out of my pillowcase, and if I'm using valuable stomach space to save other people's feelings, then I'm missing out on both cooking and eating my own food, two activities I treasure. So now I've learnt: I'll eat whatever five-course meal they make, but only on allotted days; otherwise, my stomach, and my time, is mine.

Welcome to The Tilted Pan

Dear Readers,

I am no longer a New York resident, a Brooklyn dweller, or a seeker of Manhattan’s best sambar. I moved out of my apartment, with its wide front stoop and its rusting, sun spotted fire escape, cherished because it was our private outdoor space, to Bombay, a city where space is just as limited and privacy even more precious.

Boston to Baltimore to Brooklyn to Bombay; I arrived on August 29 and I’m here to stay. While I didn’t write very much in the months before I left, I did spend time with my friends and brother and I spent time baking: salty chocolate-chip cookies; a peach mascarpone tart; brownies; key-lime meltaways; a fluffy, layered coconut cake. I suppose I was attempting to say goodbye- to my friends by feeding them sweets, to easily available baking ingredients and implements, and to the agency and ease with which I moved around my own kitchen, New York, and all that was familiar to me.

I’m starting a new blog because I want an online home to record the change in my life. In one sense thetiltedpan.blogspot.com will be similar to The Gourmet Cartographer: adventures in eating out and cooking at home, but through these tales, I’m hoping to chronicle my life in a new country and document how an American, a foreigner, an ex-pat, or, to put it simply, an outsider, like me, makes India her proper home.

I’ve visited Bombay innumerable times but actually living here means accommodating the nuances of daily life as well as the more obvious changes. Instead of living with a male friend from college and a female from Craigslist in a Brooklyn apartment not more than ten minutes away from the subway and five grocery stores, I currently live with my grandmother, a sweet, slow and slightly senile Katchi lady, in a big joint-family bungalow that also houses two great-uncles’ families, three kitchens, unexplored attic rooms, and pigeons that nest in the ceiling. In Indian kitchens, most stoves are lit by turning on the gas source by rotating the knob and then using a lighter to start the flame. This method of stove lighting might be prevalent in kitchens throughout the world, but learning how to light a stove with a lighter was step number one in my Indian kitchen assimilation process.

I hope you will join me on my journey of cooking and eating my way into adjustment, even if you don’t live in Bombay and can’t make much use of the restaurant reviews. I’ll be posting recipes, photos, and stories- really, whatever tells of my interactions with the city as well as its food.
Janki