HERITAGE CUISINE
MISAL
(The Signature Dish of Maharashtra)
By
Vikram Karve
It’s pouring heavy rain, there is water all around, the rivers of Pune, the Mula and Mutha, are flowing in spate, I’m feeling wet and cold, and there’s nothing better to fire up your insides and perk you up than a hot spicy dish of Misal. Since I’m on Lakdi Pul, near Deccan, I head up Tilak Road to Ramnath, my old favorite.
I don’t delve too much on the contents, or the ingredients, which basically comprise an Usal, rassa (the spicy curry) and the garnish of sev, chiwda, farsan, onions, fresh corriander and green chillies, arranged in three tiers and served with a wedge of lemon. There are two bowls and spoons. Using both spoons, I mix the contents thoroughly, squeeze the lemon, and eat. It’s hot, delicious, my tongue is on fire, my nose and eyes water – the true test of a genuine missal. I bash on regardless. (Never try to douse the appetizing zesty fire in your insides by sipping water or ruin the gastronomic experience by succumbing to a bite of pav or bread they may have the temerity to place alongside).
Pav with Bhaji or Vada may be fine, but if you want to savor the genuine taste of misal, and experience the ‘proof’ of the real stuff, it would tantamount to sacrilege to have pav with misal.
The misal at Ramnath had peas in the Usal, but I prefer something sprouted like matki, moong or a combination, like they serve at Vinay on Thakurdwar Road in Girgaum in Mumbai. In fact, though Misal is the signature dish of Pune, I don’t think anyone in Pune serves a better misal than Vinay of Girgaum. ( If there is, do let me know).
I had my first taste of Misal way back in the sixties in a place called Santosh Bhavan near NMV School on the way to Appa Balwant Chowk from Laxmi Road in Pune, but looks like the place has disappeared.
Both Misal and Vada pav are Indian Fast-Foods, but Misal is certainly not a ‘junk’ food. If made with all the proper ingredients, it’s zesty, healthy, nourishing snack.
Dear fellow Foodies, do let me know where I can get a good fiery misal in Pune, where I have recently relocated after a long hiatus. Till then I’ll miss my Sunday morning lip-smacking misal at Vinay’s, which I religiously relished for the past six years in Mumbai, and have to make do with the fare at Ramnath.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Every dog has his day
EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY
(a fiction short story)
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I never reminisce. It makes me nostalgic, poignant, melancholic. But there is one thing that happened, quite long ago - whenever I remember it– I always burst out laughing. Let me tell you about it.
It happened long ago – almost fifty years ago – 1956 to be precise. In far-off tea-estate country, in a remote corner of India, almost in the back of the beyond – the place then still a relic of the Raj.
I shall not tell you the place, and I will also change the names; for we just want to have a laugh, not embarrass someone.
There was a handsome planter. 30. Let’s call him Roy. And his beautiful wife. Let’s call her Helen. A dashing couple. An ideal match – at least from the outside.
“Please. I’d like to have a word with you,” Roy sidled up to me at the bar in the Planters’ Club.
“Sure,” I said. “Join me for a drink.”
“Not here. It’s very personal.”
“Okay. Let’s go outside.” I ordered two whiskies, we picked up our drinks, and went out on the lawns. It was dark, desolate and cold.
“I don’t know how to say it,” Roy hesitated.
“Just say it,” I said.
“I want you to keep an eye on my wife,” he said.
“Something serious?”
“I think she is having an affair,” he said, “someone visits her whenever I go out on my weekly tours.”
“You’re sure?”
“Not really. But I suspect. There are those telltale signs.”
“Like?”
“She seems a bit too satisfied – especially when I return from tour. And there is a strange gleam in her eyes. And now-a-days she is overly polite. I suspect she is up to some hanky-panky. ”
“Well this is really your private matter. You know I really can’t ….”
“Please,” he interrupted, “you’re the only one I can trust.”
He seemed so desperate that I had no choice. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll need to see your place. And her too.”
He told me the way to his tea-estate and next morning I was on my way, driving my jeep with a ferocious Doberman, Bruno, sitting beside me.
It was a lonely bungalow atop a hill surrounded by tea gardens. Roy welcomed me and introduced me to his wife. “I’m Helen,” she said looking into my eyes for that moment longer than could be considered polite greeting. She looked so ravishing that it was with great effort that I could take my eyes off her.
No wonder he was so insecure – anyone with such a beautiful wife would be insecure. Especially a clot like him – I wondered why dopes like Roy always got the most beautiful wives.
We indulged in some small-talk, and it was only after lunch that I brought up the subject. “Mrs. Roy, don’t you feel lonely out here. Especially when he goes out on tours.”
“Oh yes, she does,” Roy interjected.
“No, I don’t feel lonely,” Mrs. Roy said. “In fact, I love being alone. And don’t call me Mrs. Roy – call me Helen!”
“Why don’t you drop Helen off at the club on your way out and pick her up on your way back from your tour?” I suggested to Roy. “She can make some friends, play tennis, cards, tombola, a movie, party – do whatever she likes and then stay the nights at the guestroom.”
“I prefer my solitude,” she said.
“She even sends the servants away,” Roy complained.
“I told you I like my privacy,” she said, a tinge of irritation in her voice.
She was quite obstinate so I changed the subject.
“You like dogs?” I asked her.
“I love them,” she said excitedly. “We always had pet dogs back home.
I’ve been telling Roy to get me one.”
“Your prayers are answered,” I said and took them to my jeep where Bruno was sitting obediently. “A gift for the charming lady,” I said holding Bruno by the collar and making him smell her.
She was overjoyed. Roy apparently wasn’t too enthusiastic but I silenced him with a stern look.
On my way out, when I was alone with Roy, I told him, “We will catch him now. Bruno is the best guard dog in our kennel. I trained him myself. Just leave him in the verandah when you go out at night. He is deadly ferocious – whoever is up to hanky-panky with your wife, well, he is going to be ripped apart from limb to limb.”
A wicked smile appeared on Roy’s face as in his mind’s eye he visualized his wife’s unknown paramour being devastated by the ferocious dog.
That evening many things happened. Roy left on his tour, viciously excited, relishing in his imagination what was going to happen to the unknown “lover” that night.
Later that night, after a furious bout of lovemaking, Helen lying fully satiated, asked her lover, “How did you manage? That ferocious dog didn’t even bark!”
Her lover gently took her to the window, drew the curtains, and said, “look!”
In the verandah they saw a totally exhausted Bruno, coupled with a beautiful Doberman she-dog, both interlocked, and pointing in opposite directions, after vigorous bout of mating.
The lover looked at Helen naughtily and said, “Which dog can resist the charms of a hot-blooded bitch in heat?”
“You hot-dog!” Helen said lovingly to her lover, “every dog has his day!”
(a fiction short story)
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I never reminisce. It makes me nostalgic, poignant, melancholic. But there is one thing that happened, quite long ago - whenever I remember it– I always burst out laughing. Let me tell you about it.
It happened long ago – almost fifty years ago – 1956 to be precise. In far-off tea-estate country, in a remote corner of India, almost in the back of the beyond – the place then still a relic of the Raj.
I shall not tell you the place, and I will also change the names; for we just want to have a laugh, not embarrass someone.
There was a handsome planter. 30. Let’s call him Roy. And his beautiful wife. Let’s call her Helen. A dashing couple. An ideal match – at least from the outside.
“Please. I’d like to have a word with you,” Roy sidled up to me at the bar in the Planters’ Club.
“Sure,” I said. “Join me for a drink.”
“Not here. It’s very personal.”
“Okay. Let’s go outside.” I ordered two whiskies, we picked up our drinks, and went out on the lawns. It was dark, desolate and cold.
“I don’t know how to say it,” Roy hesitated.
“Just say it,” I said.
“I want you to keep an eye on my wife,” he said.
“Something serious?”
“I think she is having an affair,” he said, “someone visits her whenever I go out on my weekly tours.”
“You’re sure?”
“Not really. But I suspect. There are those telltale signs.”
“Like?”
“She seems a bit too satisfied – especially when I return from tour. And there is a strange gleam in her eyes. And now-a-days she is overly polite. I suspect she is up to some hanky-panky. ”
“Well this is really your private matter. You know I really can’t ….”
“Please,” he interrupted, “you’re the only one I can trust.”
He seemed so desperate that I had no choice. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll need to see your place. And her too.”
He told me the way to his tea-estate and next morning I was on my way, driving my jeep with a ferocious Doberman, Bruno, sitting beside me.
It was a lonely bungalow atop a hill surrounded by tea gardens. Roy welcomed me and introduced me to his wife. “I’m Helen,” she said looking into my eyes for that moment longer than could be considered polite greeting. She looked so ravishing that it was with great effort that I could take my eyes off her.
No wonder he was so insecure – anyone with such a beautiful wife would be insecure. Especially a clot like him – I wondered why dopes like Roy always got the most beautiful wives.
We indulged in some small-talk, and it was only after lunch that I brought up the subject. “Mrs. Roy, don’t you feel lonely out here. Especially when he goes out on tours.”
“Oh yes, she does,” Roy interjected.
“No, I don’t feel lonely,” Mrs. Roy said. “In fact, I love being alone. And don’t call me Mrs. Roy – call me Helen!”
“Why don’t you drop Helen off at the club on your way out and pick her up on your way back from your tour?” I suggested to Roy. “She can make some friends, play tennis, cards, tombola, a movie, party – do whatever she likes and then stay the nights at the guestroom.”
“I prefer my solitude,” she said.
“She even sends the servants away,” Roy complained.
“I told you I like my privacy,” she said, a tinge of irritation in her voice.
She was quite obstinate so I changed the subject.
“You like dogs?” I asked her.
“I love them,” she said excitedly. “We always had pet dogs back home.
I’ve been telling Roy to get me one.”
“Your prayers are answered,” I said and took them to my jeep where Bruno was sitting obediently. “A gift for the charming lady,” I said holding Bruno by the collar and making him smell her.
She was overjoyed. Roy apparently wasn’t too enthusiastic but I silenced him with a stern look.
On my way out, when I was alone with Roy, I told him, “We will catch him now. Bruno is the best guard dog in our kennel. I trained him myself. Just leave him in the verandah when you go out at night. He is deadly ferocious – whoever is up to hanky-panky with your wife, well, he is going to be ripped apart from limb to limb.”
A wicked smile appeared on Roy’s face as in his mind’s eye he visualized his wife’s unknown paramour being devastated by the ferocious dog.
That evening many things happened. Roy left on his tour, viciously excited, relishing in his imagination what was going to happen to the unknown “lover” that night.
Later that night, after a furious bout of lovemaking, Helen lying fully satiated, asked her lover, “How did you manage? That ferocious dog didn’t even bark!”
Her lover gently took her to the window, drew the curtains, and said, “look!”
In the verandah they saw a totally exhausted Bruno, coupled with a beautiful Doberman she-dog, both interlocked, and pointing in opposite directions, after vigorous bout of mating.
The lover looked at Helen naughtily and said, “Which dog can resist the charms of a hot-blooded bitch in heat?”
“You hot-dog!” Helen said lovingly to her lover, “every dog has his day!”
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