James Beard on the Ganga River

Preparing roti at a temple in Haridwar

I was on a local bus to Haridwar from New Delhi the day the James Beard nominations  were announced. The last thing on my mind was whether or not the staff meal cookbook I co-wrote would snag a nomination that day in Charleston, a city that seemed another world away from the banyan tree-lined villages we were passing by on our long journey north through the Indian plains.

Dusty heat poured in through the windows, stifling the tightly packed crowd of pilgrims on their way to one of India’s holiest cities whose name translates as “Gateway to the Gods”. At each stop along the way to collect more of the devout, vendors selling everything from bread pakoras to the sweetened milk popsicles kulfi  jumped on board, elbowing their way through the throngs to sell their indulgences, before leaping off just as quickly at the next stop.

I was not on a pilgrim’s mission that day to Haridwar, a city in the foothills of the Indian Himalayas where millions from around the world gather each year to worship on the banks of the Ganga (Ganges) River. I was on my way there to visit Gayatri Pariwar, one of the many temples adorning the lush green mountains surrounding the city.

The devout praying at a temple in Haridwar

The thousands of faithful who visit the temple from around the world each year are guided by the principles of human unity and equality, adhering to a doctrine that integrates creativity and spirituality into a foundation of contemporary and ancient science and religion.

One of the tangible ways the pious put their creed into effect is to feed thousands of people three free meals each day. Anyone who desires a meal at the temple receives one, regardless of income, nationality, religion, gender, or race. I was on my way to Haridwar to cook with the reverent and to witness this life sustaining gesture in action.

Peace at the temple

Six rib jostling, teeth clattering hours later, our shock absorber free bus arrived. On the way to the station, it passed by a one hundred foot tall statue of the Hindu god Shiva standing valiantly in repose on the edge of the river. It was early morning and the god was shrouded in a cool mist rolling down from the mountains that glowed golden from the glint of sunrise reflected off its bronze body.

It is believed that if the Ganga had come directly to earth from the heavens, its thunderous power would have been too destructive for the world to endure. Lord Shiva created a buffer between heaven and earth by filtering the river through his hair, enabling the holy water to gently forge a path from the dizzying heights of the Himalayas to the flatlands of northern India.

The beautiful saris of Haridwar

I didn’t bother to hop on wifi after checking into our hotel. Social media seemed insignificant in comparison to this mystical city that could trace its origins back to the advent of one of the world’s most venerable religions. On our way to the temple in one of India’s ubiquitous rickshaws, I noticed how cool the air was, the Himalayan breeze a welcome change from the fetid heat of Delhi’s chaotic streets.

We were greeted at the gate of Gayatri Pariwar by one of the temple’s most revered holistic doctors who wore a blazing yellow kurta in the same manner as all of the temple’s devout. He explained that the color symbolizes renunciation and the hope the sun inspires as we walked through the gardens where he sources many of the plants for the herbal remedies he prescribes to people who visit from around the planet to cure everything from gout to arthritis.

Every person we walked past on our way to the commissary where the food was prepared greeted us with a gentle bob of their head as they said “Namaste” through a genial smile, hands joined together at their heart. Our guide explained that namaste means “I bow to your true self.”

A cooking vessel in the temple commissary

At the commissary, the quiet peace of the temple grounds gave way to the orderly and efficient chaos expected of a place that prepares meals for over ten thousand people per day. Yellow dal simmered in a lazy bubble in industrial size pots lining one edge of the massive building. In another corner, gargantuan vessels steamed rice. In yet another, dozens of volunteers kneaded roti dough into baby fist-size balls before sending them on their way through an electric roti press.

On the other end of the press, bakers transferred the flattened discs to an enormous bed of coals so hot they burned blue. They waited until each roti puffed like a blowfish before flattening out again, indicating it was ready to be tossed into one of the dozens of baskets behind the impressive production.

Rolling out roti dough

Our guide explained that before the press, all of the rotis were rolled out by hand, a punishingly time consuming process. With this new technology, the bakers of Gayatri Pariwar were able to nearly double their output, a welcome change for the thousands who were gathering barefoot just beyond the commissary to enjoy their free meal.

Diners from around the world enjoying a meal together

Outside in the gated, covered courtyard nearly the size of a football field, hungry, barefoot strangers sat down together in long, orderly lines on the impeccably scrubbed marble floor. Everyone who distributes food at the temple is a volunteer. Our guide told us it often means that one day someone is receiving food and the next day they are volunteering to distribute it, bringing the act of giving and receiving full circle in this simple act of grace and gratitude.

The noise level grew more intense as thousands more gathered and dozens of volunteers distributed metal thalis, or compartmentalized plates, that clanged together before finding their places in front of the guests. Silverware and colorful plastic water cups complementing the festive saris worn by many of the women were arranged alongside the thalis.

Volunteers at the temple meal

As they waited, people partaking of the meal as a means of connecting to their more spiritual selves mingled with the physically hungry who required the three daily meals served at the temple as a means of survival. Soon, polite smiles between strangers, many of whom did not speak the same language, were transformed into heartfelt laughter, fueled by the abiding fellowship only sharing a meal together can inspire.

Haridwar is a strictly vegetarian city and the meal served from large silver buckets spooned out onto each thali was a humble affair of vegetables, dal, rice and rotis. Servings were not limited and while some of the diners opted for a single portion, many requested a second and even a third helping. Volunteers obliged with a smile and soon the thousands gathered in that breezy marble courtyard had settled into sated gratitude.

Mise en Place preparation at the temple

Fortified by the spectacle of generosity playing out before us, our guide asked us if we would also like to join the Sadhus for their daily lunch. The Sadhus are a group comprised of thousands of men and women who renounce all of their worldly possessions to live in caves, temples and forests throughout India and Nepal to focus on their spiritual covenance. Relying on the kindness of strangers to sustain them in life, their lunch that day would be another reflection of compassion in action.

The meal was prepared by a new team of volunteers, comprised of the simple fare served earlier to the masses. It took place in a small room inside one of the temple’s outlying buildings where wooden tables barely higher than the ground were lined with the same metal thalis and plastic cups.

A simple but nourishing meal

Once the tables were set, dozens of Sadhus poured in, their golden turbans and saffron robes flowing behind them, many steadying themselves with gnarled wooden walking sticks. I felt out of my element. It seemed strange to join these men and women for lunch who always seemed a universe away when I saw them on the streets of Delhi. I knew they were revered and I was not sure how to behave around them.

As volunteers served them, three of the Sadhus started pointing at me, their conversation growing louder. I was worried I had offended them somehow and was not sure what to do. They asked the photographer I was with who was covering the story something in Hindi and started laughing at his response.

New friends

I thought they were making fun of me until one gestured for me to come over to him. When I did, he gently held my hand in his frail, bony fingers and through an enormous grin shouted, “Obama!” My photographer laughed and told me they asked where I was from. Clearly he told them New York because the next thing my new Sadhu friend said to me was, “Go Yankees!”

We all started laughing; my photographer, the volunteers and the Sadhus. The wave of discomfort I felt at the beginning of the meal replaced by the joy of connecting with a group of people I assumed I had nothing in common with until I realized that what we all have in common is the desire to relate to one another, to laugh together, to share a nourishing meal in each other’s company. We said goodbye to our friends in a flurry of hugs and smiles. I felt peaceful and renewed and as we drove back to our hotel to rest for a few hours, I was sure that life couldn’t get any better.

Lunch with the Sadhus

I decided to go online when I returned to my room. The break from social media for the past few days was refreshing but I wanted to email a few friends to tell them about my inspired day in Haridwar. When I logged into facebook, I saw that I had over two hundred notifications and was immediately plunged into that flush of social media induced panic worrying that someone had posted a photo or tagged me in something ridiculous. The first post I read was, “Congratulations on being nominated for a James Beard award!”

I had completely forgotten about the James Beard nominations the day before. If I had been home, I would have watched them roll in, hopeful that our cookbook Come In, We’re Closed: An Invitation to Staff Meals at the World’s Best Restaurants  would have been nominated. And it was. I was ecstatic. The elation I felt over this unexpected piece of news filtered through the generosity I witnessed at the temple that day, the joke I shared with the Sadhus, the beauty of Haridwar, the cool Himalayan breeze blowing down from the mountains.

The Pooja on the Ganga River

That night we joined thousands of devout gathered on the banks of the Ganga river. They assemble there each evening to celebrate the pooja; a spectacle of fire, gratitude and prayer. It is believed that at this spot on the river the celestial bird Garuda accidently dropped a bead of divine nectar from a pitcher it was carrying to the gods.

People gather from around the world to take a dip in the river and become a part of the ancient story of the world’s creation. On our way to the site, vendors were selling balls of bread to feed to the fish who are considered holy because they swim in the waters of the Ganga.

Baskets called diyas made of leaves and filled with flowers were also being sold. At the center of each mound of flowers was a rope dipped in melted ghee that would be set alight at the culmination of the pooja. I bought one for its beauty, not its significance.

Bread balls for the sacred fish of the Ganga

The beating of drums grew more intense as worshipers dressed in their finest, most colorful saris and kurtas gathered on both sides of the Ganga. Fire blazed from the torches of the pundits who lined the river, reflected in the rushing water in shimmering patches of blistering orange and red.

The river seemed faster than it had earlier in the day and I imagined it absorbing the hopes and prayers of the faithful to gain momentum as it spilled from the mountains towering high above. Prayers were called out in Hindi and even though I didn’t understand what was being said, I felt bound to the people around me in a way that transcends language, piercing the universal desire we all have to connect through the spirit of primeval joy pulsing through each one of us.

The Pooja

Copper bowls filled with sacred cow’s milk  were poured into the water, streaking it white, as the devout raised their hands to the sky, singing and chanting as night descended. In the darkness the diyas were lit, transformed from lovely bowls of flowers to candles burning bright in thousands of hands.

Before lighting my own diya from a wax candle being passed from person to person, I asked the photographer about its significance. He said, “They are lit as a sign of hope, you should put all of your wishes and dreams inside your diya and send it down the river as a symbol of gratitude and compassion for each other.” My diya was transformed from pretty souvenir to an extraordinary vessel of possibility.

A diya ready to make its way on a wish and a prayer down the river

Before sending it down the river with the thousands of others, I thought of the James Beard nomination I learned about that day. I put my thankfulness for it and all the people who helped make our book a reality into my diya and along with it, something more. I poured into my diya my gratitude for a day that reminded me how connected we all are, no matter how different at first we might appear, a day that reminded me of the selfless compassion we are all capable of, that reminded me to seek joy for the sake of joy. As my diya floated away I watched it join the path of thousands of others, each one on a journey to find peace and happiness for the person who set it alight and sent it on its way.

A few months later I was at the James Beard media awards at Gotham Hall  in New York City. The opulence of the tables sparkling with crystal in the glow of the soft amber light from the chandeliers above felt a million miles away from Haridwar. Over the ensuing weeks before the awards, I thought so often of my visit there, the surreal day I found out I was nominated for the award, the Sadhu shouting “Obama!” But I wasn’t thinking of Haridwar that night at the awards ceremony. I was thinking about the book we spent nearly three years writing. I was anxious to find out if it would win and I wondered how I would feel if it didn’t.

Our category was one of the first to be announced. It seemed to take forever to hear the titles of the three books nominated. And then just as quickly, we realized we lost. If I would have asked myself early on in the process of writing our book how I would have felt to find out we lost the James Beard award, I would have said, “Crushed.” Instead, surrounded in that elegant room by so many writers I had admired for years, my mind rushed back to my diya floating down the Ganga.

A wish and a prayer

I realized in an instant that my diya had not failed me. It had granted me all my wishes. In that room I felt joyful to be in the company of so many extraordinary people, I felt gratitude to all those who helped make our book come to life, I felt solidarity with not only the people around me but every person standing with me on the Ganga in Haridwar so many weeks before.

My diya returned to me the night of the James Beard awards after so many weeks of floating on the water. I could see the face of the Sadhu laughing as he held my hand, I heard the devout at the temple greeting me with “namaste,” I could smell the rotis baking over hot coals to feed the hungry. I was back at the Ganga, filled with peace, watching my diya float away, overwhelmed with the compassion and gratitude I was promised it would deliver if only I believed.

Photo Credits : Sandeep Patwal

Mrs. Chauhan’s Parathas in Our India

Paratha Dough and its Endless Fillings

The chef Maneet Chauhan warned me before our trip to India that the word “stuffed” in her country is not only the way many of the street foods of Delhi are prepared, it’s a perpetual state of being. She was right. I’m used to beginning the day with a stiff cup of black coffee (or ten) and that’s the end of it.

Riding the Rickshaws to the Alley of the Flatbreads in Chandni Chowk

At Maneet’s parent’s apartment in Delhi where we were staying, chai’s spicy charisma deftly trumped the allure of my routine caffeine delivery system in a single morning, providing a silken prelude to the siren call of Maneet’s mother Mrs. Chauhan’s irresistible breakfasts. Fortified might be a classier word for the way we felt when we stepped out into the addictive mania of Delhi, but stuffed really nails it; reenforcing the absurdity of our quest for the city’s most tantalizing stuffed foods, while feeling the same way even before taking a single bite.

The entrace of Paranthe wali Gali or Alley of the Flatbreads

You learn to ignore your mind’s plea for reason in the mad chase for street food in Delhi. You tell yourself that you won’t regret another bite of aloo tikka, a sip of lassi, the whimsy of popping a panipuri in your mouth when you’re back home in America eating roasted beets and turkey sandwiches.

The Entrance to Parawthe Wala

Not that there’s anything wrong with roasted beets and turkey sandwiches but on the streets of Delhi, it’s as if the frenetic energy electrifies even the most humble biscuit, the most mundane samosa. Every crevice of the city, every face, every bite of something spicy and pickled and new hums with the crush of color and humanity insistently filling your ears, nose and eyes with its ceaseless demand to command your full attention.

Rolling out the Paratha Dough

It’s a wonder in that firestorm of tasting that one thing possessed enough fortitude to firmly root itself into my food memories on those maddening, gritty, perfect Delhi streets. I discovered it while hyped up on adrenaline pumped into my veins from a deranged rickshaw ride from the Old Delhi train station to the denizen of crowded, chaotic and wonderfully aromatic galis, or alleyways, of Chandni Chowk. In this ancient quarter of Old Delhi, stuffed foods are not just a means of quelling hunger, they’re a way of life.

Paratha Fillings

We were in Chandni Chowk to visit the famed Paranthe wali Gali, or “The Alley of Flatbreads,” a twiggy, fragrant passageway buzzing with the ceaseless industry of small shacks squeezed impossibly close together. Each serves the beloved flatbreads, or parathas, that visitors gather from around the world to indulge in, but even in this vast agglomeration of paratha shops, there was only one stop on our list. Parawthe Wala, established in 1875, boldly proclaims itself to be the oldest and most famous paratha shop in Old Delhi.

Frying Parathas in Melted Ghee

If the mob of customers clamoring for a shoulder-to-shoulder seat in this tiny sliver of a place were any indication, there’s some justification in their assertion. The speed and execution of the assembly line was a feast for the eyes. The first member of this masterful team deftly rolled out the dough, the next stuffed it with every conceivable ingredient from potatoes, cauliflower, spinach, lentils and ladyfingers (okra) to green chilies, rabri (reduced, sweetened milk), paneer and green peas. He then sprinkled it with an exuberant handful of spices and pounded and rolled it flat before handing it to the next player who fried it to golden brown in a bubbling wok of melted ghee.

Golden

To accompany our piping hot parathas served on a sectioned tin tray the instant they emerged from frying, was a sweet banana sauce, spicy aloo chole (potato chickpea curry), sitafal (custard apple pickle) and every other conceivable manifestation of pickle. So satisfying were our parathas that these condiments became an afterthought, but they did provide the addictive pucker of sourness and lick of flame that in their seductive tenacity embody the qualities I love most about Delhi.

Shoulder-to-Shoulder Waiting for Our Hot Parathas

The flatbreads, which are defined as layered (parat) whole-wheat chapati flour (atta), originated in Northern India where they grace countless tables throughout the region on a daily basis. Especially popular as a breakfast dish, they were traditionally made with ghee (clarified butter) that is now frequently substituted for oil.

The Tray of Goodies Accompanying the Parathas

The only limit to what parathas are stuffed with hinges upon the cook’s imagination. Potatoes are one of the most common fillings but these gems are also prime benefactors of the seasons, becoming welcome receptacles for whatever the daily market affords, or even catch-alls for the previous evening’s dinner. Once assembled, they are fried in melted ghee as they are at Parawthe Wala, or grilled on a tava, an Indian flattop griddle. Some health conscious Indians even bake them in the oven to avoid the additional fat required for frying or grilling.

Paratha Assembly Station at Mrs. Chauhan's House

We arrived back at Maneet’s parent’s apartment that evening still floating on a ghee-slicked paratha cloud to discover Mrs. Chauhan grilling parathas on her tava. We were still full from the day’s indulgences but as we watched her stuff the parathas with shredded ginger and brilliantly red shredded carrots, only available for an inch of time each winter, we managed to find a little more available space as I reminded myself of Maneet’s lesson that the word stuffed always has two meanings in India.

Stuffing the Parathas with Shredded Ginger and Winter Red Carrots

In each new place, the paratha harmonizes to the drumbeat of its new home, while still retaining its Indian identity. The paratha’s ability to adapt is what I find most appealing about this humble dish.

Stuffed

I admire its willingness to assume the best qualities of wherever it finds itself while still preserving its Indian integrity. Before I left the country, a friend told me that because I loved their nation so much, it was not their India and it was not my India any longer. It was our India.

Grilling Parathas on a Tava

In my kitchen on the east coast of America, where Delhi feels painfully far away, I made parathas. I tucked into them the flavors of my own home; raw shaved beets, feta that would have normally found its way into a turkey sandwich. In an instant the paratha illustrated, as it has done myriad times over the centuries, its willingness to adopt the virtues of its new environment, while never losing sight of itself.

The Beautiful Result

I savored every bite. I could hear the honking horns of the Delhi streets, smell the hot ghee billowing through the Chandni Chowk galis, see the smiling faces of the team I traveled with on our quest to taste every single incarnation of street food Delhi could conjure up for our insatiable spirits. I missed India and I missed my friends. But this paratha connected me to them and reminded me that it was, and will forever be, our India.

[recipe-show recipe=indian-parathas]

India: Truck Stops, Jalebis and the Taj Mahal

Mutter Kulcha in Old Delhi

“Keep walking. Don’t forget, Delhi is like a Formula One Race. Stay in your lane,” our guide Sandeep told me as we jostled our way through the throngs of passengers clamoring for a seat on board the Taj Express to Agra. It was well before sunrise but already we were two cups of chai into the day and had our bread omelet (a piece of white bread folded inside an omelet like a letter stuffed into an envelope) tucked away for the four hour long journey.

Chai and a Bread Omelet at the Train Station Before Sunrise

The unlit train cars made finding our reserved seats in the pitch blackness a challenge until fellow passengers turned on their flashlights to light the way. It’s an accessory that many Delhi citizens carry to counter the frequent and sporadic power outages prevalent throughout the city and certainly came in handy to cut the darkness on this bleary-eyed morning.

The Taj Express to Agra

We settled into the trip just as the sun was rising to reveal the countryside of northern India, awash in swaths of brilliant yellow mustard fields, wild boars vying for space along the tracks with early morning commuters making their way from village to village on foot, and the mad scramble of train vendors at every stop along the way.

A Bread Pakora Vendor

Vendor food varies from stop-to-stop on board the train but we discovered that the one constant is the chai peddler calling out in a nasal falsetto, “Chai, chai, chai,” as he makes his way through the train cars with his aluminum pot filled with scalding hot tea.

Scenes From a Train: Straw Houses and Cow Dung Patties Used for Fuel

Indians are as passionate about chai consumption as they are about their legendary cricket player Sachin Tendulkar, a 22 year veteran for the Indian national team that Sandeep assured me is the greatest cricket player of all time. I learned early on in the cricket conversation with a Delhi native like Sandeep that asking the question: “Do you like cricket?” earns you the terse response: “Of course, I am Indian,” followed by his awkward evaluation of you to discern whether or not you’re crazy for asking such a ludicrous thing.

Sandeep (who has played cricket for over twenty years) is also a devoted chai consumer, declaring more than once on the trip, as he downed cup after aromatic cup, that he could not live without it. This inevitably led to a question I thought would send the Sachin worshiping, chai obsessed man into a moral tailspin: “If you had to give up Sachin or chai, which would it be?” Without missing a beat, he responded: “Sachin is God. Chai is love. You can’t have one without the other.”

A Pakora Vendor at the Agra Train Station

Maneet removed the warm bread omelet from its newspaper wrapping for our little team to share as Sandeep and I dove into another debate, this one concerning what he considers the heinous idea of beginning each day with a strong, black cup of coffee like I do at home. He shook his spiky, black head of hair in disgust and squinted his eyes tightly behind his purple-rimmed glasses. He was accustomed to chai so sweet it could melt your teeth, diluted with a generous swig of whole milk. My bitter morning beverage of choice horrified him.

He told me that in Delhi people who drink black coffee are perceived as elitists since coffee is considered a luxury item. I countered that in America, the pricier items are sugar and milk, which makes black coffee the drink of the people. I’m not sure this argument convinced him but he did concede: “I’ve only seen black coffee consumed in movies. Maybe I will try it myself.” Maneet grinned and suggested a peace offering: “Here, you two, have a bite of bread omelet.”

Train Chaos

Evan avoided the heated chai verses coffee debate by propping himself against the open door of the train to capture photos of rural India breezing by as the car rocked steadily back and forth towards our destination. The persistent clicking of wheels marked the miles as the occasional skirmishes between passengers jockeying for seats were tempered by sporadic blasts of cool autumn wind through Evan’s door.

A loquacious man stood by Evan’s side throughout the duration of the trip, chatting to him about India and inquiring about the purpose of our visit. When a fellow passenger ordered Evan to close the door, his new compatriot responded: “Why would you ask him to close the door? He is photographing the natural beauty of India.” The door remained open for the rest of the journey.

Spicy Chile Pakoras

After saying farewell to our new friend, we sampled a few of the vendor offerings at the Agra train station including spicy chile pakoras that once again affirmed my appreciation for the brash Indian approach to ratcheting up the heat in even the most humble fare.

The Day Evan Rode a Camel at the Taj Mahal

It was now time to be tourists at the Taj Mahal, a role Maneet pointed out to me was nothing to be ashamed of, asking me to envision the hawkers’ eyes of Agra should they ever be transported to the tourist spectacle of Times Square. Evan promptly embraced her advice by hopping on the back of a camel for transport to the Taj and I knew I would think differently the next time I saw tourists hopping the rickshaws at Times Square.

The Taj Mahal

In its unrelenting desire to talk you into buying overpriced souvenirs you will regret the moment you unpack them back home and the annoying, occasionally offensive guides that con you out of your money, Agra feels like a tourist trap. But there’s no denying the resplendence of the Taj Mahal that even on the cloudy day of our visit hovered with sublime grace before us.

What's in there?

But food people are food people and once we checked the Taj tour from our list, it was back to business. Agra is a borderline seedy place that entices with billowing curtains you know are concealing enticing culinary spectacles. Behind one we discovered a goat butcher who looked bored with our goat fixation, generously letting us snap away as the flies buzzed and the meat ripened.

Goat

We were now famished. Based upon the advice of the only ethical shopkeeper we encountered in Agra, we meandered several staircases up through a ramshackle building to one of the many rooftop restaurants throughout the city affording prime views of the Taj Mahal. The vegetarian meal we shared compensated for the soupy fog that obscured our view of the Taj and is a highly recommended way to sate hunger pains in Agra.

Panoramic View of the Taj Mahal from a Rooftop Restaurant

Bhel Puri in Agra

On the way out of the city, we bumped into a panipuri vendor ubiquitous in northern India. Maneet warned us throughout the trip that panipuri was something to avoid since its enticing, hollow pillows of fried dough are dipped in cilantro and mint-laced water ripe with bacteria. It was the one street food she warned us about and in spite of the fun it looked like people were having popping the bite-size pillows into their mouths, we reluctantly avoided indulging at Agra.

With all the anticipatory build-up, it came as quite a blow when towards the end of the trip we finally convinced Maneet that our stalwart constitutions were ready to brave the elusive panipuri. After Evan and I swallowed our first bite, he looked at me and said: “It tastes like lake water.” He was right. The subtle infusion of herbs gave the water the look and flavor of algae and I couldn’t help but think of the unfortunate times I swallowed too much lake water swimming at the cabin on summer days when I was a girl.

Panipuri in Agra

Fortunately, the panipuri was redeemed by a clever dessert we discovered in Agra called Makhan ka Tarbooz. Makhan means butter and tarbooz means watermelon and although the silky indulgence resembled its namesake fruit, it was actually a thin layer of green-tinted butter wrapped around red paneer and then frozen.

Makhan ka Tarbooz

It was incredibly rich and since I heard the siren call of the monkeys eying it from the trees nearby, it seemed a perfect opportunity to entice them closer for a photo opportunity, something I told Sandeep I wanted each and every day of our trip. He conspired with me, tossing slices of makhan ka tarbooz onto a nearby bench, telling me to get my camera ready, they were coming.

Initially I was playing the game but as primates descended from what felt like every tree ever planted in Agra, I ditched my plan and began to run for my life. Sandeep called after me: “Come back! Come back, Jody! Take your picture!” I stopped abruptly and sheepishly walked back to the benign pair of monkeys snacking on the bench, oblivious to me. I snapped a single photo, embarrassed as I was, Sandeep’s laughter only reinforcing my foolishness.

Run Away from the Deadly Monkeys!

Roasted Peanuts

Praveen's Hands

On our way home to Delhi, we stopped at the Mathura train station to purchase peda, a cloyingly sweet, reduced evaporated milk confection. We did find our peda but what I will remember from Mathura are the cows. Cows are of course worshiped in India and you do discover them in the most unusual places, but at Mathura they could have been any other passenger, waiting for a train.

Cows in the Waiting Room at the Mathura Rail Station

We spotted one wandering into the waiting room as nonchalantly as any other ticket holder and discovered another dumpster diving…as he waited for his train?

A Dumpster Diving Cow

Sukhdev Highway King Dhaba

Exhausted from the long train journey and the Taj Mahal sojourn, we still had one more stop to make before it was home to Delhi. We were having dinner at a truck stop and it was a meal I had been anticipating for days. Roadside truck stops are prevalent throughout India. Most concentrated around Delhi, they range from contemporary establishments boasting signs that read: “Fully AC Dhaba” to the more traditional incarnations with cots lining the entryway to lull the weary truck driver into a cat nap. The thread stitching them all together is hearty, homemade Indian food as enriching as a dinner at Mrs. Chauhan’s table.

The Tandoor at Highway King

Our dhaba on the way home to Delhi was the Sukhdev Highway King, a slightly sketchy 24 hour truck stop complete with a blazing tandoor oven and a cook turning our the perfect definition of Indian comfort food from his flaming wok.

Highway King

Roadside Feast

After a seemingly endless day on the road and a deep sleep to recover, I found that there’s nothing more satisfying than waking up the next morning to discover Mrs. Chauhan churning butter in her lovely kitchen to accompany the fresh fenugreek chapatis she was grilling for breakfast.

Making Butter

Mrs. Chauhan's Homemade Butter

Mrs. Chauhan's Fenugreek Chapatis

Fortified from the early morning meal, we shot a few photos of petha before hitting the road. A specialty of Agra, the translucent confections comprise the ash gourd, also referred to as the winter melon or white pumpkin. Their jewel tones are attributed to the flavorings they are infused with such as rose, coconut, almond and saffron. Petha are aesthetically dazzling but their sweetness was reminiscent of the peda and no matter how much I wanted to like them, their saccharine nature kept getting in the way.

Petha

We discovered a more promising subject in the form of a simple coconut at a road side stand on our way out of Delhi.

Maneet, Evan and Coconuts!

There’s something fun about holding a giant coconut in your hand, sucking out its juices, and then having it broken down to get at the sweet meat inside. Every member of our team seemed to feel the same way.

Sandeep and a Coconut!

Yum

Replenished, we meandered down the road to seek out more dhabas. The first one we discovered was one of the slick establishments affording air conditioning and shiny marble counter tops to off-set the inevitable feast that ensued.

Another Dhaba Feast

The next, right next door, boasted the traditional cots that delighted me even more then the aloo tika at the previous dhaba.

Maneet, Sandeep and Praveen taking a break....

The next day it was back to Old Delhi for more street food exploration. This time we were on the hunt for jalebis and samosas… but not before watching the clean shave of a man at an outdoor barber shop, a staple in Old Delhi.

An Outdoor Shave in Old Delhi

Now it was time for samosas and jalebis, fixtures of Indian cuisine which rumor had it transcended the lackluster specimens ubiquitous throughout much of Delhi at Old Famous Jalebi Wala. On a dynamic corner of Chandni Chowk replete with rickshaw pileups and the eardrum crushing drone of honking horns, Old Famous Jalebi Wala also boasts the feverish clamoring of customers who obviously know a good thing when they taste it.

Making Samosas at Old Famous Jalebi Wala

Samosa construction occurs in the back of the establishment with the frying of jalebis taking center stage at the front. And for good reason. Watching the fryer gracefully pipe his jalebi batter from a muslin bag into a vat of boiling ghee was mesmerizing. He never looked up at his captive audience but focused intensely on the twists and turns comprising the perfect jalebi, piping them out with deft precision.

Old Famous Jalebi Wala

Making Jalebis

After bobbing and turning each row of jalebi, they were dipped into a simple syrup bath which transformed them into a sticky, apricot colored confection as chewy as it was addicting.

Jalebis

Soaking Jalebis in Simple Syrup

Frying Samosas

Guava with Masala

We meandered down the street form Old Famous Jalebi Wala still licking our sticky fingers in preparation for more. The first vendor offered the perfect palette cleanser in the form of guava dusted with masala.

Freshly Squeezed Mosambi Juice

Another proffered an invigorating glass of freshly squeezed citrus mosambi juice which was ideal to wash down the hot, sweet biscuits for sale next door.

Hot Sweet Biscuits

We skipped the paan due to our unfortunate experience at the beginning of the trip but welcomed one of my favorite dishes of the trip a few doors down.

Paan

Gajar ka Halwa is a carrot pudding only available in the fall and winter, during the red carrot harvest. The color alone is enough to entice but it was its unexpected, sweet warmth that inspired me to order it every time we saw it during the trip.

Gajar ka Halwa

A Contemplative Lunch in Old Delhi

Next door to the gajar ka halwa was mutter kulcha, another dish I will seek out on my next visit to Delhi. Comprised of white peas topped with daikon, chiles, tomatoes and cabbage, it was hearty enough to satisfy on a cold autumn day but light enough to restore us from our residual jalebi glut.

Mutter Kulcha

Bhel Puri at South Ex

The next day we indulged in still more street food at South Ex (South Extension) in New Delhi, an upscale shopping district that in spite of the affluent crowd and extravagant shops, never strays far from the street food roots that seem to tether Delhi to its gastronomic soul.

Sweet Potato Chaat

My favorite discovery at South Ex was the sweet potato chaat, a tangy dish of sweet potatoes, star fruit and nimbu, a lemon-lime hybrid.

A Young Cook in South Ex

Turmeric and Chilis at Sarojini Nagar

After South Ex, we meandered down to Sandeep’s neighborhood to visit Sarojini Nagar, my favorite market of the trip. The vendors seemed extra-friendly here and the pickles extra-hot and tangy. I replenished Mrs. Chauhan’s supply of mango pickles that I wiped her out of after diligently adorning every plate at her table with them throughout the trip.

Mango Pickles at Sarojini Nagar

Stoic

Around the bend from the pickle stand was a spectacle of pakora frying and buying that seemed more reminiscent of a delirious auction house selling priceless works of art than a vendor peddling fried vegetables. What a scene it was as men descended by the dozens to point at their desired pakoras, vendors working feverishly to take their cash and stuff their pakoras, piping hot, into paper bags.

Fresh, Hot Pakora Madness at Sarojini Nagar

Across the street from pakora madness at Sarojini Nagar was a serene woman silently husking corn, the only sound the gentle humming of her fan as it blew the husks away.

Husking Corn at Sarojini Nagar

Next to her were a pile of open bags, brimming with grain and rice waiting to be milled. This little corner of Sarojini Nagar seemed a calm oasis to the endless noise of the rest of Delhi and was a fitting note upon which to conclude the day.

Rice and Grain Waiting to be Milled at Sarojini Nagar

Maneet's Hands, Freshly Decorated with Henna

Ensconced in the peace of the Chauhan’s apartment, Maneet prepared herself for a visit to her mother-in-law’s home in Jaipur the following morning. A festival was taking place to welcome her five month old baby girl into the world and it was going to be a day of celebration, one that required her hands and arms to be festooned in beautiful henna.

Last Stop: Qutub Minar: I miss you already Delhi. See you soon....

Maneet’s husband arrived the next day and while I was of course excited for her family to come together after such a long absence, it also meant that we would be without her congenial presence on our final day in Delhi. It was bittersweet to say goodbye, but it heartened me that we were already making plans for our next trip to India in October. Praveen and Sandeep would be our exclusive guides on this last whirlwind day in the city. Evan asked that our final stop be Qutub Minar, a twelfth century, red sandstone and marble UNESCO World Heritage Site boasting the tallest minaret in India.

Fog was an almost constant companion throughout our inaugural trip to India but at Qutub Minar, the sun shone brilliantly through the ornate carvings of its pillars, casting a golden, optimistic glow. I rarely regret leaving a place but immense sadness washed over me at Qutub Minar, for it felt too soon to say goodbye.

India affords endless opportunity for discovery and exploration and although I experienced so many new things on this trip, it also felt like there was so much left to see and touch, learn and taste. As the dappled light settled upon the faces of my companions, I resolved to channel Sachin, a warrior and champion bound to his nation, and his nation to him. My allegiance to India was resolute. Standing between the ancient red pillars of Qutub Minar, I vowed to return to India again and again, to play its magnificent, spell-binding game. I realized that India and I were now like the lesson Sandeep taught me about Sachin and chai; you can’t have one without the other. I will carry this wisdom with me until my next visit to India.

Delhi: A Passage to India

Panipuri in Agra

In an ideal world, an inaugural gastronomic research trip to India would include a chef as passionate and well-versed about her nation’s cuisine as she is charismatic; a talented photographer to brilliantly capture your culinary adventures; a guide who not only manages to prevent you time and again from stepping into the electric fever-dream of Delhi traffic, but also graciously serves as a hand model and videographer for the trip; and a driver to elegantly navigate the group from one culinary destination to the next through the choking, heaving snarl of traffic ubiquitous to this sprawling city pulsing to humanity’s insistent drum of color and noise.

Not only did our team include all of these essential players, it also comprised a support group at the end of each frenetic day in the form of chef Maneet Chauhan’s parents and her five month old baby girl. Walking through their apartment door at the close of a frenzied, masala-laced escapade dialed us back from the brink of a Delhi overdose as we gathered around a dinner table laden with an abundance of riches including pungent Punjabi mango pickles, fresh-off-the-griddle flatbreads and a jar of raw sugar for our blazing hot chai.

Hot chapati complete with fresh ghee was a staple at Mrs. Chauhan's table.

Sensibilities restored, we set out each morning into the looming Delhi fog with our driver Praveen, who greeted us with a gracious smile and genteel nod of his head to say hello. Before navigating us from stop to stop along the tour route of our extraordinary feast, Praveen stopped along the way to pick up Sandeep. Sandeep became for us not only our guide and comic relief, impromptu hand model and videographer, but protected us with a steady hand from the onslaught of Delhi traffic when we inevitably walked into it time and again as a result of delirium induced by sensory overload.

A ram laddoo vendor outside the National Railway Museum in New Delhi.

Evan, Maneet and I initially amused Praveen and Sandeep with our fascination for Delhi food vendors so pervasive throughout the city’s throbbing streets. Eventually our enthusiasm (or perhaps it was our madness?) won these skeptics over and they too sought them out. We encountered our first vendor outside New Delhi’s National Railway Museum. He was peddling ram laddoo from his colorful stand; lemon yellow orbs of fried white lentils perked up with shaved daikon and green curry. We were ravenous in spite of Mrs. Chauhan’s hearty breakfast but Maneet wisely warned us not to overindulge as this was just the beginning. She certainly wasn’t kidding.

Monkey business

After permitting ourselves only one ram laddoo each, we toured the madhouse of the New Delhi Railway Station where porters called coolies dominate the landscape. Emblazoned from head to toe in red, they slickly manage to transport luggage through a choking labyrinth of people waiting from all corners of India for trains that a piercing female voice on a loudspeaker incessantly announces are going to be hours late. The station impressed, but it was the pair of monkeys grooming each other just outside that fixated us. Once they had our entire group’s attention, the carnal pair promptly started mating, resulting in an initially awkward moment until we all burst out into laughter that set the giddy tone for the rest of the trip.

Making naan at Bhape da Hotel in Connaught Place

A revelation followed the monkey show when we arrived at Connaught Place, one of New Delhi’s largest hubs for commercial and business transactions. It alighted not at a refined restaurant in one of the city’s luxury hotels but at a hole-in-the-wall called Bhape da Hotel where the butter chicken remained for all of us one of our favorite dishes of the trip. And that’s quite an impressive distinction on this journey of gastronomic excess. Bhape is inspired by the dhabas, or roadside truck stops speckled along the highways of India, but most prevalent surrounding Delhi.

Lunch at Bhape

Red onions accompany most meals in Delhi and Bhape was no exception. They add an extra layer of pungency and heat to dishes that are not ashamed to let their spice flag fly in a flagrant display that those promising spiciness in America rarely deliver. Bhape’s tandoori chicken was another favorite as was the naan prepared each day by Manbai Mohanlal Laxman, who has manned the tandoor at Bhape for an impressive 26 years.

Enticements at the entrance of Bhape

To entice diners who might otherwise pass by this inconspicuous gem, copper pots woo at the entryway of Bhape with heady brews in intense shades of cinnamon, vermillion and gold.

Paan

Across the street from Bhape was a Paan vendor who responded when I asked if I could take his photo: “Of course. Post it on facebook and be sure to say something nice about me.” I certainly can say something nice about him, as he was extremely gracious and patient with all of our photographic requests, but I’m not so sure about paan.

Meticulously prepared by layering, sprinkling and drizzling a vast bouquet of aromatics as regionally varied as India itself (paan is also prevalent throughout parts of southeast Asia), paan typically includes lime paste, areca (betel) nut and katha, a brown powder paste. Our paan also consisted of a bewildering array of additional powders, pastes, syrups and blossoms, including a vivid rose petal syrup. The pastiche was assembled atop a betal leaf that was wrapped up into a tight package and slathered with still more syrup sprinkled with powder.

Assembling paan

Paan is used as a digestive, breath freshener and palette cleanser and is frequently laced with tobacco for a euphoric effect that brings the addicted customer back again and again. Straight-faced, Sandeep told Evan that the entire paan bundle, even one as imposing as he held in his hand, was supposed to be consumed in one bite. I noticed the flicker of a grin on Sandeep’s face and I suspect Evan did too because he chose to sample conservatively, unsure of the ingredients this mysterious package contained. I too took a modest bite but it was enough to send my senses into hyper-drive as a wallop of perfume blazed through my brain, out my nose and mouth, and quite likely even my ears.

Paan: One intense mouthful!

Maneet braved her own bite which impressed me most since Evan and I were paan novices, but she knew what was in store. My eyes watered as Evan cried, “It’s like eating an entire bowl of potpourri!” Indeed it was and as Sandeep burst out into laughter (and refused to take a bite himself) we were relieved we disregarded his (sage?) advice to eat the entire thing in one go.

A weaver at Dilli Haat

Our next stop was Dilli Haat, a tourist mecca for people like me, intent on bringing home a gift from India for everyone I have ever met or might meet in the future. An open-air food market and craft bazaar with work from every state in India represented, it’s a one stop shop for all your handicraft needs.

Pickles, pickles and joyfully, more pickles on display at Dilli Haat!

Praveen and Sandeep patiently strolled with Maneet and I through the stalls as Evan escaped the shopping spree to capture photos of a traditional dance and unearth intriguing gastronomic options.

A precarious performance at Dilli Haat

He found one in the form of a sweetly comforting concoction of warm pistachio milk poured back and forth between aluminum pots until the show entices a purchase.

Pistachio milk

The toasted, ambrosial beverage was served in a terracotta cup we soon discovered is a common vessel in Delhi. Evan and I were hesitant to follow Maneet’s lead and throw ours away until she pointed out: “This is one of the most natural, biodegradable cups you will ever use.” Enough said.

The disposable terracotta cups ubiquitous throughout Delhi

The next day, restored as we were once more at Mrs. Chauhan’s table, we ventured to Old Delhi, a place Maneet and her parent’s kept warning Evan and I would overwhelm us. I was amused by this declaration since I could not imagine a more overwhelming, kinetic place than New Delhi with its horns; its seven-row lineup on a three-lane road of rickshaws, trucks, cows, people, cars, scooters, and bicycles; its crush of humanity engrossed in the drama of getting from one place to the next in this delirious maze of luminous motion.

The Old Delhi Railway Station

But they were right. Old Delhi was a new form of chaos all together. We entered into the oldest part of the city by passing Delhi Gate, one of the many ancient gates comprising the historic, walled fortification of Delhi. All at once the current of energy pulsing through New Delhi was electrified by a throbbing, whirling dervish volt of rickshaws and cattle and honking horns, fueled by a current of bedlam entirely new to me.

Waiting for lunch at the Old Delhi railway station.

Yet I quickly realized that in spite of their delirious existence, the population of Old Delhi needed exactly what everyone else in the universe requires to make it through the day. Sustenance. And what a celebration of sustenance it was! Fast, cheap, hot and creative, the street food of Old Delhi instantly won me over. At the Old Delhi Railway Station vendors sated the masses with staples like dal and gulab jamun (fried dough balls soaked in cardamom-laced simple syrup) while a virtual army of vendors awaited us outside.

The Old Delhi Railway Station

Scenes from the Old Delhi Railway Station

Outside the Old Delhi Railway Station

After our railway station exploits it was time for the ride I was anticipating since we touched down in India. Rickshaw! No trip to Old Delhi is complete without a visit to Chandni Chowk and the only way one should arrive is by rickshaw. Chandni Chowk is one of Delhi’s oldest and most vibrant markets. Comprised of a spindly web of shadowy passages, it bustles with commerce and brims with mouthwatering food.

Was he a rickshaw or an F1 driver? We will never know but I am confident that he was the fastest man peddling a rickshaw in Old Delhi....and that is saying something!

I was convinced our rickshaw driver had a death wish as he barreled Maneet, Sandeep and I to our destination. His frantic speed belied his adept navigational skills, assuring us that we were not going to die no matter how inevitable it seemed as cars and cows and motorbikes came speeding toward us. His deft skills enabled us to enjoy this crazed ride far surpassing one you would ever experience at an amusement park.

Evan and Praveen's rickshaw driver took a more leisurely pace to arrive at Chandni Chowk.

The first vendor we encountered after catching our breath at Chandni Chowk sold an alluring dish comprised almost entirely of milk foam. Vendors begin their preparation for daulut ki chaat at around 2:00am each day by churning heavy cream then whipping it for hours. Each and every daulut ki chaat vendor we discussed the process with throughout our trip told us that the next step entailed setting the frothy cream outside in the winter’s dew for several hours. How exactly winter’s due was responsible for transforming a pot of whipped cream into a buoyant cloud of tangy wispiness left even a pro like Maneet baffled. We resolved to unravel the mystery later but on the street of Chandni Chowk, we decided our best, most immediate solution was to taste the mysterious creation ourselves.

Daulat ki Chaat

With milk froth still on our tongues, we were welcomed by two chickpea inspired dishes the moment we stepped inside the 17th century passageways of Chandni Chowk. The first was khandvi, a delicate wrap of chickpea flour tempered with mustard seeds and served with green chiles, coconut and a smattering of sesame seeds.

Khandvi

Its compliment was dhokla, a steamed, fermented chickpea cake as addictive as it was spicy.

Dhokla

At the end of a corridor buzzing with the hum of commerce generated by vendors selling everything from resplendent ribbons to crystal trimmed bangles, was 19th century Parathe Wala serving what we were told (and I certainly believe) were some of Delhi’s best parathas.

At Parathe Wala, the a la minute, fried, whole-wheat flatbreads are stuffed with your choice of ingredients including radishes, bananas, chiles, paneer, cashews, carrots, potatoes, mint and almonds.

Rolled out, stuffed and fried in a performance as enticing as the result, Parathe Wala vibrated with a rolling cast of local and foreign customers packed together in an elbow-to-elbow dining room to indulge in this Chandni Chowk essential.

Theatrics at Parawthe Wala

Across the passageway from Parathe Wala was a lassi maker that we all agreed made the best lassi of the trip. Rich and tangy, it quelled us into silence (quite a challenge with our group) as we downed every last drop.

Nothing compares to fresh lassi.

Served in the rustic terra cotta cups I was growing to love, it also became Sandeep’s first gig as impromptu hand model, a role he enthusiastically adopted and was asked to perform countless times to afford Evan the perfect shot.

Sandeep, our very patient and always cheerful hand model.

The frenetic streets of Old Delhi

A vendor selling sweets

We strolled through the seedy Meena Bazaar and explored the temple at one of the entrances to the imposing 17th century Red Fort that dominates Old Delhi. I was asked to don a fetching (cough, cough) fuchsia robe because I was wearing a skirt and learned in an instant that knee high leather boots are not the optimal footwear to remove again and again during temple visits.

Roasted peanuts

An outdoor barber shop in Meena Bazaar

On the other side of Meena is Karim’s, a Delhi institution. With outposts throughout the city, we went to the original to sate our kebab fix. It didn’t disappoint. The restaurant is reached through a nondescript, dimly lit passageway off of Chandni Chowk that tumbles unexpectedly into the action-packed tandoor-hustle and kati roll-bustle of what is a mainstay for locals and tourists alike. The open-air series of storefronts, each producing a different element of the menu, is patched together by a confluence of anemic alleyways spilling into its epicenter.

Karim's in Old Delhi

Kebabs are fired and naan tossed from the tandoor as scooters and bicycles zip through the establishment in a scene more reminiscent of an old Hollywood film set than a restaurant lobby. I absorbed the energy of the place standing next to a stoic man intently tending his aluminum pots bubbling with Karim’s staples like Nayab Mughz Masala (brain curry), Keema Kaleji (minced meat and liver curry) and Mutton Mughlai. He ignored me for several minutes before he turned my way with an enormous spoon and an even bigger grin and asked: “So, are you liking your stay in India?” I grinned widely back, sufficient it provided him with the proper response.

The hyper-efficient naan team at Karim's

Kebabs at Karim's

Sated and exhausted from our adventure in Old Delhi; senses buzzing, brains still trying to absorb it all, we stumbled out of Karim’s into the topsy-turvy pandemonium of the city once more. As we jostled our way down the street, we passed by a vendor selling kheer benazir, a cardamom scented rice pudding sprinkled with pistachios and vark, thin sheets of edible silver gilding many Indian sweets. But after our elaborate meal at Karim’s we vowed to save it for another day.

Kheer benazir

Ensconced in the calm sanctuary of our quiet car, Maneet read my mind when she threw her head back on the seat and exhaled in exhaustion, “I need a cocktail.” I nodded in agreement and Praveen promptly drove us to the Leela Palace Hotel, its opulence a jarring juxtaposition to the tumult of Old Delhi. We dusted ourselves off as hostess as refined as Old Delhi is raw, guided us through the regal lobby dripping in gold and perfumed with impossibly red roses floating in ornate pools of clear water.

Smoking out the mosquitoes at the Leela Palace Hotel

Guilt washed over me as I tried to find a way to justify the brash extravagance of the Leela after spending the day in Old Delhi, where so many struggle valiantly to source their basic needs. I could not reconcile the divide between the expensive cocktail in front of me and the daily scramble of so many to find clean water and keep their children fed.

But I knew it would be impossible to ever bridge the gap between Old Delhi and the Leela. They each symbolized the extreme contrasts that make India so beguiling to the traveler, enticing them to return again and again. I did not enjoy the appetizers at the Leela as much as I relished what we tasted in Old Delhi that day.

The humble elements comprising the dishes we discovered in Old Delhi were elevated by creativity and imagination, not reliant upon the crutch of extravagant ingredients to make them sing. The resolve to make something mouthwatering was unhindered by the tug to impress and rooted in an abiding respect for the past and pride in an impossibly rich culinary heritage stretching back millennium.

Cocktails beneath the opulent ceiling of the Leela

We were only a few days into our trip but already Delhi had won me over. The realization that I would never be able to comprehend or absorb completely the extreme contrasts that make India’s people and their cuisine tick humbled me. More than this, I knew that what I loved best about India were the same qualities I love in the people I’ve met in life who fascinate and enchant me the most.

These characters are never the individuals you can decode in a single conversation. The most interesting people are those who confound and delight and amaze and confuse in equal measure, drawing you into an orbit generated by an indistinguishable energy and light that is all at once blinding and comforting, heartbreaking and seductive. They dazzle with their enigmatic personalities, mesmerize with their quirky charm, enchant with their brilliant, edgy wit. This was Delhi. Gratitude washed over me at our table at the Leela, fortified by the collective laughter of our team comprised of new friends and old. This was India and I couldn’t wait for tomorrow to arrive. I wanted more. But first it was time to regain our equilibrium at the table of Mrs. Chauhan.