Tales From Mayapuri

Tales from Mayapuri
Pakodas to Pep up an ordinary meal...
The Story goes, I used to go often to Mayapuri  Army Vehicles Disposal Market And miscellaneous motor vehicles and motor parts ... you could buy a Dodge Gun carrier to Jonga Jeep to a Russian Vaz  to German Mercedes Mog ... I was refitting my Pajero and building my MM550 Jeep..
The market had many rogue vendors as the name suggests.. it’s Mayapuri .. but also many honest salesmen and mechanics.

I have realised in life the more you trust people, the better they perform. I always and will be a believer of the Theory Y of Mc Gregors Theory X and Theory Y .. ahem at least at..Work.

So I started working with Goyal Motors and Hanuman the Mechanic. Maya Purim is also known for the  famous Family Khalsa Dhaba .. known for its Garlic water and Ghee Roast Mutton and Brain Curry amongst other things where I have had the audacity to take my elitist friends and enjoyed the experience..

So back to building my off-roading vehicles and the main protagonist, the Pakora Story.

So all the the mechanics and Jeep builders would huddle around for lunch, ( incidentally all the hard working Indians, and all South Indians take their Tea- Break and Lunch Break very seriously).

So watching them all lunching would be delightful.. all sat around in a circle ⭕️ opening the Lunch boxes of .. Roti Subzi or Roti Dal .. but to pep up their meal they would order Mixed Pakodas from a special shop and would gather around the kilo of Pakodas like a royal feast adevour the crumbs too and make a handsome meal of a mundane meal..

Inspired by them , during the long and over a 90 day day and nowtouching a 100 days lockdown, I pep up our sometimes  ordinary and mundane meal with mixed Pakodas or one type or the other with Chutneys to Pep us up and feel alive ....

A Short gastronomic thriller , an ode to my Dad on Fathers's day

Inspired today to write a short story on  Father's day, everyone thinks of stories of courage and valour and generosity and sensitivity. let me see if this one has any elements of that, and of course its food related as I am an aspirational food writer.

It was the height of summer, (those summers definitely felt hotter than today), we were on a runaway train travelling from Vizag aka Visakhapatnam aka Waltair to New Delhi. There was a Railway strike and this was one of the only trains one the move, as it had already departed.

There was no food,  the journey too was three days long and it was the 70s, no catering ,no dining cars, the runaway train screaming through the Central Indian Plains in the sweltering heat. With depleted rations of snacks, fruit and biscuits and packed meals, we were now looking at the painted empty stations as we whizzed past mofussil towns. Mind it no air conditioning, just open windows and whirring fans.

My Dear Father, a career travelling salesman, decided to get down at Itarsi Junction Station to get some nice food, the next station, he disembarked met the train driver, how long will the train halt, he said 15-20 mins, so he decided to go outside and get some food packed, he told the engine driver,  I will be back before that. Now this we got to know later, he moved out of the station, he took a cycle rickshaw to a Dhaba  (he had heard or knew about it prior, a Sardars Dhaba), got there, packed Keema, Roti and Pyaaz Salad, took the rickshaw and got back.He saw the train slowly moving out of the station.

Meanwhile, me at age 8 and my brother aged 11 and huddled closer to Mom, now what will happen, shall we pull the chain to stop the train, or has he boarded, then why isn't he coming. Then in all the excitement, a co-passenger says, don't worry I saw him running behind the train with food in both hands, he must have boarded, he has boarded. Now worried praying, these were days when the trains weren't interconnected. Now the long wait, Mom anxious, was he left behind, still consoling us. The train wouldn't slow down or stop. The next proposed halt was an hour away, my brother biting his nails, me rubbing my sweaty palms, rolling imaginary dirt. My mother putting up a brave face, like she even does now. The train finally tired out and slowed down, he walks in , as it stopped, with aromatic keema,rotis and onion salad, as he had vanquished the enemy, as he had just climbed the Everest. My Mom scolded him why didn't you drop the food and make a dash for it reach us  our bogey, rather holding on to it. He said, with wry smile, this is precious cargo.

My dad was suddenly the hero of the train or at least among'st all  those around us. We ate a very hearty and most memorable meal. He did show, valour , courage, sensitivity and took a risk for his family all rolled into one at that hot summer day at Itarsi Junction. Happy Father's Day Dad.

Weekend with a Salesman

It was a strange morning, with a listless feeling and the rudderless existance in the last few weeks. Especially the last few days have been difficult.

The only time I could or want to spend was with myself in the bedroom, switching screens, the mobile to the Tv and back to the mobile. Uncomfortable with my thoughts, uncomfortable reading and uncomfortable breathing. tough to inhale and even tougher to exhale.

Everthing seemed like chore and everybody felt like a non person. Amidst all this a bolt from the blue to go out on a Sunday to the other edge of town for a reluctant examinee talking an exam.... My little one.

There was a certain coolness in the atmosphere the remnants of a passing storm,  rain on the parched lands of the Aravallis. The coolness wore out, to a certain warmth which stayed with me.

Stepped out brought breakfast ate it with my folks on the table with unbroken silence, I still was in the past few days, still afraid to warm up...

Sweated it out at the Health club in a suurounding stupor with friends and their woes and economic disaster that the country is in. The Rich are fleeing the country, constant words like this add to the deep dungeons of despair I am trying to climb out today. I was determined to climb out today.

We drive, every conversation of mine leads to the past... my daughter says lets create new memories.... less past... more present. I agree and try for the rest of the day.

Crowds... for the law exam... 800 students 1600 or more parents and more from the previous shift she is overwhelmed and keeps tugging at my arm. They are all so grown up, they will know more than me..... We are doing it for fun I add.

I walk into the coolness of Starbucks while I waited. A Hibiscus passion fruit lemonade the stout bespectacled lady offers, I mindlessly accept and pay and lo behold here come the samplers, mocha cookie crumble, blue berry cheese cake and a chocolate cake of sorts. Loved it. An hour passes, a girl gently slaps her lover, a serious looking man reading a book, fat men drinking out of even fatter mugs and glasses, students learning , studying. I try the wifi I lose, 10 bips on my battery.

I walk and on second thoughts I enter Burger King and buy a Mutton Whopper meal, to re-introduce the real deal of burgers  ( we had done several nice ones on our travels to the US and other places). She comes out we sit in the car air-conditioned and all. With the first bite heaven explodes, the juicy meat, the fillings, the smokiness of the meat almost tastes like a kebab she says.The most bliss full few minutes, sticky fingers, tons of paper, bites laughter, cola, fries and a cold pressed Valencia oranges juice . We loved every second of it, nicer conversations, nicer and newer memories.

Now the Play, Death of a Salesman - Arthur Miller , have been wanting to see it for 26  years, as long as I have been The Reluctant Salesman. This was the Hindi version... but brilliant acting. It took very long to fulfill this one. Like some meals are best enjoyed in solitude. This play about a salesman's life watched by a a reluctant salesman who was brought up on the folklore of Salesmen related conversations in the drawing room as we grew up. If you can't do this how will you become a salesman..... my Father often said. My brother detested this and definitely didn't look at Sales. That left me to take on the honorable profession in the family... 26 years a slave of Sales.

On a more a positive sense a Salesman stands for Democracy, Capitalism, Hope, Greed, Emotions, Happiness, Joy, Own the World, Make Riches, Bonus, Commissions, See the World, Know and see your own country- cultures, Sub-cultures, Food Languages, Business  Style, Buy Houses, Drive Cars you like..... I could go on.

On the Flip side... Sadness, alcoholism ( at a liquor store in the evening you see more salesmen than anyone else), braving the weather ( hot summer, cold winter lashing rains), hitting the streets, rude clients, unending waits at the receptions of clients offices, cold calls- warm leads and dead-ends.

Coming back to my Day.... Two Cold Beers before a Heavy Duty Play.... and then for Dinner... two streams of thought, in fact three streams of thought. Go home and eat a cold dinner, Eat at the Ghalib Kebab Corner at  Nizamuddin ( been wanting to go there for years) and finally a Dhaba on my way Home, This Dhaba has been spotted over a decade and has been on my radar for nearly that long. Too close to home, too early to eat, running late.... many excuses. So I had to go, old world charm... plain simple vanilla, no frills. Stopped there, asked... Dal, Vegetables, Chicken and Rotis. Felt like a Dal oscillated between a dal fry and dal makhani.. settled for a dal makhani as it wasn't the gooey sludge one expects but a well tempered plain dal with a little floating butter. Bliss plain simple old world flavorful and simple rotis. The grand meal was Rs 66/- 60 for the dal and 3 each for the rotis.

There were several regulars and others eating and getting a meal packed. Fresh food from the heart inexpensive, down to earth, for the sons of the soil.... a True reflection of my mindset that day.

Smiled within, I can spend time with myself and enjoy it. I have had over  300 magnificent meals and experiences since my last post. The very fact I am motivated to write about this says something.

Salesmen and Women of the world unite, you have nothing to lose than your sorrows.

Random Rambling to Rouse me to Writing

Exotic Foods and Empty Bowls

At times like these I feel my writings are even more relevant, where the rich are migrating from every basic food to exotic foods and the poor are moving away from basic food to sometimes no food. I am told 30% of the worlds hungry and undernourished live in India. The rich are protein hungry (more people taking to eat meat, and many myths of Indian Vegetarianism have been broken in the recent surveys) and the poor are carbohydrate hungry or plain hungry.

I have always tried to write about the Rs 100/- eating out and smile and mouth Aaall iis well. The more I read hear, see and understand, yes I may not make a livelihood from being the salesman's hero or of the lower rung of the totem pole. But, I will re-dedicate my writing to the cause replete with new vigor and fervor.

Where does this madness start, how does this madness start, why does this madness start. Just because there is  Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. We may slowly be led to believe that people read and enjoy our photographs and the nonsense we write around them.

Its  sad and is a twist of fate that the the rich photograph their food before they start and the poor pray before they start.Who really cares what you are eating...
. 
When I was a young boy growing in Vizag, the more cosmopolitan sat kids around talked  and shared their food. Whilst, the more and very traditional students faced the other side and hid their food, had a morsel and covered their food and did that again and again till they finished and quietly wrapped up.
Quite similar an analogy between the Imstagramers and the praying ones.
The reason behind eating shyly kept me thinking for so many years.... is it because protection from  evil eye, embarrassed with the meal, unsocial, vegetarianism etc. Until it was recently decoded, do mot have enough to share with all the needy and poor around and in the world.

Different cultures eat differently, I often hear and from poor people whenever you go past them and know them.... they say Khaana kha lo saab, I always heard these soothing chants in the Army when I walked past and  any eating Jawan from any part of the country and community. I loved it . It was almost like a greeting.

Arabs and people with Islamic orientation eat from a common plate/ bowl
So do Ethiopians
Hindus eat from own serving utensil nut share from a common bowls and plates
Far eastern communities eat from bowls and plates common and individual
Americans seldom share plates when they eat out
Kosher Meals  Ritually prepared nut eaten without rituals
Some eat with instruments and some without
Some eat at different day parts and of night
Some pray before and some after
Some eat salad and fruit before and some after
Some start with a main course and finish with others
Some couldn't care some cant afford
Some have a single meal in a single bowl that to with begging only a Bhikshu, Buddhist and Jain Monks
Some say grace, some sing grace...
Some fast and feast, some feast and fast and some fast and fast...

November 14, Nirula's Revisited

November  14, Nirula’s Revisited

It is Children’s day , I had to write about my childhood fantasy revisited  Nirula’s. After a sales call the salesman gets hungry, while going in for the meeting, I spotted a Nirula’s off Aruna Asaf Ali Marg a place near Bawa potteries. It also has the Ananda hospitality office near it (near Vasant kunj). Please read my previous post on the history of Nirulas and my journey through Adolescence, Youth, Family, please read here http://samilm.blogspot.in/2009/06/legends-of-fall-nirulas-and-wengers.html.

I walk in, the place is run down , faded paint, bright colors now pale, cakes like they are made of wax. Two three property dealer types eating a thali of sort. This is definitely not the Nirula’s of my salad days. I walk up bravely like in Oliver Twist, (asking for porridge from the orphanage janitor), here the man behind the cash till. I ask for a Bigboy Burger, I notice you have to pay extra for a hash brown. I offer Rs 135/- for a burger and hash brown. Compare it to the Rs 5.50 for a Bigboy burger exactly 30 years ago. Its now 24.5 times more. I would reckon that would be the  inflation that we have lived through from college to now.

I sit gingerly without touching the veneered table, staying away from the cloudy plastic glasses. I wait and wait and wait. I walk up to the counter and the cook on the grill says  I will make it well.

I am definitely circumspect….. I don’t know what to expect. Nirula’s. The Legend has changed… owned by Nirulas, then a Malaysian fund and Samir Kuckreja and now the Chadhas of Kabila Travels. Long journey. Equally long as my burger wait. Despite, my instructions usually its dry cardboard tasting burger.

Well the burger arrives wrapped in butter paper, I open it, expecting the worst . I bite into it, heaven, its tasty, juicy, slurpy, and heavenly. I devour it as no one is watching and enjoy. Surprise, surprise it has delivered on the core proposition the food. The mustard is good the burger is really nice. I complement the cook, Gulab, 21 years with Nirulas at at the Connaught Place mother ship outlet till they shut it down and its now a Haldirams. Thanks Gulab and thanks Nirula’s. As I said, don’t care my burger comes from a Punjabi, Malaysian, or  a Sikh ownership. All I like is the burger has to be right and right it was.

Perils of a Punter (breakfast at Jatland ... oops Heartland)

Like there are rewards in finding new and interesting places to eat. The perils or risks involved are tremendous too. This morning, i decided to drop my daughter to school and attend the PTM in the same trip. As a result, i was done at 8.30 am and our office does not crank start before 9.30 am. 

Armed with a newspaper in my hand headed to the nearest market at Green park. I had spotted an Adyar Anand Bhawan  many moons ago. Images of a clean restaurant with Suprabhatam playing in the background, well bathed and hair oiled in white lungis and shirts waiters greeting with warm smiles, hot idlis and fragrant coffee goaded me in that direction.

8.50 am and the shutters are tightly shut with a guy sitting on a stool and absorbing the lazy morning sun, tells me, it opens at 9. I always wonder other than a few, all South Indian restaurants do not open before 9 shed the early Madras Cafe habits in Dravid-land and adapted to the lazy Rajdhani and Jatland of Delhi. Though EverGreen Sweets was live and kicking> I was determined to lose myself in the lanes of Guindy, along the slow flowing Adyar river in Chennai in heartland Green Park.

I go in, a shady place with Uttranchal waiters who haven't bathed in a week, floors being swept of last nights droppings, curtains pulled to avoid the sun. i ask for Idly, sambhar will take five minutes. I settle for Upma, served in a neon yellow thali, go through it somehow terrible tasting chutneys. Ask for, Vada, not ready. Settle for a Masala Dosa. I understand the first Dosa on a Tawa is terrible, i do try and make my point. They bring be a white Dosa (far from brown ) on a even bigger neon yellow Thali. I hate it. I complain. They don’t care a shit. How does a North Indian understand Dosas.


Little do they know this north Indian spent better half of his life in Visakhapatnam and Coimbatore and speaks chaste Telugu and Tamil. They look at my half eaten Dosa in disdain and bring me a full bill. I try to complain and then let it be. 

This is my format of a complain. please avoid the place, at least in the morning if you are from the Southern, northern and any geographical state of india or the world. Namaskar

Shame at Starbucks

Coming up....... the disaster at Starbucks at Select Citty Walk New Delhi....... Watch this space.