She came for me from nowhere. One minute, I was whistling and whiling away time, minding my own business, and the other, I was running for my life, trembling heart in my hand. I could hear her behind me, she was gaining momentum, and in a few moments it would all be over. The prey had become the predator, and at a time like this, when everything was done for, I couldn’t help but curse Darwin for his evolutionary ideologies.
I ran for my life, heaving out of breath and blue, thinking back on all those times that I had wished that I had exercised but hadn’t. My feet hurt, and my stomach churned, but yet I didn’t stop. I could hear her behind me, shrieking away, and all that did was egg me on to run even faster. I huffed and I puffed down the long dark corridor, quite unlike the big bad wolf, not enough to blow anybody’s house down, but sufficient enough to survive. She cornered me at last, and I squirmed like a wriggly worm, against the dead blank wall.
I trembled and looked at her with fearful eyes, cold sweat running down my hot face. This game of Catch and Cook was a little too discomforting for my taste.
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
We were like two age old lovers, only this wasn’t love, and I wasn’t age old.
She squawked.
The plump white hen glared at me with her beady sesame-red eyes, and I shuddered. Rightly so, cause this was no ordinary chicken. It was gargantuan, of Roc-like scale and eyes that meant business. Not that I was the hen-pecked husband types, but when you were literally hen pecked, things were different, especially when you were on the giving end of a fast food happy meal.
I shrieked for one last time, as the claws of death closed down on me, and my life flashed past my eyes, frame by frame, picture by picture, till there was instant darkness.
And then, I woke up.
You know you are going crazy when you have recurring nightmares of a plump giant chicken squawking away behind you while you squirm around like a worm, trying to hide from its scaly yellow claws. Fortunately for me, this early bird does not end up getting the worm.
You can either get to the food, or let the food get to you. And usually, I would prefer the former. After all, doesn’t the belly rule the mind? Don’t get me wrong, I am not a glutton- I am an explorer of food.
They say that the easiest way to a man’s heart (including mine) is through his stomach, and not through a serrated knife as per popular belief. If your heart is full, you don’t feel that hungry, either for food or for love. But, what do you do when nobody’s particularly interested in finding the way to your heart, you ask?
Well, you do the second best thing. You cook.
Take it from someone who spent a major part of the vacation desserting, while deserting a nonexistent social life. The joy of baking brownies is like no other; two portions of sinful gooey chocolate with heaps of decadent vanilla and a measure of caramel can fix anything but lack world peace (and weight gain probably). I have always loved my food, only because my food has always loved me back. Especially when the food is city bred, and close to comfort.
What the city loses out it traffic and filth and a hundred other key points that make any member of the Parliament cringe with embarrassment and turn a shade of beetroot red, it makes up in chugging out gastronomical delights. From a myriad of colours and flavors in a Gola cart reminiscent of a chemistry apparatus setup, to the sizzle of a pound of butter on a plate of Pav Bhaji. The spicy crunch of a plate of chaat layered with sweet and savory ingredients, to a piping hot batter fried vada stuffed between a freshly baked soft white paav. Each has its own story; each has its own time.
Why this fascination towards food? Why this reverence towards the square meal, one that only makes me round?
I grew up on cartoons-on-cable, action figures that came in cardboard packaging; and hot rotis ladled with ghee, thanks to an omnipresent stay-at-home mother. I helped her over the kitchen on some spotless days, either when the cable was off or after my toys were packed away in the attic. She would hustle and bustle about the kitchen over a simmering pot of creamy gravy, overseeing the cooking of almost three different courses, all the time while I would tail her like a panic stricken squirrel gnawing away at the last nut, fetching her bits and pieces, odds and ends, feeling like a magician’s apprentice. So unsurprisingly and quite naturally, growing up (or as much growing up I could manage over the next decade) I dreamt of becoming a cook, or as my ten year old self didn’t know back then, a chef. It seemed different, and artsy, and exactly all the things that enamoured a pint sized pre-teen’s aspirations.
If I could make instant noodles, and boil an egg, I could do everything. Or so I thought, I still don’t understand half the difference between a Brioche and a Baguette.
What I do know?
They are delicious, and they are French. (Note to the wary reader: I am still talking about the food)
Coming back to reality, in the post-Anthony Bourdain world where cooking is cool and every kitchen is confidential, being a chef is chic. There’s a constant flurry of food, and a frenzy of happy, yet hungry customers. If that doesn’t excite the mind, what does? A chef is not one who simply cooks, a chef is one who creates. In Bourdain’s words, the human body is not a temple but an amusement park, one to indulge than implore, to devise instead of despise, where the next slice of pizza becomes a necessity, or the last chicken dumpling is the key to survival, especially in a friend circle where food comes first, even before friends. It was magical, and seemed too good to be true. But life happened, and my dreams of becoming a culinary connoisseur died a half baked death, like badly made lasagna. I moved on to other things, and other aspirations, simply because I was but eighteen and unenlightened.
What didn’t die?
My love for these gastronomical delights, and my near reverence for their creators.
You might be eating pain au chocolat and crackers with goat cheese at an upscale New York café, or eating fish and chips in the back seat of a moving car somewhere in London, you might even be binging on a margherita pizza in Rome, or something exotic/adventurous from a suspicious wok in the by lanes of Beijing, but where is the faceless man behind all these flawless dishes? Haven’t we all watched a movie just for the bucket of buttered popcorn? Or watched late night reruns just to finish of the tub of double chocolate chip ice-cream? Who amongst us is not fond of fondue or plotted for a plate of pot rice? Or gorged on Gouda cheese and Foccacia bread, with a plate of pita and hummus? No man in the world has more courage than the man who can stop after eating one French fry.
There are some things in life you’ve got to bucket before you kick the bucket. Like a stone baked slice of calzone drizzled with virgin olive oil, or rich Belgian waffles with a side portion of nutella crème crepes with a dollop of fresh cream. A cut of pan seared pomfret with a sliver of herbs and garlic, to a square of exotic mocha crumble, with all its crunchy apple goodness, or a plate of mildly spiced chicken seekh kebabs, caked with a layer of a traditional kathi bread.
Good food, unlike a good friend is not hard to come by. You just need to know the right place; and the right plate. In the end, to binge or to cringe, that is the question. You can never have too many of both now, can you?
Hunger knows no language, only its feeder; whether it be hunger for food, or a primal hunger for power, for knowledge or sometimes, even for love.
This is where I come in. I connect our stories, like a game of connect the dots; Chef to the common folk, maker to eater; Opening the whole world to yours, and you to the whole world.
What is it that this is?
This is Food for thought.
But still, Food for thought is no substitute for the real thing. So I think to myself, what do I do the next time the hallucination hen comes up in my dream?
I eat it.
Probably with a chocolate milkshake, and a side order of fries.
