I’m always fascinated by the diversity of restaurants here in India.  There are mobile street stalls that are no bigger than a couple square meters where you can grab a quick snack; there are decadent restaurants that rival the hottest spots in Paris.  And there are fantastic, typical street-side restaurants that serve “fast food” downstairs – which basically means that you go to a counter and place an order, pay, walk to another counter to pass off your ticket to the kitchen.  Then, once your food is done, you eat it standing up ‘community style’ at one of a dozen counters there in the front of the restaurant.  A lot of these places also have quaint dining rooms with service upstairs, like the fantastic vegetarian restaurant New Krishna Sagar in Bangalore where I was recently put to work for a couple of hours as a cook (this is where we were).

I have been coo coo for masala dosas since I enjoyed the first bite of one back in June at the infamous Airlines Hotel in downtown Bangalore.  I can’t really explain why but I have an odd obsession with this food and will go through phases when I crave one almost every single day…though thankfully I don’t give in to my craving that often.  Lordy, imagine what my ass would look like if I did!  So what better way to feed the obsession than to go on an adventure into a typical Indian restaurant and learn exactly what goes into creating this yummy Indian fast food treat.

The opportunity to work as a cook came up quite spontaneously while I was out and about in town already running errands.  I was wearing a relatively long flowing floral frock, a silk scarf and my favourite Tod’s strappy heels. Not exactly the most appropriate outfit for what I was about to do but as they say back home in Spain “es lo que hay” (it is what it is) so I just went for it.  Mahabala K. Poojari, the charming and hospitable owner of New Krishna Sagar, agreed to donate his time to explain the ABC’s of the restaurant and show me how masala dosa is made.

In India, business doesn’t happen until a sufficient amount of personal interaction has taken place first.  So when business is with a restaurateur you can imagine that it will involve food and drinks. So in keeping with Indian tradition, Mahabala basically tried to force feed me lunch and Indian sweets, which would be rude for me to refuse.  And normally I would be all over this generosity, trust me, I can be quite a little piggy.  My only problem is that I am in full-swing bikini boot camp mode in preparation for Goa in January so I really didn’t need or want anything.  But my friend said that I would be insulting the owner if I didn’t…so I enjoyed a small sweet pastry and fresh watermelon juice, which seemed enough to please the owner.

If you have never had the pleasure of eating a masala dosa, you are really missing out.  This magical treat is essentially a thick Indian crepe that has been brushed with spicy red chilli, it is both sweet and salty, then filled with a – of course, spicy – mixture of herbs, onions, potato, cashews, lentils, etc etc… and rolled up either burrito style or into a 2-dimentional triangle if you can picture that.  It’s pure heaven.

My first lesson took place in the grain storeroom where I was shown exactly which legumes and grains are processed, ground up and then refined even further in order to make the fresh flour that is then mixed with salt and water to create the perfect batter.  They don’t use manufactured flour for their dosas, which ensures the quality is just right and it keeps costs down.  It’s fresh and you can really taste the difference.

Next we moved downstairs from the grain storeroom into the kitchen and there we actually caused quite a stir.  I think it’s safe to say that a white girl in a dress and heels had never walked into that kitchen to work before and we actually had a little crowd of staff following us around, it was cute. One of the staff had prepared a platter with all of the necessary ingredients to make the potato filling and the owner put me to work in front of the largest wok-like pan I had ever seen.  It was shiny silver and smouldering hot and he walked me through the process of making the filling.  First we seasoned the pan with oil, and then started adding spices, legumes, chillies and onions… we added in basically a huge handful of some delicious smelling herbs and coriander and the aroma coming up from the mix was wonderful.  Coarsely chopped cashews were the last ingredient added into it…yum yum!!  Once the mix had cooked enough I was given a spoon to taste test and it was delicious.

From there we went to where the real action is and I was put to work in the open kitchen of New Krishna Sagar that faces the street.  Now THAT was interesting, I think just as much for me as for the guests outside looking in at this blonde behind the grill whipping up their dosas! My first attempt at making a dosa was a nightmare, I poured the batter completely wrong, didn’t add enough clarified butter to it, you name it….I messed it up.  So I asked the chef to show me exactly how to do it ….again!!!

After that I stepped back in and actually did it right.  Not PERFECT, but at least more or less right.  First, you take a cup of water and pour it onto the grill and move it around to freshen up the grill using a bunch of branches or long reeds that are tied together, which is really fun.  Then you dip into the batter and pour it onto the grill in one pile and use the bottom of the cup to spread the batter and make a nice big dosa.  Once it has been spread out to the right size, you sprinkle a little ghee – or clarified butter – on it and spread on red chilli paste.  Last, grab a handful of the potato filling (and by grab I mean literally grab it with my hand) and place it in a ball on the centre of the dosa and let it cook for a minute or so.

So there I was, hot and sweaty at the grill, whipping up masala dosas, placing them onto plates or into to-go boxes, and serving customers.  It was actually really fun. And quite funny every time I did something wrong because the entire kitchen and all of the guests of New Krishna Sagar standing outside in front of the counter would laugh with me as I tried again.  Okay, probably they were laughing AT me, not with me, but it was all in good fun.

At the end of my “shift” I marched myself upstairs with the owner and enjoyed the fruits of my labour.  Mmmmm mmmmm, I was hungry from the hard work at this point too so I thought “screw bikini bootcamp” and I gobbled up my masala dosa with my hands in record time.

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I’m not certain there is such a thing as perfect dal, though in accordance to Felicity Cloake’s recent commentary in the Guardian – there’s certainly some recipes contending for the role.

Dal, like most Indian foods – will vary with regards to the lentils used and how it’s produced. It presents us with one of our staple foods and in a sense, is both the food of the masses – yet laced with elegance and sophistication.

Because dal, in principle is easy to make, some people are quick to look at is a poor person’s dish, when in fact it transcends most cultural and class boundaries. It’s almost akin to Ratatouille for the French. However, whenever dal is presented, I often wonder why we haven’t got something a little more tantalizing on offer – like matter paneer or pau bhaji? But the question is, is dal really the lazy option – or are we just not giving it enough care and attention it deserves?

Dal can be a bit of milestone for novices coming to terms with Indian cooking. Master it and you can go on to master many of the other complexities in Indian cuisine. It is, in essence, the bedrock of Indian cooking, laying down the foundation for many other elaborate curries that come thereafter. Yet one considers the millions of people that eat it across the world everyday, you can’t help but wonder about the special art to this simple, yet effective lentil soup. To start, here’s a break-down of a traditional but typical dal process. There are a range of lentils to pick from, though the chana lentil is the one used most often – giving dal its distinct yellow colour.

Lentils

- Chana lentil (typically used, yellow)

- Maa Chana lentils (often mixed with the above, black)

- Mungh lentils (round and wholesome, green).

• Traditional dal can be made from any number of lentils. The initial process is the take whatever quantity you’re working with (depending on how many you wish to serve) and soak it in water overnight. People will do this for various lengths – depending on the nature of the lentil. The general rule will be, the more potent the lentil, the longer you leave it to soak. The purpose of soaking, my mother informs, is to allow the lentil to naturally release its gas through the water’s pressure. There’s nothing worse than sitting too closely to someone exclusively on a lentil diet.
• The lentils are then boiled in the same water. You can do this in a pressure cooker if you’re short of time, and of course if you’ve got one. It all depends on how many people you intend on feeding.
• Whilst boiling, you add your spices and seasoning to choice, Turmeric is the base spice, giving dal it’s distinctive yellow colour, though of course you can vary from this. Salt, pepper, garam masala, chillies – can all be added to personal taste.
• The mixture is kept boiling until the lentils are fully cooked and the spices are fully immersed. Depending on the amount of dal you’re making – this can take up to about an hour. Dal’s that are made from split lentils can cook quicker. There’s a greater surface area and a smaller size of lentil. Those that are whole, can take longer for the water to penetrate.

Following this – you can go one of two ways – eat as is for a completely healthy, though slightly simple lentil soup. However, if you want the full on intense Indian dal experience you go on to full Tadhka mode.

Tadhka mode

• In a separate pan, warm some oil, butter or ghee. Add some Jeera (Cumin), crushed garlic and allow it to gently warm, but not overcook. To this, we add some chopped or shredded ginger (I prefer to mince the ginger, as personally, I find it a bit offensive in whole chunks). You can also add a chopped onion to taste. Onions and chillies are the basis of most good Tadhkas. The notion of a tadkha is to create a base for any dish to sit on.
• When the mixture begins to turn a golden brown, you can add fresh diced tomatoes. This is entirely optional. Some people prefer not to include tomatoes, though they add colour and interest to the dish. If you’re extra fancy, you can use peppers or both. You may even decide to skin the peppers or tomatoes – so as not to have the rolled up skins floating about in the dal afterwards.
• When the tomatoes are lightly cooked, you can add the tadhka mixture to the cooked lentils. Leave both mixtures, to simmer together for about twenty minutes and your dal is ready.
• To garnish, you can add a splash of colour – for us, this is typically chopped coriander leaves.

A health conscious alternative to the above is to include the tadkha ingredients as part of the initial dal boiling process. This is a way of also quickening the process, though traditionally, dal was a day’s work – seen as a celebratory – yet comfort food. I’ve often had it in the winter as a warming dish, or in the summer as an alternative to heavy food. It’s also great when you have a cold. There are hundreds of variations to the above process, and of course you can try similar things with different beans and pulses. Dal Makhni will always be my favourite dal, but that’s a whole new recipe to explore.

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I assumed they’d made a typographic error. On the menu board above the washbasins in Sree Aryaas Hotel, opposite Varkala railway station, there was something called paper roast. Surely they meant pepper? I chuckled to myself, imagining the edges of a newspaper curling up and catching fire inside an oven, then I carried on eating my masala dosa.

That was over two years ago, when I was new to India and the often curious way in which dishes are named. ‘Fish fry’ instead of ‘fried fish’. ‘Egg roast’, ‘egg curry’ and ‘egg masala’, three different types of egg-in-spicy-gravy that at some restaurants taste exactly the same. The difference was that with these, the name offered a clear idea of what it represented. But paper roast? That could be anything.

I started seeing it more and more on restaurant menus. It became a cat-and-mouse game that I failed to acknowledge, a cosmic attraction between a South Indian dish and a young and impressionable foreigner. The interesting thing was that it was always the most expensive item on the menu, usually around Rs. 60 (by comparison, a masala dosa is anywhere between Rs. 20-30). This made it impossible to ignore.

Finally, this week I went to a restaurant near my office with my friend Ron for moral support and took the plunge. “Paper roast,” I said when the waiter looked at me. The words felt funny coming out of my mouth, like a secret code. They may as well have been. I still had no idea what I was in for.

Ron’s masala dosa came, and he finished it before my paper roast arrived. Though his masala dosa looked tasty – as all masala dosas do – this only heightened the suspense. If something takes so long to make, it must be good.

And then it came, my very own paper roast, and it made my mouth drop open in shock. It was a dosa – a pancake made of rice flour – but the biggest, crispiest dosa one could conceive of. It arrived brought by two people and on three trays: two for the metre-long tube of dosa, one for the condiments (sambar and two kinds of chutney). If I’d held it up and stood next to it, all 6′5” of me, it would’ve been more than half my height. If I unrolled it and pressed it flat, it would have been as big as our table for four. It was, without question, the most ridiculous thing I’d ever seen in a restaurant.

Considered thought and debate are no help when confronted with the task of eating paper roast, so I relied on intuition. I first broke it into two halves so it would fit on one tray, where it resembled a pair of outsize shotgun barrels. Ron snapped a quick photo before I tucked in. I looked manic and a little terrified.

‘Paper’ was not a misnomer. The dosa was wafer-thin, and it had been fried in ghee to crisp perfection. I broke a piece off hesitantly and placed it in my mouth… and it was of course absolutely delicious. The next piece was used to test the sambar. World class. Then the chutneys. Not earth-shattering, but good enough. Put it all together, and I’d found my new culinary obsession.

My pace quickened as I grew accustomed to the required technique, flattening a section a little and then shovelling in the shards created. Very soon, a sharp and poorly chewed piece of dosa lodged in my throat. These things ought to carry a health warning, I thought. ‘Contains sharp pieces. Not suitable for children under the age of 8.’ They could add ‘May cause heart attack on sight’ underneath. Paper roast was like the South Indian version of those challenge hamburgers at Texan diners, the ones that take several pounds of beef and are free if you can finish them. (The shard remained in my oesophagus for the remainder of the evening.)

Through the ebb and flow of conversation with Ron, I kept on eating, barely pausing for more than five seconds at a time. Half an hour passed. I still had paper roast left on my tray. It was still just as crispy and delicious, as if to taunt me. I wasn’t full yet, so I vowed to finish it and carried on, but I experienced an emotion I’ve never felt during a meal before: boredom. This thing was so big and took so long to eat that even though I was having it for the first time, I got bored while eating it.

Paper roast, the dosa that goes to 11. Paper roast, the meal of a lifetime, so stupendous you only need to eat it once. Paper roast, the food that defeats you through sheer perseverance. It wasn’t me that persevered at carrying on until there was nothing more left; it was the paper roast. When it was finally finished, fully 40 minutes after it was brought out, I said to Ron, “That was fantastic. I’ll never eat it again.”

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An outsider perspective to the food world of Mumbai and Delhi is like a Kaleidoscope. Having spent three years of my college life in Mumbai and then marrying a dilliwala and making Delhi my new home, I have fallen in love with the food that both these cities have to offer. But that is not the case for someone born and bred in Mumbai or Delhi who are the loyal flag bearers for their cities. Delhi and Mumbai have always had a love hate relationship. I love it when you are low; I hate it when you are high. This feeling also extends to the food that both these metros have to offer.

Now a look at the contrasts:

Tarala Dalal Vs Neeta Mehta

Kulfi opposite Girgaum Chowpatty Vs Ice-cream during a cold winter evening at Indian Gate

Vada Pav Vs Channe Kulche

Pav Bhaji Vs Chole Bhature

Gateway of India Vs India Gate

Bandra Shopping Vs Delli Haat

New Delhi Vs Town in Mumbai

Kala Ghoda Festival Vs Suraj Kund Mela

Pritvi Theatre Vs The Kingdom of Dreams

Mumbai Rains Vs Delhi Winters

And the list is endless. The two unique and beautiful cities, that I have made home hold some very fond memories.

But what I want to focus upon is my unbiased love for the food both these cities have to offer.

The food culture of Dilwalo Ki Delhi is a mix of Mughlai and Punjabi cuisine. The Mughals, who ruled the country with this city as there capital, have left, a very deep impression on the citizens’ palate. Chandni Chowk is the life blood of all authentic mughlai food in Delhi. Every famous shop has existed since time immemorial and boasts of having served the Mughal kings.

The Parathe Wali Gali with its range of parathas from the basic gobi and aloo parathas to the exquisite nimboo and karela parathas is a treat to the taste buds. A meal at the Parathas Wali Gali is accompanied by a sweet and refreshing lassi which you drink out of a mud vessel or kullar. For the non-vegetarian what can be better than a meal at Kareems’ or Moti Mahal, situated in a small lane opposite gate 4 of Jama Masjid and on the main road of Dariyaganj respectively. Both these haunts are any foodie’s fantasy. The meal has to end at the famous Jalebiwala’s shop situated at the end of the lane named Daribe Kalan. Sounds familiar doesn’t it? Words from a very famous song, a great poets’ ode to all things beautiful and royal. Yes this lane does exist amongst the many by-lanes of Chandni Chowk. The jalebi’s are sweet to perfection, fried in ghee and as porous as a well fermented idlli. The cherry on the pie is a visit to Prince Pan situated on the main Dariyaganj street almost opposite Moti Mahal.

The baarf ka gola’s at Lajpat Nagar Market, the jalebi’s of Bangla Sweet House and the chole bhature at Odeon at Gole Market, the delicious and juicy kababs from Gelena, the Mughlai food at Brahmaputra Market in Sector 26 Noida, Sawgath at Defence Colony, Big Chill, Side Wok, Salim’s Kababs and Khan Chachas Kabab Corner at Khan Market, Gola, Qash Qai, Bercos at Connought Place, Momo’s and Fruit Beer at Delli Haat, Oh! Calcutta at Nehru Place and Mainland China at Greater Kailash II are the places that will keep you going back for more.

Now to Mastano Ki Mumbai.

The food culture of Mastano Ki Mumbai is a mix of the Konkani and Malwani style of cooking. The local cuisine is hot and coconut is one of the main ingredients. One of the best places for a good maharastrian meal is Highway Gomantak situated in BKC (Bandra Kurla Complex). If you are in need for more variety, head to Trishna at Kala Ghoda for an assortment of the most delectable seafood. Diva Maharashtracha, Mahesh Lunch Home and Gajalee Coastal Foods Restaurant are a few more options that can be explored. For a Parsi adventure head to Jimmy Boy for its delectable patrani macche and dhansak. And for a taste of Delhi in Mumbai, what can be better than Crystal opposite the Girgaum Chowpatty. Once the meal is over head to the New Kulfi Wala right at the corner opposite Girgaum Chowpatty and choose from a wide array of Kulfi’s. if something so cold is not your cup of tea just ask for a falooda rabri instead.

The bhelpuri, sevpuri , golgappa and gola’s at Juhu beach, Irish Coffee at Prithvi Theatre, Tiwari’s samosas at JVPD, China Gate, Just Around The Corner, Out of the Blue in Bandra, Oh! Calcutta in Worli, Café Mondegar and Leopolds Café at Colaba Causeway, Yoko’s Sizzlers in Khar. The roadside bhelpuri’s, vada pavs, dabeli’s and tea are a must have for the Mumbai experience.

Two beautiful and flavourful cities through my eyes. And the story has only just begun …

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When I think about packaged food in India, my mind automatically conjures up images of cold tetraPaks of mango Frooti (fresh and juicy), packets of crunchy Kurkure (can never have enough of Kurkure, can you?) and rows of instant flour mixes pledging loyalty to India’s long standing tradition of hearty carb-filled breakfasts.

The Singaporean supermarkets however have a different story to tell. And I, being the eternal experimenter of all things strange and wonderful, bring you the lowdown on what’s hitting the aisles at our local stores.

The Go Green movement

Singaporeans are all about doing things the Green way. And this applies to their beverages too.

If you picture the average Indian sipping on a Frooti, then the average Singaporean is sipping on his/her green tea. They come in tetrapaks, bottles and cans and people are guzzling it down by the litre.

Green tea flavour has crept its way into every possible food here. There are green tea noodles, ice creams, soya milk, cakes and rolls. The local Starbucks even sells a green tea latte which I have not yet mustered up the courage to try out.

Redefining seafood

The Indian understanding of seafood is mainly restricted to fish, crabs, prawns, etc. So I was quite taken aback while browsing through a tempting array of Ruffles Lays packets and I spotted a packet of dried seaweed nestled amongst them. Yes, actual seaweed. Although I have to tell you it is most definitely edible and actually very delicious. Comes in chilly flavour too for the Indian palate

Then there’s shellfish, abalone, octopus, eels and other odd things that you don’t know how to cook. Seafood here is pretty much anything which lives underwater. Nothing is spared. On that note, you might even find the odd raw lotus root slice or white fungus floating in your soups.

Beverages that Baffle

The milk aisle will have your usual array of whole, low-fat, skimmed and 2% milk and oooohh…what’s this? As I move nearer to get a closer look, I am initiated into a world of strange soya milk flavours. Apart from plain soya milk, you are offered options as bizarre and diverse as almond, black sesame seeds, green tea (again) and pomegranate.

Bubble teas are another local favourite. Though at first glance, it looks like someone has taken a practical joke too far and dropped a few small black marbles into the drink. I soon realised that these ‘marbles’ were rather tasty – squishy balls of yam paste that gave your drink a definite ‘kick’ to it. This drink gets a ‘Must Try’ from me.

Also worth mentioning is the dizzying array of strange, ‘other-worldly’ drinks made of ingredients which you rarely ever ate, let alone made a drink out of. Here are a few examples: White Chrysanthemum Tea, Grass Jelly, Winter Melon Tea and Water chestnut Drink. Get the drift?

Here Kitty, Kitty….

The Hello Kitty brand has generated a cult mass following in Singapore. To a creepy extent. There are entire shops dedicated to the big-headed, passive, expressionless white kitty. Entire bedrooms disguised as temples to Kitty paraphernalia. Cars covered in Kitty covers, photos framed with Hello Kitty borders and even personalised Hello Kitty panties! But Quails eggs? Frozen chicken feet? Tofu puddings? They are all here and more. And each day, I shake my virgin palate out of its comfort zone, discovering a new ‘exotic’ food.

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I think the first thing I fell in love with in Kerala was the masala dosa.

The one inarguable fact about the masala dosa is that like all regional specialties, everybody likes theirs a little different. Some people like the dosa – a pancake made by smoothing rice flour batter into a long oval on a griddle – thin and crispy, while others like it thick and soft. Some like masala – the potato mixture hidden in the middle – to be garlicky and spice-heavy, while others prefer the beetroot-infused mixture made famous by Indian Coffee Houses across Kerala. Then there are the condiments, the little metal ramekins of sambar and coconut chutney, of which there are hundreds of recipes – only one of which is ‘just right’ to the aficionado.

I actually had my first masala dosa in Bangalore. I was staying with a couple I’d met through CouchSurfing, and on my last morning with them, they brought in masala dosas from a street vendor near the apartment block. My God, it was delicious! I ate with relish, even mopping up the last of my coconut chutney with inexperienced fingers. At the end of it, I tried to push some money into Eva’s hands to show my appreciation, but she laughed and said it was okay – they only cost 25 rupees each.

25 rupees! Barely one New Zealand dollar! A tasty, low-cost, nourishing meal, best suited for breakfast but acceptable for dinner, and with a touch of flair about it. I was in love.

Unfortunately, it took a long time until I was able to sample one again. The hotel I frequented before catching the 7:30am shuttle to work didn’t serve masala dosas until 9, so for a good two months I had to be content with idli and poori. These two South Indian breakfast staples were good up to a point, but they became dull after a while. They didn’t have the ongoing appeal I craved – idli were too bland, poori too oily and unhealthy… but I hadn’t yet visited Cafe Mojo.

Mojo, on the ground floor of Technopark’s Gayatri building, quickly became my favourite place to eat. It isn’t merely that they served masala dosas; these masala dosas were like the Socratic form of masala dosas. The dosa was crispy and tasty, good enough to break bits off and eat on their own, and the masala was filled with peas just the way I like anything savoury to be filled with peas. The sambar was light, but not too watery, and the coconut chutney didn’t have too many chillies. In short, they were perfect.

It became another joke in the office. Whenever I stood up to go out, rather than asking me where I was going, my friends would simply say, “Mojo?” For a while I was going there both before and after work, so besotted was I with those delicious dosas. And the days when the regular chef was off duty, and masala dosas were off, I would stand shellshocked in front of the cashier and stumble vacantly through the menu, eventually settling for something vastly inferior and unsatisfying. Not even the gooey mess they called American Chopsuey could compare to my beloved masala dosas.

When I spent my week in Mumbai last December, my hosts delighted in teasing me about them – though in truth, they did have to drag me unwillingly from one South Indian eatery. “We’re going to McDonald’s, Barns, you can’t have a masala dosa!”

The biggest shock was to come, though: soon after my return to Kerala, and my Technopark haven, Cafe Mojo… disappeared. Well, the premises didn’t disappear, but it was populated by different staff, different bottles of hand soap by the sinks, and – most unpleasant of all – a different menu, on which masala dosas were conspicuously absent. Over the month or so since this jarring change, I’ve visited these as-yet-unnamed impostors sullenly hoping that they’ve added my favourite item to the menu, but it hasn’t happened yet. Mojo, meanwhile, is rumoured not to have disbanded but simply to have moved premises – to a flash new building up on the hill, leaving me feeling like an abruptly spurned lover.

I’m now in masala dosa limbo. Mojo is a little too far away to walk to before work, and not far enough to justify a rickshaw ride. Meanwhile, all the other substitutes I’ve tried have been unable to measure up, from Hotel New Aryaas in Kazhakuttam to the Vegetarian Refreshment Room at Varkala railway station. Some are better than others, and I would even admit that some are very good, but they’re not Mojo. And once you find a masala dosa you like, you can never replace it.

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The Emirates Airline Literature Festival took place from March 8 to March 12 2011 in Dubai. When I found out that Madhur Jaffrey, the prolific cookbook author, would be demonstrating her skills in a live cooking demo, I simply had to go.

When I arrived there, her book, ‘Curry Easy’ was flying off the tables like hot cakes (or curry, as it were). The queue to enter the hall where her workshop was to be held was long. It felt as though we would never enter the session in time. But when the doors opened and people were ushered inside, you could hear a sigh of relief in the air.

And we were off!

A picture of elegance in the temporary kitchen at the end of the hall, Madhur Jaffrey started talking about her viewpoints on cooking Indian food, which embodied simple cooking. She said, “With any cuisine, you will find there are complicated and simple dishes. I travelled around India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka and looked for recipes that are simple.” She said she’d often heard laments that Indian food takes too much time to eat, and sought to change that status quo.

Starting with making kababs, she mixed chopped mint, green coriander and onions, garlic, ginger, chilli powder, yoghurt, black pepper and salt to taste with the minced meat (chicken or even turkey). Then she added an egg to bond the mixture well. We were asked to put the mixture into a plastic bag and put it in a fridge overnight. When it’s ready, put some oil in a baking tray, spread the meat mixture right to the edges and bake it for about 30 minutes.

Then she moved her attention to making the chutney to accompany the kababs. She commented on how the word ‘chutney’ has become synonymous with mango chutney, and said that in India, ‘chut’ literally means ‘to lick’. She said, “A chutney is something which you’ve mash it together…which is lickable, that provokes the mouth with a tingling variation of sour and spicy tastes.”

She blended red pepper, chilli powder, almonds, garlic, mint and lemon juice together and insisted that they be put in the blender in that order for best results. At the end, a bit of dill was sprinkled on the top of the resulting paste for extra flavour.

Her next dish included prawns and she cracked a joke, when she held up a very large prawn, and said, “I asked for jumbo prawns and they were really jumbo … This is Dubai for you! These are almost lobster size!”

She applied salt for the prawns, along with pepper, chopped chillies and cayenne pepper, and mixed it well and advised us to leave the mixture for 30 minutes before moving forward.

Then handing us a very useful tip on making tomato puree, she said once we tried it her way, we’d never go back to our old puree-making ways. She said, “Use the coarse part of the grater to grate the tomato. What you get is a really wonderful sauce and as you get closer to the other end, you end up with the skin and everything else gets grated.” Sure enough, by the end of her grating efforts, the tomato skin was left behind with a fantastically fresh-looking puree glimmering in the bowl.

Then she heated some oil in a pan, threw in some mustard seeds, kadi patha (curry leaves) and garlic. Once popping, she added the prawns, let it cook for a bit and finally added the tomato puree.

For the final preparation, she cut the cooked kabab sheet into squares, applied a little chutney over the square, topping it with some onion and mint. Even for the onions, she shared a little tip with the engrossed audience: cut the onions finely, dip in cold water and then wring out the water. The resulting onions will almost resemble lace and will not have the traditional onion-sting in its taste. She

During her speedy preparations, she gamely answered questions from the food-lovers in the audience. When someone asked whether it was a bad idea to use readymade garlic and ginger pieces, she shook her head disapprovingly, and said tongue-in-cheek, “I often get my husband to grate my ginger for me … get someone to do it for you!”

She even answered a veiled criticism from an audience member who asked whether she’s moving away from traditional Indian food with her new book ‘Curry Easy’ as it advocates non-traditional methods of making Indian food. She quipped, “I have been using traditional ways to cook but now I use non-traditional ways to get to a traditional taste.”

Her advice is to enjoy the food we eat. There are no rules in serving Indian food, she said. “We spend so much time worrying about what we eat, that we stop enjoying it.”

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I didn’t realise how familiar I had gotten with Singapore and its ways until a friend from India came over and stayed with us for a few weeks.

With that unquenchable curiosity and excitement that tourists bring, my friend enthusiastically joined us on our trolley-hurtling, toddler-dragging shopping affair at the local supermarket.

It was rather amusing to see his face morph into an interesting display of expressions – wonder, shock and disbelief. And that’s when it struck me – Hell, there are a lot of strange things being sold here at the supermarkets.

One of our first stops is always the vegetables and fruits section. A welcome sight for sore eyes. All those juicy tomatoes and crunchy capsicums beckoning to you from the shelves. But as luck would have it, that day (of all days) they had a durian sale promotion offer. The durian fruits had been assembled in a row – ripe and ready to burst with flavour. The shoppers crowded there, examining the fruit and eagerly condemning their olfactory glands to hell and beyond.

My friend turned to me with an expression bordering on near dizziness and disgust.

“What is that smell?” he hissed, looking like an amateur ventriloquist trying not to allow the foul smelling air to enter his mouth or nose.

After regurgitating his breakfast all over the organic broccoli, we hurried him off to the laundry detergents and bleach aisle for some respite where we hoped the lingering smell of the lavender blossoms would revive him.

While he buried his nose somewhere in between the floor cleaners and the fabric softener refill packs, I tittered smugly and proceeded to explain what exactly ‘that smell’ was.

“It’s a durian – a fruit. Looks like a jackfruit and -”

“And smells as if you are being tortured for something”, he added.

I chuckled a bit more. Now, now there is no need to overreact. A local delicacy it is. Yes, of course I mean it. Most of the locals crave for that ‘torturing’ fruit you see.

Now for the puzzled readers, let me enlighten you on the ‘Durian Effect’. A durian smells like an over-ripe jackfruit that has been thoughtfully hacked open and stuffed with cheese, a few maggots and ooooh…yes some fresh red meat and then left out in some tropical climate for a few weeks. You can throw in some stinky socks too. And the ensuing smell is what is referred to as the Durian Effect.

Move over apples, durians are the new forbidden fruit. The Serpent at the Garden of Eden should have just flicked a ripe durian at Adam and Eve instead of playing all those mind-games. Would have had them at his mercy in an instant, begging to stop that ‘Goddawful smell’ (excuse the pun).

But if you can get used to the smell, then the fruit is supposed to be delicious with its creamy flesh and custard like texture which has made it a favourite amongst locals. However, it is banned from buses and trains. For fear of sudden evacuations mid-journey no doubt. Durians are used for cakes, pastry, cream puffs and ice-cream. Quite the popular flavour in these parts.

I have finally progressed from the gagging stage to the nose-wrinkling stage, when confronted by a durian. But I am yet to cross the threshold to the next level – the putting-in-the-mouth-and-chewing stage.

One of these days, I shall do exactly that. Keeping a laundry clip to secure the nostrils shut of course. Safety measures against sudden unconsciousness.

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