Dr. Roopali travels back in time and to distant lands to unravel various kinds of food that cemented bonds between people and places. A tongue-in-cheek account exclusively for Different Truths. 

Food memories stay with you forever. The images of food and the people associated with it remain with us in an ecstatic aroma-filled gourmet moment. This travelogue is all about close encounters of the most tongue-tickling and mouthwatering kind.  

It was 8:30 p.m. on the eighth of November 2016. Suddenly, the TV screens at Delhi Airport were on fire! The Prime Minister of India had announced the demonetisation of the currency of the Republic. The news channels went hysterical. All cash at home had immediately turned into trash.  

We had spent whatever little we had on the international air tickets. Some we spent on a paltry bit of foreign exchange to bring along.  Only a little bit was left for groceries. That was in the bank. For when we would return. For the time being in foreign lands we were going to scrounge off relatives and friends.  

Worried family and friends and gleeful foes had warned us about the wintery direction we were taking. The western world had always been a cool getaway from the blistering summer heat of northern India.  

But this time we were heading towards snow and ice. Slowly our suitcases had grown heavy with woollens, and we dragged them around wearing our monkey caps and gloves. The airline staff at Delhi airport looked at us disapprovingly. It was 2:00 a.m. when we boarded an overcrowded flying bus, airport Starbucks coffee in hand.   

It was bliss to be alive in that dawn. But to be poor was very heaven…. apologies dear poet Wordsworth. It never felt so good to not be rich. The church mice look had started to trend. It meant you were a poor and honest citizen of India. No Black money stashed away inside mattresses. All that tossing and turning.  

Quite a few people were starting to come unglued. The meltdowns had begun. Images of liquor bars were being replaced with those of prison bars. I overheard a few desperate phone calls to family and minions. They were to quickly rip mattresses, sofas and pillows and carry out the cash in trunks and sacks.  

Later we came to know the trash cash was thrown into ponds, stinky drains and even set on fire. “Black is Black,” the PM sang out with a clever look on his face. He had nailed them.  

Some passengers left their baggage at the counter and ran out of the airport. Some staggered out of the first-class lounge, where they had been raising many a glass. A few hours more and their ill-gotten gains would turn into garbage. 

The airport in its splendour and the liberty that comes with not much money made us light on our foot. The glowing halo around our heads and a few others indicated we were the good guys. The thought of the bad guys finally getting caught warmed the cockles of our hearts.  

We soon forget the fear of rain and snow and slippery ice, which had earlier gripped us. The fancy gluten free non-GM food we had ordered on the flight had not worked well. The food was insipid and chewy. And there was nothing fancy about it. Everybody else around seemed to be eating better stuff. I spent my time slyly looking at my neighbour’s food.    

Little did I know, I was soon to have a merry time after all! “Hi ma’am,” a voice spoke. The owner of that velvet voice was the chief of the cabin crew! My gorgeous former student!

Champagne and caviar arrived. Olives and a tray of all sorts of cheeses and crackers and jam followed. My student was on duty in the first-class cabin. Guru Dakshina was making its way to me in the form of Dom Perignon and Beluga. The foodie in me rejoiced. I was enjoying a South of France holiday in my economy sardine class seat. 

Heathrow Airport was crawling with people from all over the world. Many appeared to be from South Asia. “Donald Trump has won.” “Donald Trump? Oh my god!” The white middle-aged rotund luggage carrier announced with serious trepidation in his voice. It was November 8. The U.S. Presidential Election result was out.  

This was the doing of none other than the Shani God. He is the black faceless saturnine one. He was stalking us. Many of us know him as the one who can take a random dislike to you, and then haunt you for years!  First Demonetisation and now Donald Trump. D was definitely a dirty letter of the alphabet.

Our eight-year-old supporter of Secretary Hillary Clinton was going to give us a tough time. 

Yet Ganesha, the pot bellied foodie god with an elephant trunk was secretly travelling with us. The grand kid’s Christmas present.  It was a feasting time and fun times….it was after all the festive Holiday Season. Everywhere. Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year’s Day. 

They had warned us about snow, but nothing and nobody warned us of the great gourmet adventure that was awaiting us in this western hemisphere. 

Food is an indicator of culture. If we eat the food, meet the people, visit their homes, we learn. But not with Kolkata dadas, Chenna maamis and Gujjubens from WhatsApp groups on package tours. The travel packages provide dosas and oily chholey bhature, dhoklas and puchkas at the Louvre. A catering marvel by the travel company! But what have you learnt? 

Have you heard of the famed fish and chips in London? I had only once tasted the flaky fried fish. It stuck in my foodie memory almost forever. Surprisingly, though, no one seemed to serve it anymore anywhere. It was as if it were a thing of the past.  

But my Bengali nose had to nose out the Fish and Chips! 

When all else failed, I asked a London Bobby. Their courtesy is legendary. They are the super smart police guys who wear this super fancy headgear and direct traffic. He politely pointed to the right and then to the left and politely explained where to go.  

He seemed delighted we had heard of England’s famous Fish and Chips. Everybody loves a tourist. You are not a job grabber. You are an economy’s booster! You will eat, drink, make merry and go back with an empty wallet! 

We followed his instructions and entered a narrow lane. In that tiny gali (lane) to nowhere, a tiny little shop appeared. A black board in chalk hung crookedly from a white wall.  “Only Fish and Chips,” it said. Surprise! A Sardarji popped up from behind the counter. “Of course, fish te chips ji!!! We had expected to see a rosy cheeked Englishman with an apron. 

A trifle disappointed to see a fellow Indian face, we plonked down at the single tin table. Not long after, his plump, surly wife brought over something wrapped in oily newspaper. It could have been shoes in there, but the oily newspaper was letting out steam. 

We unwrapped it. Behold! Dipped in delicious crispy batter lay two large pieces of fish. And chips, too! Ahh! The authentic English Fish and Chips now lay in the post-colonial hands of Sardarji and his wife. The Empire had struck back. Balle! Balle! Outside, through the small window we could see the Tower of London. That’s where they beheaded kings and queens.  

London is a multicultural city. Many people eat many foods. It’s like no other city in the world. Chicken tikka masala may as well be a national dish in England. A foodie’s delight. I found London’s South Hall and Brick Lane to be full of curry houses and Bengali cuisine. Strolling around there, I thought I was in Delhi’s Lajpat Nagar Market! 

Another flight and another gluten free meal, this time without the South of France treats. And now we have arrived in the United States. It was Thanksgiving. The Holiday Season has begun! A time between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day to eat goodies. 

Thanksgiving brought with it roast turkey with all the fixings of stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, roasted brussels sprouts, and the pumpkin pie. We ate it all with our friends and with a generous burp of gratitude. 

America is a melting pot. The Statue of Liberty welcomes people from all over the world. Immigrants came here and set up places to eat. First to feed their own communities. Improvising, adapting, trying not to miss home. And now, the owners of trendy, hard-to-get-into restaurants. So here we were, in New York City, sampling the cuisine of Mexico, Italy, Peru, Korea, China, Brazil, Morocco, Ethiopia and Vietnam.   

But what were the elements of Native American cuisine? It was nowhere to be found. Was there a common thread that tied together the cuisines of Native American nations? Or was each cuisine unique? The café at the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, D.C. offered some delicious dishes.

And the food was fast disappearing. It was exquisite. I was sprouting new taste buds. Wild rice, venison, berries, and cornbread, sunflower seeds, and black beans. Expensively priced for the museum-going crowd, but worth it for the experience. The museum philosophises the wisdom of the American Indian people and their connection with nature.  

We also had the opportunity to sample African American cuisine called soul food. The term soul food became popular in the 1960’s and 70’s amid the black power movement. The concept originated in the southern United States. In the states of Georgia, Mississippi, and Alabama.  

We learned enslaved people were typically given a peck (two dry gallons) of cornmeal and 34 pounds of pork per week.  From those rations came soul food staples. Cornbread, fried catfish, barbecued ribs, chitterlings and neckbones. 

The pork ribs and onion rings were absolutely divine. And I don’t recall seeing any people of African descent at the soul food restaurants we visited. The cuisine seemed to have become mainstream. 

As we travelled across America, we ate, and we ate. Spinach and corn quiche, roast lamb with potatoes, grilled salmon, chicken enchiladas. Shrimp cocktail, crab cakes, bacon and eggs, clam chowder, crème brûlée. Not to mention asparagus, artichoke, avocado, strawberries, and raspberries.

What we missed, we manifested later. Smoked meats, exotic cheeses, perfectly aged wines. I even had Congee. A glutinous rice dish much like the South Asian khichdi. It was topped with line and chilli paste and transported me into the warm, moist climes of Southeast Asia. 

Having sampled the world through its cuisine, the umbilical cord began to beckon. The call of Mother’s cosy womb! Bollywood Bistro, Desi Aroma, Bombay Palace, Taj Mahal, Delhi Durbar, Ravi Kebab. 

The act of looking and smiling at fellow Indians and letting them smile back at you. Your red bindi bears the nostalgic pull of home. You are as authentic as the khakhra, muri and mathhri you sneaked into America. You smile as you shamelessly fill up your plate at the $10.99 all you can eat Indian buffet.  

Palak paneer, chicken biryani, chicken tikka masala, dal makhani, tandoori chicken, malai kofta. vegetable korma, baingan bharta, dahi bhalla. Chaat, gulab jamun and jalebi. Gajar ka halwa and rasmalai. 

Finally, when you look up from your stuffed tummy and empty plate you see Americans of all hues – Mexicans, Ecuadorians, Chinese, Ethiopians, Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis. And the ubiquitous South Asian Punjabi! You end up saying namaste, thank you beta, and get all the smiles of our land as they look again once more at your red bindi. 

As you step out into the cold, the warmth stays with you.

Visuals by Different Truths

Dr. Roopali Sircar Gaur

Dr. Roopali Sircar Gaur is a poet, travel writer, and social justice activist. A former professor of English Literature at Delhi University, and a creative writing professor at IGNOU, she is a widely published academic and creative writer. Her book Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature, is a seminal text on women’s socio-political empowerment. In 2020-21, she co-edited two poetry anthologies – In All the Spaces: Diverse Voices in Global Women’s Poetry, and Earth Fire Water Wind.

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