Should a chef become a "global brand"?

The best chefs, in my not so humble opinion, are those who dish up hearty, flavourful food, the plates creaking under the weight of substantial comestibles. They let their food speak for itself, and practise their art in specific locations, presiding over the stove as happy purveyors of Good Food.

Everyone knows that “food” is one of my preferred four-letter words. I spend most of my time eating, thinking about eating, watching food programmes or reading about food. I eat whatever doesn’t eat me, thanks to a very liberal home upbringing and strict parental rules about (a) not wasting food (b) not being too fussy about food. But I am not a cook and can’t go beyond the basics in a kitchen.

 Since moving out of home and hearth (and mom’s kitchen) a score and eight years back I have perforce been obliged to frequent restaurants of different hues, shapes and cuisines. Student cafeterias to roadside shacks, dingy dhabas to purveyors of fancy rubbish, streetside stalls to food courts in malls, my tongue has been tingled by a variety of tastes and flavours. Memorable meals there have been aplenty, and some humungously disgusting meals too.

I like quality and quantity in my food. A growing boy’s appetite and all that. So those twee concoctions offered by “World Famous Restaurants”, with a glob of yellow, green and perhaps brown, are not what I seek or like. I have dined in some of these WFRs thanks to the generosity of friends and family, and while I managed to keep a straight face and make appropriate appreciative sounds at the pink Nike-like swoosh cuddling two perfect beans, the digestive system looked askance at me and raised several questioning eyebrows.

 Most of these WFRs are helmed by chefs who have earned A Name. They are a brand burnished through love for good food, (sometimes) education at renowned culinary schools and a consistency of quality that only happens through sustained hard work at the stoves. These WFRs are not cheap. But their fame spreads through word of mouth and the happy sighs of fatted diners who have had their fill! Most of these "brand chefs" are content to ply their trade at one single location, be it in a bustling city or in sylvan countrysides.

However, some of these chefs go rogue and decide that they want to become Global Celebrities. So, they (a) spread their wings (b) experiment with their food, and (c) get on TV food shows. The single-location restaurant spreads like a rash in the “culinary capitals of the world” (some of which, like Mumbai, are questionable). These outposts are helmed by staff "trained by world famous chef ABC". The World Famous Chef visits his culinary empire, checks that the staff is following his instructions and takes off for the next cooking show.

The skills of a good chef do not travel well. The fame of a chef is not enough to justify high prices and gushing hurrahs for a restaurant unless the chef is cooking himself. I will pay $$$ for a meal cooked by say, Paul Bocuse. But certainly not for a meal cooked by a “chef trained by Paul Bocuse”. It’s like seeing the Eiffel Tower replicated in Las Vegas. Not The Same Thing! I would rather that the chef developed his own name using the skills gained from Paul Bocuse.

A good chef needs to allow his brand’s mystique and aura to develop over time. A "Gordon Ramsay" restaurant in Marine Drive, Mumbai, may add a certain cachet to Marine Drive, Mumbai. But you are not eating a Ramsay Meal. Though you are paying for his brand value. The whole chain becomes an assembly line, with meals produced through a written list of instructions. This allows no space for a customer to interact with a Celebrity Chef (for which he or she is paying good $$$$), not does it allow the Chef to dazzle with his skills, to come up with an impromptu riff on a piece of meat that makes the customer feel special!

There are exceptions of course. Particularly when its a cuisine that goes global rather than a chef. We all know the Chinatowns all over the world. There are famous restaurants which have opened branches in different cities. But it's the food here that is the brand. And perhaps the place of origin. These restaurants can be pricey, but they serve that valuable purpose of reminding us of home, which is priceless!

So, remember, not all Chefs can be global brands. Some are best in their home markets only.

And while you wait for the next smoked offering from your favourite chef, remember what the Great Foodie Baxicius said: “Molecular gastronomy just so much gas.”

Hate, Love, Rain

I hated rain. 

During my growth years, the onset of the “monsoon season” in India equalled the start of the academic year. Those were dark, grey days, literally and otherwise. I did not like school. Not one bit. The education dished out was not meant for me. The soul was burdened with the weight of woe and the school bag. Umbrellas were a luxury and the raincoats were designed for Cindrella's dwarves rather than a chunky, fast growing lad. My school took “mass education” literally – 5,000 brats hummering away made it difficult to stand out in class and recognised as a budding genius. Unless you sat on the first bench and kept raising your hand all the time. All in all the combination of rain and a curriculum designed to turn the student into a drivelling, gibbering snorter made me wonder if Nietzsche actually had a point. 

The manic tremolo of raindrops on the awning over our windows at home is a sound I will never forget. It disturbed my sleep, my meals, my studies (such as they were) and was a background VFX that I can do without today.

Moving to man’s estate I finally got the chance to experience rain as a gift from the gods and not as a dam(p) nuisance. My love affair with rain was kindled in Paris, where the autumn rain helped me effortlessly dish out maudlin musings and robust food and wine pairings. London was wet through and through but the vision of huge Union Jack umbrellas, beers and scotch eggs in a cosy tavern just north of Swiss Cottage, vast swathes of rolling green fields glistening in the rain and hot tea in a village called Little Slaughter with lightning and thunder for company as the world stood still are some of my best memories of the city and the country. And West Africa is a byword for rain of course – it probably needs a separate post!

Unlike Paris and London and to an extent Amsterdam, Mumbai in the rain is not the best of places to be out of home in. The mud, the smells, the overflowing drains and on select days the tide in the affairs of (Mumbai) man, which when taken at the flood, leads to your shoes and trousers (and more) getting damaged beyond repair! Not to mention water-borne illnesses! Do not for a moment get trapped by lurid descriptions of roasted corn / spicy snacks / hot tea outside in the rain. These are mere projections of a weak mind.

The infamous Mumbai floods of 2005 convinced me it was time to move to a place where “rain” is chimeric – heard of in song and lore perhaps but rarely seen. Dubai happened fortuitously but with my usual impeccable sense of timing I landed there on its Annual Rain Day - when I believe the camels are decked up and let loose to frolic in the drops of rain while the natives roll up the windows of their Rollses – and was stuck at the airport for 3 hours.

However in the decade and a half since I have basked in sunshine through the year, with the memories of grey monsoons during school days like an old wadi in the desert - lifeless and dry. How I now crave for a flood to fill up that wadi! (for a glimpse of dubai in the rain check out my 1st ever blog post: dubai rain

I love rain. I am at my happiest when indoors with a cup of the steaming and a good thick novel (no Bookers please) at hand, while the heavens above open up. There is something about the sound of rain, pelting down on rooftops, tippering on leaves, that makes me sigh with a sense of what could have been, of unfulfilled desires and wishes (unkind folk who suggest that the sigh is really a wheeze are wet behind the ears). The occasional lightning and thunder are value additions which uplift the soul. And sometimes scare the beejezus out of me due to volume and intensity.

At these times, I like to think that the Guv’nor is up and about with a wee dram, about to tell me one of his lawyer stories.

And I am sure he would agree with the revered sage Baxicius’ advice on how to handle rain: Better to be wet inside and dry outside.

Mango-phrenia (or Mango Madness of the Average Indian)

 Indians are generally a laid-back, easy-going people, not prone to hysteria and manic attacks. But talk about food likes and dislikes, and the Average Indian (AI, usually male) turns into a red-eyed, slavering devil who will brook no argument against his favourite dish / cuisine.

This is especially true of mangoes – the national fruit of India and a potent source of the most vociferous, bellicose and chest-thumping declarations of passionate longing not heard since Romeo facetimed Juliet.

This frenzy of inflamed emotions comes to a peak during the “mango season” in India just before the monsoon breaks – April and May. The mango season coincides with the annual summer break in schools and colleges and the AI is free to devote all his energies on sourcing and consuming the fruit of kings (or is it the king of fruits?) till his shirt buttons pop out. Cliff Richard warbled about “summer holidays” and was indisputably inspired by the indecent-sounding Chausa mangoes of his birth city Lucknow.

Having got the above off my chest I can now come out and declare that I am not a fan of mangoes.

It wouldn’t be too far off the mark to say that if there is a food that I hate, it is this, it is this, it is this. I am not a fan of the colour yellow. Any fruit that needs to be sucked…sucks. The taste and smell of a ripe mango can be overpoweringly cloying. The very act of eating a mango is distressingly messy and “poetic conversations” about the many attributes of mangoes move me…out of audible range of the mangomaniac who spouts these odes through mango smeared lips.

This dislike is so intense that I reject white wines (usually a favourite tipple) that have the aroma of mangoes (think Meursault or Sauternes). Which is sad because these wines are like nectar and have other notes that uplift the soul.

I fail to understand what it is about these mammary shaped fruits – which incidentally come from plants belonging to the poison ivy family – that drives man to paens of putrid prose which could be classified as objectionable content if posted on social media. Is it the look? The shape? The hand feel? The mouth feel? The intensity of the taste? Or is it a forced, unjust liking, a pretence effected to be socially acceptable and not be branded a misfit? Heaven knows. But a fruit whose peel can trigger contact dermatitis is best scratched off the dining table, n’est-ce pas?

I may stand alone and solitary in my dislike of this fruit. But I shall hold true to my beliefs, to my credo and will not let any AI persuade me that my dislike of mangoes is unnatural and against all principles of mankind.

As the revered sage Baxicius said, let mango go to seed!

RIP Xiexier (4-9-2007 to 13-5-2021)

 

Xiexier left his alternate reality on 13^th May 2021. Xiexier was a teen in human terms so why does this unlamented departure deserve a blog post?

Because Xiexier was my alter ego on Facebook. Yes, I had a Facebook avatar. And I am glad I discarded it. Because it represents a liberation for my soul.

Xiexier happened on planet Facebook back in 2007. FB itself was a 3-year-old toddler, and today’s heavy userbase was just an egg struggling to get into an ovum. Xiexier was attracted to FB’s radical-for-the-times idea of a “social medium”, using the internet to give him the ability to “reconnect with your loved ones”, even across vast distances, by simply writing something on a “wall” (whoever decided to call it a post was obviously a male. Bad pun intended).

Xiexier posted incessantly. Piecemeal thoughts. Greetings. Queries on someone’s wellbeing. Random stuff about literally anything that tickled Xiexier’s fancy, or thought would interest his cousin’s wife’s sister’s long lost school friend. Facebook allowed Xiexier to not only find out what happened to his school flame, but also allowed him to poke fun at her current mate. It allowed Xiexier to enter a new reality where friends and families of his friends and families became his friends and families.

It also was a place where Xiexier shared his greatest highs, his deepest griefs and just occasionally the unbearable lightness of being. For FB was a digital Speaker's Corner where everyone got a chance to express freely and without fear.

Over time the ease of posting and the impact it had on impressionable minds made FB a propaganda tool to influence thoughts and opinions to good and bad agendas. It became a vaguely evil manifestation of man's ability to speak with a forked tongue. 

Xiexier had always used FB more as a graffiti wall - an outlet for random bursts of colourful stuff. It was never a serious source of anything for him. But the stuff on his wall became increasingly fractious. He started seeing new and not particularly pleasant shades of people whom he thought he knew very well. It became an evil mirror which showed man’s natural face and mortified Xiexier. He had to come out of this alternativist situation.

Xiexier stopped posting and ignored FB for a long time. And found he didn't miss it. But then neither did FB miss him - the mammoth propagator of likes just barreled on, disdainful of the many discarded emoticons it left in its wake!

Last month Xiexier notified Mark’s Minions of his wish to discontinue his alternate reality. On 13^th May his wish was fulfilled.

The great sage Baxicius said, “Man Who Leave Facebook RIP – Rest In Posts”. So, RIP Xiexier.

Birthdays in the time of Covid (with profound apologies to Gabriel García Márquez)

The last two years have seen too many “birthdays” getting unexpectedly converted to “birth anniversaries”. Birthday indulgences these days are either not possible in the way we used to celebrate them in the BC era or seem downright grotesque when we see all the mayhem wreaked by a virus.

So, though my birthday celebrations are not page 3-worthy, I did indulge myself by going down memory lane. It's something I do effortlessly and frequently.

I suppose I was always a wee brat for my dad, even after I started shaving. Thoughts of his annual ritual of giving me Rs. 100 on my birthday and saying "Here you go. Have some fun” are what triggered this walkabout.

During my college days I used to have a strong need of what is today called "me time". So, with those 100 skins I used to trot off by myself to "town" (as SoBo is called), buy a couple of books, have a massive lunch at the much-loved and much-lamented quirky-after-my-heart Samovar (in Jehangir Art Gallery) and return home. Feeling very grown up.

Dad continued with this even after I reached the shaving stage, passed out (feet first) from college and started doing odd jobs which could fund my me time. Of course, the 100 skins had to be augmented to 5 times that amount (with self contributing the balance). Bur for him it was an acknowledgement of my need to be by myself, and for me it was the continuation of a much-loved tradition. Pops was very strong on tradition, btw.

I have a Rs. 100 note in my wallet (think its pre-DeMon). So today I took it out, placed in on the table (like pops used to do since I would be snoring when he would leave for work) and put it back in my wallet. Thank you pops. Let’s go party!

And oh, remember what the Great Sage Baxicius said: Never ask woman her salary and man his age.

Travel broadens the…waist

One of my favourite dictums (dictii?) is “Travel Broadens The Mind”. Usually delivered with a lot of gravitas by an armchair traveller whose furthest travel has been to what we Indians call “native”, or “hometown”. This was perhaps valid in the early days when travel was a more leisurely and refined activity rather than the frantic, Instagrammable, group dash it is today.

In pre-Google days people not only took a long time to reach their destinations, they also took the trouble of learning about the history, ethnography, language and culture of the destination by actually reading up on the available literature of the place. So, not only did we broaden our minds, but by doing moved that much higher up the evolution scale (when was the last time you saw an ape reading up on “Thing To Do In Deadhorse, Alaska”?)

But an ancillary benefit of this kind of travel has not really got its place in the sun – the opportunity to try different cuisines, in the countries of their origin. Globalisation has made it possible to eat sushi in Saki Naka (a suburb of Mumbai, India) but does it have the same feel-good factor as going to Sushi Saito in Tokyo?

Travel for travel’s sake may have been a fad during the times of da Gama and Columbus, but today with the growth of digital media, there are “bucket lists” of things to do which usually include dining at “famous local eatery in Timbuktu” and posting photos of you holding the dead goat’s head on Instagram. Food For Likes.

Ancient cities like London, Paris, Tokyo, Beirut, Fez and Amsterdam have a whole host of famous eating spots and you cannot visit these cities without eating in at least one of these spots. The mushrooming of food blogs, restaurant review sites and cooking shows fuels an urgent desire to “travel to be seen to be eating in the right place”. As long as you are travelling to eat, I suppose it is OK.

As a resident of Dubai, the world’s most worldly city, I can access a host of international cuisines within half an hour of driving from home. Many restaurants try to recreate the ambience of the country whose cuisine is on offer. But the whole effect is ruined because the person serving you is never of the right ethnicity – surprising for a city with over 200 nationalities! I would rather enjoy Oktoberfest with a bevy of lederhosen-clad dralle Damen from Germany. Know what I mean?

I have had some very fine meals in the 29 cities that I have lived in during a rather chequered life and career (camel meat in Kano, Nigeria and so forth) I have also had some of the same meals in Dubai (camel burgers included), led on by memories of meals past. But the experience has always been spicier, more fragrant and much more insightful in the city itself. But as a microcosm of the world, Dubai serves its purpose of allowing you to sample cuisines from places you might not visit, and not just because of a virus.

So, the next time you feel hungry remember what renowned sage Baxicius said: “getting to table is also about journey, not just destination”.

Forty years ago, I fell in love.

 

Forty years ago, I was struck by the divine emotion. There were no thunderbolts or outbreaks of heavy breathing. Just a conviction that this was where the heart would reside.

I first saw her on a blisteringly wet day in May. As I got out of the airport, she was right in front of me. I don’t really believe in love at first sight, and she wasn’t exactly your ethereal beauty with tendrils of soft, silken hair but more of an earthy, dusky maiden with a tinge of weariness (that would disappear with the setting sun, I learnt later). And she was older to me. At that age, I didn’t really understand the implications of falling in love, let alone with an older being. But I wasn’t about to hesitate and let such dystopian considerations stop me from letting in the divine E.

She accompanied me as I drove along the wet road and I realised that she had a lot of hidden charms which were not evident at first sight. I was given a glimpse of tantalising vistas, dark yet inviting spaces fragrant with the scents of a life lived with full fervour, and the ephemeral sense of being led on to something bigger than self, where the soul could find repose. Which is what my fevered brain considered love to be.

 Even after all these years, I have not been able to find a coherent explanation of why I love Calcutta so much (it may be Kolkata on maps but it’s always Calcutta to me, just like Bombay). She is not as beautiful, clean and well laid out as Paris, she’s not as naughty as Amsterdam, she’s not redolent of Empire as much as London (well perhaps that’s not quite right but you know what I mean). Even the people are not entirely palatable. The only thing that can be said in her favour is that’s its easy to find fault with her. But over the years I have been repeatedly drawn, like a male bee to a Queen bee, to this crazy, volatile, barely functioning yet thriving megapolis. I have visited as a tourist, transited as a passenger and lived as a resident in her heaving bosom, and have always left wanting more and have returned to drink greedily at the fount. I think there are several reasons for this mad infatuation.

The first reason is the ladies of Calcutta. “Bengali Beauty” is an oft-bandied phrase that may not mean much to a non-Calcuttan (different from a non-Bengali, for Calcutta is not necessarily Bengal), but every 2^nd lady walking down the street, however mean and dingy it may be, can stop you in your tracks, with the same impact as walking into a lamp post. They can take your breath away even when they are cursing you. I am privileged to count a few Calcutta ladies in my circle of close friends, and they have always brought good cheer and rays of sunshine into an otherwise humdrum life. And lots of food.

The second point is the food. Since I love seafood and Chinese food, and am generally a laid-back food lover, Calcutta appeals to my epicurean sense (which some unkind people call gluttony). It offers provender of multiple origins in tiny shacks, glittering 5-star hotels and everything in between. We are talking about love here, so I won’t get into details of the exquisite rolls, noodles, fish curries, biryanis and parathas that I have scarfed down over the years. Suffice it to say that Calcutta will give you a Happy Belly. Always.

The third point is nostalgia. I will confess to being an Empire buff and have always felt a faint regret that Empire pulled out of its brightest crown jewel (as I heard someone describe India), of which Calcutta was the Centre. So, for me Calcutta was and is a means of connecting with a past that was rich, glorious and dilettantish, with a side of madness which used to afflict Empire builders so that they could go forth and conquer. My first visit to London reminded me so much of Calcutta I had to stagger into a passing tea shop and restore the tissues. Of course, the tea shop belonged to a Bengali from Calcutta. Today, that rich past is not even a shadow of its former self. It clings precariously to a diaphanous existence in the minds of people and to a sprawling diaspora which always gets teary-eyed at the mention of mishti doi (not one of my favourites by the way).

Finally (at least for this piece), is perhaps the sense, not always well-defined, of being slightly above the material. Yes, there are rich Calcuttans (not always Bengali), but in the city you will be hard put to find ostentatious displays of new wealth. The wealth in Calcutta is old, very old, and is not meant to be displayed to the average bipedal. The wealth is not always economic - it is very intellectual, it is very gastronomic, it is very cultural, it is very literary, and it is very much there. I find this very liberating, coming as I do from Bombay where your wallet size determines your social standing. Many of my close friends are from Calcutta and their disdain for the cushion of currency has always fascinated me. They are richer than I am in more ways than one.

There are many more reasons, and every day will push one or more as the most important reason. Because this is classic love – complex, ever changing, waxing and waning, yet always burning bright.

Forty years on, I will never fall out of love with Calcutta. I may not have always been faithful to her, but she doesn’t really care. She has far too many suitors to worry about the one. On my next visit, I will perhaps discover yet one more reason to stoke my love for her. Till then, শীঘ্রই আবার দেখা হবে.

Decade or deca(y)de? the choice is ours!

the dawn of 2020 promised many things - a new year, new decade of hopes and aspirations, exciting moments in the years to come and the general upbeat mood that humans develop at the drop of a hat! this was understandable since the previous decade had not been exactly a smooth ride, with recessionary outlooks waxing and waning, orange haired humans "winning" elections and an inexplicable rise in the price of wine!

but then the coronavirus and its associated malady covid-19 appeared, first as a dark halo on a part of china that not many people had heard of, and then across the world at a rate that made bush fires seem like a gentle amble in the bramble. people blamed the rapid spread on everything from globalisation to global warming to climate change to bats to pangolins to right wing or left wing conspiracies. at last count, over 3.75 million people had been infected and over 250,000 have died.

young and old, famous and ordinary, men and women, all have been affected and battered by this virus which is a little over 65 nm in size. which means that a hundred million of them could ruminate comfortably on a pinhead. a new word entered the lexicon - lockdown - which  sent dreams, hopes and aspirations crashing out of the window. masks, hitherto seen as halloween or comic book character accessories, became an essential wardrobe function. gloves, so beautifully and artfully portrayed by audrey hepburn in "breakfast at tiffanny's" became mere plastic or latex coverings. and a new hashtag appreared: #stayhome. since the virus is an infectious disease and needs a human to replicate, it appeared relatively easy to beat this beast - stay home and avoid crowds!

these five words have led to an economic, social and cultural meltdown because they have hit the very core of human interaction - the social contract that pushes man above the level of the animal.

many learned people and experts (how do you became a global autority on covid-19 in 3 months?) have pontificated, sometimes gloomily, sometimes optimistically, about the effects of this virus. works and phrases like "new natural", "post-covid world scenario" are doing the rounds everywhere. i will not add to the syntax and vocabulary here. the next months and years are a blank page. we just have no template / case study / user review to guide us on what will happen. 

but i want to show and tell a couple of "happy points" which, while they may not assuage and alleviate, may at least provide a spark of hope and a suggestion of the way forward for what could be a decade of new, agile and responsible society and business, or a deca"y"de of economies ripped asunder, global contractions, increased inward focus and gloomy outlooks. the choice will devolve upon us!

nature has started reclaiming the world. humans are realising, slowly, that too much of too much can be too much. paul simon said "slow down you're moving too fast". we need to take him seriously. people are reporting sightings of nature that had not been seen for years and decades! this is an indication that while the current situation is terrible, heart-rending and completely out of even "black swan predictions", a balanced cohabitation (the french mean this in a different context of course) and course correction could restore health and equanimity.

we will have to learn new ways of doing old things, we will discover new things and situations which didnt exist in a pre-covid reality, and we will adapt with the kind of breathtaking speed that makes us come out of any situation, battered, bruised but truimphant.

a sense of what should, and what shouldn't be, has to prevail. again, the choice is ours.

The "hilsa" approach to life

The hilsa fish (similar to a shard or herring) is a much loved fish in South Asia and some parts of the Middle East. It is by far the most sought after fish in Bangladesh and the eastern and north-eastern parts of India. Its soft, oily texture, mouth-watering flavour and nice mouthfeel make it a delicacy worth the title of “Macher Raja” (The King Of Fish). The story goes that Lenin liked the fish so much, he chose the Bengali name as his middle name (though he mangled the spelling), and that's why the comradeship is so strong in Bengal!

However, the path to hilsa-led gustatory satisfaction is thorny – the fish has many sharp and tough bones, which require the eater to pick his way through the dish, or risk injuring his mouth or, worse, swallowing a bone or two. But a willingness to persevere and to navigate through the mine-field of bones helps the eater to reach his goal – a nirvana of taste, a glorious end to a meal that will be remembered!

If you prefer boneless fish in your meal and avoid the hilsa, you will still reach The End (of the meal) but it will be a meal devoid of meaning, of flavour. Your belly may not forgive you.

You can have the hilsa deboned before eating – this is offered in some high-end restaurants, so naturally you have to fork out a few more pennies. You get the taste without the effort, which is no good.

This sounds similar to life – the path to nirvana (or bliss, happiness, satisfaction, whatever you want to call it) should not be smooth.  It should be filled with the sharp and tough bones of the travails, pains and difficulties that must be overcome to reach your ultimate goal. Only then will you savour the feeling of having fought the good fight and coming out victorious!

Similarly, you can take the Boneless Path - a steady, dull life without any obstacles. You will still reach the end, but the journey will be grey, ordinary and without beauty.

You can also get someone to debone your life, to remove real and perceived obstacles and to help you navigate the path to happiness. But this comes at a cost and gives no joy of achievement.

So would you rather plunge into the hilsa, avoid the hilsa, or get into deboned hilsa? Your answer will determine how you live your life!

Table For One - diet for economic and social wellbeing?

Like most normal, content men, I don't worry overmuch about my weight. It's there, it's not there, we don't really care. I like my food, and though I don't live to eat, my motto - "Eat whatever doesn't eat you" (or "Manducare Omnia" if in Rome)- could be looked upon by the Starving Set as latent gourmandism. I will leave it to them to fret about it.

Having lived alone for nearly 20 years, I did manage to pick up the basics of cooking. I make my own tea (thank you Lipton tea bags), my own coffee (thank you Nescafé red) and also rustle up a mean omelette. Maggi 2 minute noodles are of course par for the course, though I don't think I can recreate the combinations Victoria (my maid+cook in Nigeria, not the Queen) could come up with!

I also use the extensive produce offerings of supermarkets to concoct my own version of (con)fusion cuisine, always making sure to balance textures and flavours and avoiding idiotic combinations popularised by the likes of so called "nouvelle vague chefs", whose cooking is as vague as it can be and who should be advised to just eat, and leave cooking to those who can.

Being a solo eater, I have naturally dined in a fair amount of restaurants in various locations. From Paris to Lagos, London, Cotonou, Lomé, Accra, Kolkata, Gangtok, Hong Kong and Dubai, many have been the restaurants which have benefitted from my custom, either dine in or takeaway. The occasional Mcdo, KFC or Subway also features in this list.

Dubai, where I have pitched my tent since 14 years, has restaurants coming out of its keffiyeh, but I am not entirely sure how many openly cater to the solo eater. (unabashed plug: check out my dubai restaurant reviews on TripAdvisor:
 https://www.tripadvisor.com/Profile/xiexier).

These are all restaurants on the economy side of the scale since it was my own money - the few "luxury / fine dining" restaurants I have patronised has been as a guest of people who are oofier than I am. Besides, i am not a fan of luxury / fine dining. Much too overrated and the gimmickry draws your attention from the food (or lack thereof).

All these restaurants have provided me with good food, and I have always had a happy belly at the conclusion of the meal. I like to read while eating (nourishing both mind and belly) and there is nothing more stimulating than to be in your own company, with a good book and the anticipation of a good meal. I also love going to pubs for a pint (or 2 or 3), with a book.

There is a trend of thought that tends to shame solo eaters in restaurants, but since I have always loved my own company, that trend doesn't bother me.

I have been brought up not to waste food and finish everything on my plate. But i have always wondered at the large portions served by restaurants, usually enough for at least 2 eaters. And also at the lack of spaces for singles in many of the restaurants that have received my custom. Are they not geared up for a solo eater? Or are they not interested in singles? I am sure I can link my rather large size to the big portions served up in restaurants (doggy bags don't exist in my vocabulary). The so-called fast-food brands of course have meals for one, but when it comes to a full meal the options are relegated to single items or a smaller version of a regular meal (in which many of the dishes of the regular meal are left out).

This is an affront to the solitary eater (no apologies to Wordsworth)!

Yes the economics of margins and all that have a big role in the portion planning of restaurants, and is perhaps one of the reasons why restaurants prefer to serve up the whole octopus rather than just a tentacle or two to a solo eater. But there is a business opportunity here too. An experience designed for a solo eater could not only appeal to a very distinct and relatively with-it audience, but it could also rake in more dollar per serving, and help build good awareness in a distressingly overcrowded market.

And in the current scenario of recession, trade wars, etc. what better solace for the soul than a quick sneak out for a well-made steak and fries for one, with a tankard of fine ale and a book of stout binding!

"Back To School" is now a thing!

I never liked school. Apart from the mental strain of  having to STUDY, I disliked the atmosphere in which school happened. "Back To School" meant the 1st day was on a rainy day in June. This was compounded by the agony of having to trudge through water bodies (the school bus was discontinued after 7th grade, and since home was just 3 kms away, and since there was no private transport - the pater used to take the family rolls to work - walking to and from school was the only ambulation possible). The only saving grace was that school started at 11 a.m. so a lie-in, leisurely breakfast and a snack on the go was the general schedule. But all in all it was a dreary, dystopian situation that did the most to make me look back on school days with a shudder, even today.

But Back To School those days simply meant buying new school books, getting a couple of uniforms altered (my waist line ballooned in tandem with my height) and getting on with it.

I was first introduced to the Back To School "event" in france, where "la rentrée" (1st week of September) was a spectacle that almost put the migration of wildebeest across the South African veldt in the shade. It meant the return of people to normal routines after the summer holidays, and hordes of pink-faced children, pink-lipped college goers and sunburnt parents returned to school / college / work, grumbling quietly under their breath. Roads were jammed, the métro suddenly became packed and the slightly laid back summer attitude revved into high gear.

"Back To School" as a high-profile marketing concept was shoved under my nose in Dubai. Every brand, dick and harry here developed a halo over their heads and spoke reverently of "Back To School" like it was a divine event. It was the time of new product launches, promotions, events and generally anything to show that Dubai was FULL again, after being emptied out during the summer holidays.

Mind you, this was not really the 1st day of school, since the new year usually starts for most schools in April. The long summer break thus came after the 1st semester. But the hiatus of the summer break meant that the economy also took a break, and companies had to do something to bounce back.

Today, Back To School has become more a marketing than a scholastic exercise. From pens to tablets, backpacks to laptop cases, water bottles (with USBs if you please) to offers on anything that isn't nailed down, its all #backtoschool!! Hapless parents watch stupefied as schools become consumer outlets, malls sprout academia, and students have the last laugh as the newest toys are offered up to their insatiable appetites for "new'!!

Back To School is now truly A Thing!

Yes, I am a left-leaning liberal!

The recent elections in India generated many emotions - ecstasy, joy, happiness, disbelief, fear, sorrow and a sense of relief that this quinquennial exercise in "the world's largest democrazy" is over. The result was along expected lines (for once exit polls didn't fall flat on their faces) and a white-bearded gentleman (I used the word advisedly) retained his seat.

The highlight of this show was the continued tilt towards what is called the "right / conservative" (first seen in full force in 2014), aided by a high-pitched campaign promoting nationalist and majoritarian ideas and beliefs. The elections also witnessed a louder rant against the “left / liberals” – a group of hitherto somewhat invisible but apparently powerful folks who seemingly represent everything that is wrong with India.

The schism between left and right has been widening since 2014. India was a somewhat confused but clearly left leaning entity for many years after independence. In a country like India, riven by years of people-classification into boxes, the primary need after independence was to provide everyone a chance to improve his or her economic and social life through better access to education and opportunities. There was no earthly reason – so the left-liberal thinking went - why a potter's child (for instance) could not become a doctor, lawyer, engineer or a better potter! I believed this too, so yes, I am a left-leaning liberal.

Naturally in a country as huge as India, the concept of equal access to limited resources was going to take time to percolate down, and hence it was made part of the constitution to ensure a government commitment to make it happen. Leftist liberalism was meant to foster this enabling environment, in which a person's social or religious persuasion (or culinary habits) was not a factor. In fact, the very notion of leftist liberalism ensured that a tea-seller's son could become the prime minister of the country. A rightist, nationalist platform would have never allowed this child to rise beyond tea-selling, for that is supposed to be his "karma"! So yes, i am a left-leaning liberal.

However, the statist push after independence created a structure and mindset that relied far too much on the state to achieve better economic and social status and looked down on market forces (and also hard work. Why work when there are handouts?). The state was considered to be the mother-goddess. The government also professed a love and liking for state intervention at macro and micro levels and did nothing to discourage this reliance. Services such as education, jobs and other life-shaping experiences were relatively affordable, albeit with the proviso of having the brains or brawn to take advantage of this largesse.

Many beneficiaries of this structure, however, went on to subvert the principles behind it. Most of them went overseas, turned conservative and are today leading the chorus belittling the left-liberal from the comfort of their arm-chairs in foreign lands. So yes, I am a left-leaning liberal.

The very hand that fed us has been bitten! Suddenly the left-liberals have been painted as evil, interested only in private gain (which was supposed to be a right-conservative domain). Social media were flooded during the elections with content that belittled the liberals and made them feel like a piece of cheese. Clearly, there was no patience with this alternate ideology, and little or no tolerance towards anyone who professed to follow it. So yes, I am a left-leaning liberal.

And therein lies the darkness. We are steadily sliding towards a notion of nationhood that is defined not by economic development but by religious identity. Right-wing conservatism, while demonizing the left-liberal, forgets that the same LLs have been instrumental in getting the country to where it is today. Without the left-liberals we would be like Nepal, only bigger! The liberals promoted a duality of thought and action which accepted the individual for what she is, and did not define her by thought, food habits, language or liking for white beards. It is this very left-liberalism that has allowed the right to claim space over the years, and power in two consecutive elections. So yes, i am a left-leaning liberal.

Liberalism may be looking frayed at the moment, but it cannot be flushed down the right-wing toilet. For with only a singularity in our country, we run the risk of being governed like mindless machines. Without identity, thought or any idea of self. Which will go against the very idea of India as a “melting pot of cultures, languages, habits and cuisines”. so do we really want this to happen? or do we need a duality?

Yes, I am a left-leaning liberal.

is traditional media coming back in fashion?

since we all like to label anything and everything, i am part of "generation jones" or "generation x". born at the tail end of the 60s, when the beatles had just ended their maharishi binge, when the students’ revolution in paris exploded big time, and when "computer" was a word that only the eggheads knew. media then was the daily newspaper, radio, and the family / friend grapevine. and oh yes, the family photo album.

the last decade saw a breath-taking surge in the internet, leading to the development and propagation of a variety of new content dispersion methods (aka media). the development of tablets and smartphones made access to the internet easier and encouraged information consumption on the go, which fostered the 160-character infobyte. the internet also helped some very smart nerds design something called “social media” and “digital networks”. the means to spread, and access, information previously available only to a select few became completely democratic.

information and influence could now spread without barriers (it must be mentioned that digital media can influence far more subtly and insidiously than traditional media). anyone anywhere, could "post" anything, without 3rd party mediation or control. self-published content became the driver of information, rather than carefully curated and verified data. the onus of "reliability of information" shifted from unknown, erudite individuals (editors and publishers) to our neighbours, friends, colleagues and the tea-stall owner at the nearest railway station. the house-help retained her position as master information jockey, aided now with a mobile phone and cheap data to flash information, innuendo and gossip as the gospel across the universe (with apologies to george harrison). and most importantly, consumption of this media is free, leading to entry and exit at will.

this is in contrast to traditional media, which has restrictions on consumption (through paid subscription), has a physical form and shape (newspapers, magazines, allowing for leisurely and therefore more engaged consumption), is limited in reach (since only those who like the medium's ideology or focus will pay for it, and offers better and targeted advertising (since the brand can choose the medium which appeals to or mirrors its target audience). this allowed traditional media to tap advertisers and subscribers to earn enough to pay star “content creators” (journalists, anchors, and similar), have qualified media bureaux in important cities and generally keep the information flowing, and unbiased.

digital / online media forgot all this! the fact that it was open to all was surprisingly touted as the best means to reach a targeted audience, with minimal wastage and immediate engagement! it abjured the vary principles of targeting and offered itself as the best channel of communication in an increasingly wired world.

this is pure bollocks. digital media is like a woodstock gathering – open for anyone. a harley enthusiast can “browse” a website meant for chefs learning to make consommé. a fashion icon can be followed on social media by a scraggly, pimpled youth whose idea of fashion is burlap sacking. the only restriction is self-imposed, through which neither the harley enthusiast nor the pimpled youth will theoretically visit sites not meant for him. but that is expecting the average joe to have far more intelligence than is seen in reality. paywalled websites are a miniscule fraction of the internet universe, and most popular information is free and open to all. this allows individual biases, restrictions and power to play a far larger role in shaping a narrative than in traditional media.

acknowledging this, digital media companies in recent times have attempted to smoothen out biases through a process of automated ad targeting and buying. also called programmatic advertising (it is to be noted that digital media has birthed a lot more jargon in its short life than traditional media did in the couple of centuries of its existence). but programmatic advertising is ARTIFICIAL intelligence, not HUMAN intelligence. which removes the sensitivity to biases, restrictions, relatability and other factors which complete the entire engagement.

hence, the chances of an online ad being placed within a completely irrelevant context are vastly higher than in traditional media. this leads to higher chances of the brand’s reputation being affected negatively. recent controversies in this area have made big brands reduce or stop digital advertising and re-ignite their “passion” for traditional media. this in turn has made some prominent digital media companies reduce headcount due to a slowdown in revenue (mainly derived from ad campaigns). digital media is clearly going in for a much needed reboot!

so, to address the question of whether traditional media is coming back in fashion, my response is a resounding yes!

death is a...breath-taking experience!

i recently joined the vast army of people on this planet who have lost their father. the loss could have been in different ways, with different timelines and with different reasons. but the end result is the same for all of us - there is a gap in our lives which will never be filled.

my father lived his life guided by 1 or 2 key principles from which he never deviated. the 1st was the importance of family in all matters. not just immediate family, but everyone connected by filial / sibling bonds. he was after all the 8th of 10 children of his parents and knew perfectly well the meaning and importance of "large family".

the 2nd principle was discipline in every life routine. there was a time and a place for everything, and everything had to have a time and place. deviations from this rule were just not accepted and woe betide he or she who was late or otherwise breached the rules!

he loved books, crosswords, cross words, black label and chess - hallmarks of an intellectual who could hold his own in any argument (as was expected of a man who had three degree and had became a lawyer by the age of 21 years).

a sharp mind, a sharp tongue and a very soft corner for his grandchildren and all other children of that segment, all made my father a much-loved patriarch of the clan. i used to be quite scared of him as a child but over the years our relationship matured into one of easy camaraderie, of a deep but unspoken love. he had many regrets, of opportunities missed (plenty of them), of giving up personal choices at the feet of "family first", but he never let on to anyone about them. stoicism was his middle name, and he bore with a fortitude and grace seen rarely, a lot of what an unforgiving life threw at him.

his passing left me without the chance to catch up with him of what he had been up to in the 18 months since i last met him. and also the chance to be by his side after nearly 2 decades away from home. he left us in the same way as he had lived his life - quietly, without fuss and with dignity. indeed a very breath-taking departure!

goodbye papa, and thank you for everything.

sunday mornings were special!

ah those sunday mornings! when the laziness of being took centre stage and nothing more demanding than a languid arm raised to bring the tea cup nearer to our face could be expected.

we dont much remember sundays in our salad days - just a day off from the humdrum of school [unlike most, we did not enjoy school and are not in touch with anyone from those dark, dickensian days]. university was a week-long holiday broken by sundays spent training for the forces. we would actually get up at 5 am to go tramping and running and marching. fun times, they were!

it was during these sunday morning excesses that we stumbled upon the idea of "sunday breakfast". our group of eager lads willing to commit all for flag and country was also a very hungry group and the 10 am break led to a storming of the nearest restaurant - a simple, 5-table south indian food outlet whose owner trembled at the sight of 30 menacing looking lads thumping up and demanding victuals.

our sunday morning experiences were considerably improved when we set foot in la belle paris. although it took us a while to get used to the laughable concept of "continental breakfasts" - two croissants and coffee - we found the idea growing on us and in our wish to emulate the natives we plunged wholeheartedly into this habit. losing about 20 pounds in gross tonnage in the process.

our forays in the wilds of africa led us to discover a little-known fact - sunday mornings, being the sabbath, tend to be busy. we discovered the "sunday lunch" - heavier cousin of the breakfast - here and we put back the 20 pounds and more over a period of three years. some of those sunday lunches especially when bivouacking in the far north of nigeria remain green in our memory to this day!

back in the native we honed our skills at the sunday morning omelette - a process where finesse, urgency and imagination brought forth a plump, steaming piece of goodness if we may say so ourselves. this skill has been maintained over the years and there is nothing better than an omelette with a plateful of toast and tea, we can assure you!

we also added a layer to the sunday morning experiences while in calcutta. the "puri-aloo-cha" combo of the stall outside the faded but memorable mona lisa guest house was our go-to in those pleasant days. and of course being in calcutta, this was followed two hours later by the famous sunday-lunch-in-calcutta consisting of fish curry and rice with some vegeterian elements trying to elbow their way in. extremely burp-worthy sundays they were.

now that we are in a heathen desert, fridays are the new sunday. the habits continue. but the charm of a "sunday" tend to be diminished when one is working. because sunday is a normal working day. and therein lies the rub.