Going With My Gut

New Delhi's Bukhara Pops Up in London

Above: Bukhara's Chef Manjit Gill

 

When it became apparent that I was attending the media lunch at Bukhara's London pop up last week, I received a whirlwind of wistful sighs from foodies on Twitter. "The dal! The dal!" they hollered. I could picture their eyes rolling into the back of their heads, giddy with epicurean nostalgia for the 35-year-old New Delhi landmark tandoor restaurant.

I admit, it was a bit lost on me. The only time I've been in New Delhi we were backpacking, and I was running around the old city grazing local streetfood, rolling the dice with Delhi Belly (we evaded snake eyes, somehow).

So it was quite the treat to get a glimpse into this edible hallmark of Indian high society dining via its temporary London satellite.

On the 1st floor banquet room balcony of London's Sheraton Tower in swanky Knightsbridge, Bukhara's pop up's creative director Waris Ahluwalia set up a tented garden-bar, complete with a budding jasmine bush.

 

 

The far corner of the tent had a cosy low-seating lounge, its appropriate use demonstrated by my lovely lunch companions Selina of Yummy Choo (left) and Sabrina of Sabrina's Kitchen.

 

 

 

After the champagnes were sipped, we were ushered inside and told that the meal would be served in the traditional way -- family style and without utensils.

For those game enough to eat with our hands, we were given giant apron / bibs with a plaid pattern reminiscent of Indian-uncle sarongs. Thanks for modeling the bib Sabrina!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First up: a traditional starter of papadums with (from top, clockwise) thinly sliced raw onion, raita (yoghurt with diced onion, tomato and cucumber) and mint chutney. A small detail, but raita yoghurts are usually quite thin and drippy. I quite enjoyed Bukhara's thick yoghurt raita, which sticks more easily to the papadum.

 

 

And then the tandoor treats began. I know it all looks a bit beige below, but these were quite possibly the most succulent tandoori prawns and chicken kebabs I'd ever tasted. Chicken is usually fairly tasteless and overcooked to death in most restaurants, but here the goujons were juicy and very deeply flavoured (a multi-day marinade that involves yoghurt and lemon juice I'm guessing.)

It made such an impression that I leaned over to the veteran print food journalist seated next to me and said, "It doesn't look like much, but make sure you try the chicken." She thanked me later, and asked our waiter for seconds!

 

 

On the right, fall-apart lamb leg, and potato hash pockets. Nice enough, but eclipsed by the chicken and prawns, really.

 

 

The veggie dishes: Paneer (Indian cheese) and roasted stuffed green peppers. Again, paneer in less able hands tends to end up having the personality of styrofoam. These cubes were big, bold, bitey and springy.

Somehow in the process of trying to get a few good pictures I missed out on actually securing myself a stuffed pepper. Snooze I lose I guess!

 

 

And now, the unlikely marquee-name dish for a tandoor restaurant. Dal Bukhara - black lentils, tomatoes, ginger and garlic slowcooked for 18 hours.

That dollop of butter right at the end might have something to do with the dal's gorgeous velvety-ness...

 

 

What a dilemma! Does one eat it straight up like a soup? (Yes.) Or slather all over Bukhara's array of freshly made naans? (Yes.)

 

 

Luckily we were given the option to have seconds. AND a supermarket-style ready-meal pack to take home with us.

 

 

A Mumbai-native dining companion told me that whenever she goes home to India, she comes back with cartons upon cartons of these Bukhara dal packets. I am now considering making a call to friends in New Delhi...

 

A dessert duo: Gulab jamun below, and a rose-fragranced broken rice pudding above. I tend to struggle with the over-sweetness of Indian desserts. So I had a taste of each before settling down to a cup of hot mint tea.

 

 

There was some debate after lunch about whether one would pay the retail pop up rate of £59 for the vegetarian meal or £79 for the meat and seafood meal if left to our own devices. No doubt, even though there was no fancy plating, the attention to quality of ingredients and detail of technique for this meal was subtly but in clearly a different league from your usual curry night out. Ultimately I wouldn't, though that's mostly because we're currently living on a full-time startup budget.

But as the Bukhara pop-up's sold-out status suggests, there are plenty of people who will. Some of them are probably the same punters who are happy to shell out £250 to have The French Laundry's Thomas Keller or £195 for noma's Rene Redzepi fly into town (Noooooo I'm not shriveling up with envy...)

Many others are proof that edible nostalgia is a hot commodity in this city.

 

Bukhara's London pop up at runs until 1 June. Online bookings are sold out, but...

Tip 1: I've been told it's worth calling +44 20 8045 0715 and following @buhkaralondon to check for updates on released 2nd seatings.
Tip 2: Check also about slots for Chef Manjit's not-widely publicised cooking class.
Tip 3: For those of your with gardens and tandoori fantasies (if you read this blog there is a fair chance you do) check on eBay post 1 June -- Bukhara is apparently going to auction off the 3 tandoors they procured just for the popup.

Bukhara London Pop Up (until 1 June 2012)
1st floor,
Sheraton Park Tower
101 Knightsbridge
London SW1X 7RN
United Kingdom
+44 20 8045 0715

Bukhara
ITC Maurya
Diplomatic Enclave, Sardar Patel Marg
New Delhi 110 021 India
+91 11 2611 2233

A Very Special Dinner At The Golden Temple, Amritsar, India

One of the most special meals I had in India this past January was in the langar, or community kitchen / dining hall of the Golden Temple in Amritsar.

The langar is committed to serve free food to anyone who comes through its doors, almost 24 hours a day (Golden Temple opening hours are 6am - 2am).

Cover your head, remove your footwear, take a plate, cup and spoon and find an empty spot among the long rows of the hungry. Leave a donation at the entrance / exit if you feel so inclined.

It may not be much to look at, but the toasty chapatti, spinach with paneer, dahl and the rice noodles cooked in sweetened milk that got doled out were all pretty damn tasty -- and the perfect antidote to having walked barefoot on marble on this chilly foggy January night. Your plate will keep getting refilled for as long as you need.

It was a simple meal but I found it to be a heartwarming, even moving, experience. Because this massive, all-day, come-all-who-are-hungry kitchen is run entirely by volunteers and donations. The Golden Temple is the HQ of the Sikh faith, and Sikhs everywhere are encouraged to spend 1 week of their life at some point volunteering at the temple.

And so they do, all around the temple. In the langar volunteers prep an endless Himalayan range of veggies....

... and wash enough dishes and cutlery to fill the Ganges.

Some believe that food tastes its best only when it it made with love. The fanciest dish can ring hollow, and the simplest dish can shine, all depending how much love went into its preparation. Which probably explains the gut-nourishing, heartwarming delectability of that humble langar platter.

Thank you and good night.

Just A Little Taste of Aunty Shaistha's Khara Seeve (Rice Noodles with Lentils)

I said in December, at the beginning of our 2 months in India, that Babs and I were doomed to fatness and bliss. To be precise, we both put on 4kg each while we were in India. This post is about the precise moment when I pushed off down this slippery slope.

A little context for the uninitiated: One of the big ways Indian relatives show their love for you is by feeding you. (I think the other big way -- if it's a very close relative, like a parent -- is that they buy a house for you. So that they know exactly where you are, so that they know exactly where to go to feed you.) If you tell them "I'm not hungry, I already ate," it's like you're telling an angsty 14-year-old who just wrote you an epic confession of their affection that you just want to be friends.

Most of the time this results in just garden-variety overfeeding. A mandatory 2nd or 3rd helping at any given meal. Fine. We do that anyway. For better or worse, our India relatives love us for it.

The thing is, some of our them love us a little too dangerously.

"You're going to get me into trouble at dinner. They're going to ask me why I'm not eating as much," I whispered weakly that December evening in Bangalore to Aunty Shaistha.

"You're walking to dinner. You'll be hungry again by then," she whispered back.

"But dinner is at Mahboob Pasha's house."

Mahboob Pasha is Aunty Shaistha's brother-in-law. He lives in the same building. One flight upstairs.

"It's just a small bowl. Just a little taste," she says.

Just a little taste then.

My tastebuds go into overdrive. My eyes bulge. My mind races. When was the last time I had a taste of rice noodles? London? 7 months ago?

"I don't... think... I can... stop at just one bowl..."

Aunty Shaistha smiled. She knew she has me in the venus flytrap of her khara seeve casserole now. And yet dinner obligations -- inevitably involving at least 2 mutton dishes -- remained at hand. Surely I couldn't tell them the saboteur of their lovingly prepared meal came from downstairs.

And so I found myself turning into a dinner bigamist. Slippety slide. And then find out our hosts upstairs pull the exact same manovuere any time we're trying to leave their house to go to our next engagement. Slippety slide. It doesn't matter that we've just come from downstairs, or that downstairs is our next engagement "So what you've eaten downstairs? You haven't eaten up here yet." Slippety slide.

And now, in Singapore, if I'm going out to meet friends for a meal, but something yummy is cooking at home, I'll sneak a little bowl before I head out. "Just a little taste," I tell my Mum.

This dish -- Aunty Shaistha's khara seeve -- is the dish that started it all. If you are able to resist, you are clearly a better human being than I. But probably a little hungrier.

Makes ~6 servings or up to 10 "little tastes"

Ingredients

Olive oil
1 cup yellow lentils, uncooked
1 large onion, chopped finely
2-3 tomatoes (depending on size), chopped
1 teaspoon mustard seeds
4 green chili, stems removed
A large pinch of curry leaves
1 small bunch of coriander, chopped
Salt to taste
1 packet rice noodles (Mehra brand was used here)

Directions

• Drizzle a couple of glugs of olive oil in a chef's pan set on medium-high heat
• On a separate hob on the stove, boil half a kettle of water
• Add everything except the rice noodles to the chef-pan, and fry for ~5 minutes
• Add boiling water until the chef-pan is half full
• Bash and twist the rice noodles while still in its packaging, to break the noodles into small sections
• Add the broken rice noodles to the chef pan
• Stir until the rice noodles and ingredients are evenly distributed, then let sit for about 10 minutes until the rice noodles have softend and soaked in all the liquid in the pan
• Add salt to taste if necessary

Aunty Chandra's Wake Me Up Coconut Chutney

Above: Next to a tasty dosa (especially a paper dosa) and a spicy-tamarindy-tomatoey sambar, an anaemic looking coconut chutney is usually nothing to trumpet about. Then I met Aunty Chandra

I'd never really paid much attention to coconut chutney before. Sat next to the bowl of red sambar for my dosai (a South Indian breakfast-staple crepe), coconut chutney's dirty shade of white isn't the most inspiring colour. On the occasions I try it, it usually tastes like...watery paper mulch, sometimes with a touch of salt. Who's got the time and spare calories, know what I mean?

So when Auntry Chandra -- the wife of Uncle Anand, Babs's Dad's buddy from medical school -- served coconut chutney with breakfast when we stayed with her in Mangalore in December, I dipped in initially only out of politeness.

It kicked me awake and almost off my chair. My mouth was literally watering, triggered by a refreshing sour twang. As were my eyes -- always a good sign of chili-heat. Or happiness. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

I kept dipping. Then digging. In that familiar gentle but determined race with Babs to the bottom of the bowl.

Enough preamble. I need to learn how to make this. So do you. Thankfully Aunty Chandra graciously obliges, much amused.

Makes 2-3 portions

1 saucer of freshly grated coconut
2 green chilis
1/4 onion
1 thumb-sized stem of ginger, skinned
1 seed taramind, de-seeded

Combine with a splash of water and grind in a food processor. Add water a little bit at a time and continue grinding until you get this consistency (below).

Aunty Sara's KFC (Kerala Fried Chicken) Recipe

Babs's Aunty Sara from his father's side of the family is better known in India as an acclaimed Keralan writer and educator. Since I can't read Kanada (the language she writes in) I know her better for another arena of Keralan art: her Kerala fried chicken -- crispy and spicy on the outside, oh-so-juicy on the inside without being pink (a hazard when you're trying to not overfry your chicken).

Her little trick -- she kindly shared with me over lunch this past December -- is to steam the chicken a little before frying. I've read in Jamie at Home: Cook Your Way to the Good Life that Jamie Oliver does something similar with his BBQs; slowcooking his meats before placing on the grill for the finishing char, therefore scoring a win-win on succulence and smokiness.

Here's the Kerala fried chicken recipe as relayed by Aunty Sara. There was -- as often the case in these Indian recipe cajoling sessions -- little mention of measurements, so this writeup will need to be refined when I try this recipe out in my own kitchen. For the more sophisticated and/or adventurous cooks among you who want to go ahead and try this, it'd be great to hear from you how you made out with your own proportions.

• Joint and chop 1 chicken, preferably organic and/or free range
• Coat the chicken pieces in a mixture of chili powder, tumeric and salt
• Steam the coated chicken pieces for 5 minutes (Boil a three-finger thick later of water in a large pot, place a steaming rack in the pot, then place the chicken pieces on a tray and place the tray in the large pot, and cover)
• Remove the partially-steamed chicken pieces from the pot
• Coat the partially-steamed chicken pieces in a mixture of chili powder, ginger powder, garlic powder, cornstarch and salt
• Mix 1 egg into a bowl of plain yoghurt
• Coat the chicken in the egg-yoghurt mixture and leave to bind for 20 minutes
• Fill a medium-sized pot with frying oil (in Kerala this will invariably be coconut oil; use vegetable or sunflower oil otherwise) and heat until the oil starts to bubble
• Fry the chicken pieces (just a few at a time so as not to lower the temperature of the oil drastically) for ~ 10 minutes, until the chicken is a lovely golden brown
• Set fried chicken on a plate lined with paper napkins to soak up excess oil
• Garnish with a sprinkling of chopped coriander

Incredible India: A Taste of Posts to Come Only

It's been 2 1/2 months since we landed in India, and we've had plenty of adventures, culinary and otherwise. A very quick round up here, to be expanded on in subsequent posts.

Mumbai (Part 1): No baby steps here. On our first night in Mumbai, Uncle Waris and Aunty Samina take us to Chowpatty Beach, where Aunty Samina physically stuffs street vendor bhel puri and kulfi (Indian ice-cream) into my mouth. I kinda wish I was Catholic, just so I could cross myself.

Above: Aunty Samina preps another spoonful of Chowpatty Beach snacks to shove my way; swatch surfing at Crawford Market

The next day I'm taken to the labyrinthine Crawford Market, where I lose track of how many sets of fabric my mum-in-law buys to make salwar khameez and saris. She keeps asking me to pick one out, but when I finally do, I'm tsk-ed at and told "only village girls wear that".

Our friend Nish takes us to our first cricket match, the one where Sehwag bats 293 against Sri Lanka. (I wish it meant more to me than it does.) It takes me a while to follow the game, mostly cos I'm distracted by the stadium samosa sellers. Apparently samosa prices are set at games. I -- along with my entire section -- watch entranced as a stadium official gives a vendor a royal bollocking when the vendor gets caught overcharging. I can't tell if the rules really matter here or if that vendor didn't get his bribe arrangements sorted out.

I discover utterly heavenly Hyderabadi fish at Trishna in Colaba, but stupidly fail to order the restaurant's signature butter garlic crab. Maybe it's a subconscious ploy to come back.

Pune: This entire town seems hell bent on self-improvement, going by the billboards for educational institutions, ashrams, teeth whitening and colon cleansing. This one below is hands-down (pants-down?) my favourite.

Mangalore and Karasagod: We stay with Bab's Dad's old pal from medical school, and relatives from his hometown. A string of extended family visits ensue. Each stop (up to 5 a day) involves, juice, chai, fried samosas and meat/fish/veggie cutlets, assorted pastries, and most delicious of all, a string of delightful stories about Babs's Dad, whom sadly passed away long before Babs and I met. I manage to cajole our hosts to share a few recipes, such as

• Aunty Sara's Kerala Fried Chicken
• Aunty Chandra's Wake-Me-Up Coconut Chutney
• Aunty Ayesha's Kerala-style Spinach, and
• Cousin Sajida's Pathal, Red Chutney, and Banana Cutlet.

I predict that while in India Babs and I are doomed to fatness, and bliss. I hold my ground, now even more so, having sunk in due to the extra weight.

Bangalore (Part 1): This is Babs's Mum's home turf. More family visits, a ton more food -- including 2 test dinners for Bab's Boxing Day family reunion cum belated wedding reception -- and more recipes, including Aunty Shaistha's incredibly tasty Khara Seeve (rice noodles with lentils). I fall hopelessly in love with the fruits and vegetables at City Market.

While my parents are in town we make a day trip to Mysore, where you have to learn to be at least as aggressive as the local cows if you want to chow down on Hotel RRR's very popular biriyani.

Hyderabad: I get invited to my first full-scale Muslim-Indian wedding, where I get backstage access to the wedding kitchen. Woohoo! In between wedding events I find out how to eat well while the city is on strike, and follow the adventures of a bonafide scapegoat.

Cochin and Allepey: We manage to score a lovely houseboat and homestay experience, then join in on some very early morning Chinese-net fishing and auctioning action before returning at lunchtime to hunt and haggle for a delicious seafood meal at Vasco de Gama Square. During more humane morning hours, we discover a breakfast of champions at Fort Cochin's Kashi Cafe.

Ghana (?!): After a quick visit with Babs's uncle in Calicut, we take a one-week intermission from India to go party with some dear friends in Accra celebrating their mother's 60th birthday. The birthday girl's energy on the dancefloor sets an extremely high standard for fabulousness at 60.

Amritsar: And we're back in India for a whistlestop tour of the north! We start in Amritsar, where I'm very much moved by the volunteer kitchen of the Golden Temple, and very much tickled by the India-Pakistan daily border closing ceremony.

New Delhi: Between visiting another of Babs's uncle and catching up with an old friend from work in Singapore, I get saag-savvy at Delhi's INA market. We were perversely hoping to contract the supposedly ever reliable Delhi-belly in order to lose some of the weight we've gained in India, but we fail abysmally, even after scarfing some of the city streets' most famous jalebi and parathas.

Agra: We were pretty agra-vated when we woke up silly early to beat the crowds to the Taj Mahal, only to be thwarted by fog so thick you could make bricks with it. So while I touched the Taj Mahal, I sadly failed to see it in all its glory up close.

Above: This is usually the famous spot to pose in front of the Taj Mahal. Hmph

Above: This is about as good as it gets that morning, in between 2 rolling clouds of fog

Jaisalmer, Jaipur and Jodphur: Jaisalmer was by far the highlight of our Rajasthani jaunt, with laid back friendly people, a colourful desert festival complete with a camel polo match, and an excellent little organic cafe with a view.

Mumbai (Part 2): We're back to kick off a week of wedding festivities for friends Nish and Shloka. Days involve the haunting of various Colaba Causeway cafe-bars, a triumphant return to Trishna, and dance practice for the Sangeet (a wedding event where family and friends put on song and dance items for the wedding couple). We could do a lot worse for dance studio locations than Nirbhay's stately sea-facing apartment.

Goa: We spent 2 days in Goa at Nish's co-ed stag do. All I will divulge is, drag as a dress code is a fabulous way to break the ice.

Coorg: We trek up into the hilly coffee estates of Coorg for the wedding proper, where we are completely blown away by the hospitality of Nish and Shloka's families. I'm pretty sure I drank more Johnny Walker Black Label in the 3 days than the rest of my life put together. The choreographed dance items went great, the unchoreographed after-party dancing went even better.

Above: The wedding couple amid a sea of guests

Bangalore (Part 2): A final 2 days hanging out in Bangalore with Bab's Mum and her extended family, revisiting favourite local eateries such as Ritchies and being unable to resist the city's Chinese food offerings.

I'm sad to go even though I'm ready to move on to the next part of our voyage. I'll be back in India sooner or later. It's heartwarming to know that I now have people here, be they family or friends, both old and newly found. Plus there's so much of this vast incredible (yes I said incredible -- the country's tourist authority is not kidding about this) country to see. Someday I'll make it to Kashmir. And Calcutta. And Chennai. And a tiger reserve. And Nagaland, a curious place where all the Indians look like... me.

Above: Spot the Indian

In the meantime, onward to Singapore for Chinese New Year!

Nuts about Kerala Houseboats and Homestays

With a little bit of luck, there is a rare and very delightful kind of nut you might find while in Kerala, India, Like everything else in nature, this kind of nut shines its brightest in its high season. In these parts that's right about now, at the turn of the year.

The scientific name of this nut is the heckwithhighmargins-wejustwantyoutobehappy-homestayandhouseboathost nut. And thanks to Babs's sister Aasha's research and organising, and a little serendipity, we came across 2 during our time here.

This week the 4 of us (Babs and me, Aasha and husband Greg) paid a mere 11,000 rupees for a 1 night stay on a gorgeous 2-bedroom houseboat with AC built just a year ago. By comparison, the Swiss couple who had the boat just before us paid a whopping 34,000 rupees for the same.

The 2 Keralan nuts responsible for this delightfully bargainous travel tale?

1) Jose who owns and runs Kattayam Homestay and said houseboat in Alappuzha (Allepey), who charges a high-season rate only during the week between Christmas and New Year (while many others extend high season till mid or end January).

2) Beena of Beena Homestay in Fort Cochin, who took only a 1,000 rupee commission to set us up with Jose's boat. (Now do some quick Math and think how much commission the Swiss couple's houseboat tout took.)

Both Jose and Beena are the real deal when it comes to homestays. They live onsite with their guests, amid a growing number of newcomers who capitalise on the "Keralan homestay" buzzword by renting a house and subletting the rooms while living somewhere else (sometimes overseas).

Beena also provides delicious breakfasts and local dinner feasts for guests (according to rave reviews from Aasha and Greg). Add that to her unusual commission-taking behaviour, and it's no wonder her homestay is so popular that she has to maintain a waiting list of hopefuls. While other homestay hosts rejoice when they get a Lonely Planet mention, Beena reportedly went into a bit of a fit because her waiting list -- already at a healthy length from word of mouth -- spurted straight to unruly.

Jose's nuttiness burst forth from its shell the minute he found out that Babs's Dad was originally from Kerala, and I from Singapore. Turns out his twin teenage sons are studying in Singapore. He immediately declared Babs and me to be extended family. He even took Babs's hand and held it swinging while walking down the street to the houseboat!

Jose did indeed treat us like extended family, in the Indian context. When we came back from town to his homestay the next evening we were sat down for a long chat about Singapore's job market. Shown assorted family slideshows. Used as a sounding board for lamenting why oh why were their sons buying iPhones, aiyoh with that money they could be buying gold. Asked when we were going to start having kids and hopefully we'll bring a baby the next time we visit. And even put on the phone to say hello to one of the sons who called home from Singapore, even though I had of course never met him before.

Ah well. The houseboat was worth it. A few peeks below.

The living and dining deck, ensuite bathroom, hallway and bedroom.

Our Captain and first mate. Nice work if you can get it.

We stopped at a backwaters fish shop to pick up some still-flapping local pearl spot, to be fried with masala later in the afternoon for a snack. (Tip: if you're serious about scoring extra seafood for your voyage, buy it in town before getting to the backwaters, where you will be charged double.)

The cruise also came with a delicious Keralan lunch and dinner cooked on board. My favourites were the veggies, fried lightly with masala and coconut stubble, as opposed to the often over-gravied concoctions in so many eateries. The little pomfrets were pretty damn tasty too.

The rest of the day was a delicious lazeabout, soaking in the view.

Neighbours.

Phat looking ramshackle house.

Waiting for the local ferry.

Padi fields. Quite ingeniously water levels are maintained at a higher level than the rice fields by man-made embankments, to facilitate irrigation.

All houseboats have to dock at 5.30pm each evening for the day, so that local fishermen can do their thing.

Kattakayam Homestay
Nehru Trophy Starting Point
Thathampally P.O.
Alappuzha 13, Kerala, India
+91 944 743 2518, +91 477 223 2380
(Contact Jose directly for houseboat hire to minimize commissions)

Beena Homestay
KB Jacob Road, Kadathanad
Fort Kochi, Cochin, India
+91 484 221 5458

Adventures of the Evil Eye Goat

Hyderabad, India. We're guests at an extended family member's wedding. Belief in nazur (evil eye) -- instigated by envy -- is strong in these parts. To protect auspicious events, rites are conducted or else donations are made to the poor, to nullify the nazur. A small example: just before Babs's sister and I set out for the evening in our pretty saris, the wizened old housekeeper where we were staying, took a cast-iron pan and fanned us in long downward strokes and tapped the pan on the ground while we faced North, South, East then West. She was chanting the whole time -- I guess to extract nazur vibes and banish them into the ground.

To nix any potential nazur cast on the wedding couple, the groom's family bought a goat. Come the end of the wedding ceremony, the goat was to be hoisted and circled in front of the wedding couple in a ferris-wheel like motion. The evil-infused goat was then to be taken to the butcher and killed, and its meat distributed to the poor. (How poor do you have to be to be happy to eat accursed meat, I wonder?)

'Twas roundabout midnight when we bade farewell to the sacrificial goat in the banquet hall parking lot. I can't even make up what happened after.

At some point between midnight and 2.30am someone notices that the goat has gone missing. Panic ensues. The groom's family's driver sets out on foot to hunt down the goat.

He scurries here and there, and comes across a cluster of shanty huts. He describes the goat, and asks if they've seen it wandering around. They all say no.

Except a rather loud and incriminating "mmmmmm..e..hhhhhhh" sounds from one of the huts. (I suppose the goat was distinctly unimpressed.) The driver barges in, and whaddaya know, there's the goat, tied up, with its unmistakeable band of blue dye across its head between its ears.

Some kind of argument ensues. The driver manages to take the goat back to the banquet hall. He ties it to a car, and instructs his son to guard it with his life.

2.30am. The family photo shoot is finally done, and it's time for the nazur ceremony. The goat is trotted over to the wedding couple. Family members by now are exhausted. And perhaps too generous about their goat donation -- after a series of attempts, it seems no one in the family is able to lift the goat, let alone whirl it around the couple.

A decision is made, then announced to whoever's left at the banquet hall. Whoever can lift the goat to do the nazur ceremony can keep the goat.

The driver of the hired wedding Mercedes steps forward. He lifts the goat. The ceremony is conducted. Huzzah! Mr Mercedes pops his reward into the boot, the wedding couple into the car, then leads the wedding convoy to the local fancy hotel for the night.

Now, since Mumbai got attacked by terrorists in November 2008, fancy hotels have all ramped up security in a big way. This hotel, in particular, demands that all incoming cars pop their hoods and boots for inspection.

Mr Mercedes tells the security guard "I have nothing in my boot, but I cannot open it."

This doesn't go down well, as you might imagine. A back-and-forth ensues. And escalates. Until finally the security guard grabs the car keys from Mr Mercedes to open the boot himself.

The goat -- doomed to begin with, kidnapped once already, then used as a cosmic sponge for evil, then transported in a car like a kidnap victim all over again -- is by now somewhere between panicked as shit and mad as hell and lunges at the security guard. The guard apparently shrieks like a girl and falls over backwards. Wedding party reinforcements stop guffawing just enough to wrestle boot and booty back down. The rest of the convoy is waved through because the security guard doesn't want to know what might be lurking in the other cars.

The groom got a telling-off from his father the next day. Not because the goat got nicked. Not because of nearly botched ceremony. Not because of the late night palava with hotel security. What really, really got the father's goat, was the groom sleeping so late that he missed the hotel's complimentary buffet breakfast. Then ordered room service.

Hyderabad, Hyderabread, Hyderablag

Quite the time to be in Hyderabad. The city's in a bit of kerfluffle. Separatists are lobbying for the state of Andra Pradesh to be split into two states. Maybe three.

Depending on how adventurous you're feeling (I'm not), you can wander into downtown hotpots hotspots (thanks CurryPuff!) to watch separatist demonstrators. Apparently there will be hordes of them, regardless of the side of the argument. Some will tell you India is a very politically passionate country. Others will tell you the demonstrators are poor people hired for the day to wear the appropriate colours and hold the appropriate banners and chant the appropriate chants. The most hardworking ones among them apparently stagger their engagements so that they can work for one party one day and another party the next.

"Nothing is what it seems in India," people keep telling me. I can't tell if they're warning me or feeling smug.

The more annoying part of all these political theatrics is the separatists strong-arming the city's merchants to go on strike. That is, goondas (hired gangsters) roam the city, making sure businesses have their shutters shut. Or else.

So the boys can't get their shirwanis (long Indian shirt-coats) tailored today, and the henna hasn't yet been delivered to girls' bridal henna session.

But nothing here is what it seems.

At various food purveyors, it's worth checking in with the security guard in front of the shutters. Sometimes, you'll be shown the side or back door, in through the delivery entrace, the storerooms, the prep rooms, kitchens and plating areas, into the establishment where it's business-almost-as-usual. (The sights enroute are a good way to test if you still want to eat there. Maybe all restaurants should be made to admit customers this way.) A network of lookouts send word by text message if the goondas are on the move.

This is how we got brunch from a well known city bakery today. We came home smug with a pile of chicken croisssants, chicken cutlets, chicken drumsticks and coffee cake.

The buttery croissants and moist mashed potato cutlets were chockful of pulled chicken, more generous that what I've seen in any other commercial establishment.

The drumsticks, on the other hand, were just a chicken legbones with chicken-leg-shaped patties of mashed potato, breadcrumbs, onions and masala. And maybe some chicken flavouring.

Nothing, nothing, nothing here is what it seems.

Thali Christmas and Henna New Year

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you and all your loved ones.

Thank you to all of you who have spent time with Babs and me here, following our shenanigans, contributing your comments, reactions, encouraging words and ideas, and being patient with all my typos and experiments during this blog's infant phase.

Please forgive the recent silence. We spent the last week and a bit in Bangalore, India, not at all to celebrate Christmas. Rather, Babs's Mum (a native Bangalorean) organised a belated wedding reception for Babs and me, his brother and his Chicago-born Indian wife, and his sister and her Polish husband -- all visiting India for the first time since getting married over the last 18 months.

The ~400 guests -- considered small by Indian wedding standards -- hailed from Bangalore, Hyderabad, Mysore, Mangalore, Kerala, Mumbai, Delhi, the UAE, UK, US and Singapore. (More on the event later.)

So the lead-up to D-Day (on Boxing Day) was a nonstop flurry of introductions to my new relatives, me cajoling them for their recipes for their most delicious dishes (I've had some success, so stay tuned!), plunging into the bowels of Crawford Market in Mumbai and Commercial Street in Bangalore to procure fabric for shalwar khameez (Punjabi suits) and saris and Kashmiri shawls and all the accompanying bangles and sandals and purses (oh my), trips to the tailor to get said Indian outfits made, getting my hands henna-ed up for the first time, and multiple late-night airport runs to pick up loved ones flying in from far away.

*Exhale"

Well. And a fresh tender coconut and pomegranates bursting with rubies of every shade of purple, red and pink every day. And briyani. Oil-tankers full it. Enough briyani to feed and fatten all of India and then some for lunch the day after.

*Burp*

It occured to me at some point that this was my first Christmas ever away from home in Singapore. Away from Mum's turkey. An uncle's home-baked ham. An aunt's Hockchew wonton soup. Another aunt's fried beehoon (rice noodles) and lohr ak (braised duck). A cousin's attempt at sushi. Grandma's delectable agar jellies. About 100 aunts, uncles, cousins and their children all trying to remember each other's names. And then there are friends. Rubbing elbows with them while having the one-th too many cocktail. Bumping knees with them waiting for Christmas service to be done.

Instead, for Christmas lunch this year I find myself at Sundeheri at Woodlands Hotel in Bangalore, tucking into a vegetarian thali of (clockwise from top left below) carrot, lentil and coconut salad, coconut and red chili chutney, okra fried with coconut, spiced taro, mallow with lentil, yellow dhal, puri (diabolical deep fried dough pillow cases) and eggplant curry. All served -- in the proper old school South Indian way -- on a banana leaf.

It's all terribly tasty, and I do have Mum and Dad in from Singapore at the table, but it still doesn't feel like Christmas. I guess for me Christmas needs to be spent around not just a familiar set of people (that's some of you reading this), but also a familiar set of food. And -- as much as I hate to admit it -- a playlist of saccharine-sweet Christmas jingles. Just a few. The limit being remix version 4 of "Last Christmas" by Wham!.

This New Year will be spent in Hyderabad, attending Babs's sister-in-law's cousin's wedding. Far away from the New Year's Eve party I've hosted each year since 1995, which I've missed only once before in 2003, when I spent a poorly-thought-out week running around Eastern Europe, filling my lungs with icicles which took a couple of months after to properly dislodge. My sinuses have never been the same since.

Ah well. Nothing like stepping out from the routine of home to make you appreciate it all the more.

I hope you'll continue to drop by here in 2010. Babs and I will be poking around more of India, Ghana(!), Southeast and Northeast Asia, maybe Australia and New Zealand (depending on our cash situation) and South America before we decide where to hunker down and set up camp for the next few years.

In the meantime, my very best wishes to you for the new year. May all our days be delicious ones.

Sundeheri at Woodlands Hotel
5 Rajaram Mohan Roy Road
Richmond Circle, Bengalore
Karnataka, India