Zest

Zest

Twenty four-hour restaurants are a novelty in that middle-class haven, New Bombay. Well, there are a few dives that stay open all night, once the lair of thirsty mildly anti-social elements, now also home to equally dehydrated call-centre kids. But a legitimately open fine dining establishment in a fancy hotel, one you can seriously dent the credit card with? Nada.
Well, gentlefolk, you and your expense account now have Zest, at The Park, in Belapur. Zest says it serves coastal Indian and Asian cuisine, and we took a while to browse through the long menu, with the aid of attentive wait-staff, and to scope out the buffet. The interiors are bright and shiny—too much metal and glass—and garish red-orange-and-white-patterned tiles cover an entire wall. The buffet occupies centre stage, a marble-topped ring choc-a-bloc with serving dishes.
The friend who’d opted for the buffet (Rs 625) circled his prey, then scorned the inviting salads and cold cuts and loaded up on the meat and a side-plate of cheeses.
The rest of the table went a la carte. The lager prawns (Rs 706) were delicious, large and succulent, with a lovely tamarindy dip. The Black Snapper (Rs 511) was well-presented, with a delicate flavour to the sauce, but the fish itself was unevenly cooked. We attacked the vegetarian Khow Swey (Rs 488) with relish; it was almost as authentic as the dish my grandmother, who lived in pre-war Burma, used to make. The Bheja Gurda Kaleji Kheema Fry with parathas (Rs 484), the menu confided, was from a recipe by an old man in Bhendi Bazar. It lives up to billing, but at perhaps ten times the price of the original, I hope that gentleman is getting a percentage.
Thanks to all the selfless sampling for the benefit of this review, we were too full now to order dessert. Instead, we nibbled off the eclectic selection on the buffet-eater’s plate. If the staff noticed this robust display of bad manners, they chose to smile indulgently; we did not get our just desserts in our bill. Clever folks. Because now we’ll be back. Peter Griffin
Zest, The Park Navi Mumbai, No 1, Sector 10, CBD Belapur, Navi Mumbai (2758-9000). Daily 24 hours. Meal for two without alcohol, Rs 1,300. All credit cards accepted, except Diners.

Published in Time Out Mumbai, XXth XXXX, 2007.

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Something’s Fishy

Something’s Fishy

In the welter of buildings that have sprung up over the last few years in Sector 30, Vashi, one of the newest is the Tunga Regency, all cement and blue glass.
This magazine told me to wander over and pick one the three restaurants to review. The choice was easy: Café Vihar, the vegetarian place, was overrun with noisy brats, partly open-air and looked like a food court in an amusement park mall, not a restaurant. This writer scuttled off quickly, in search of ACs and peace.
We started off at Crimson, the coffee shop, whose signage beckoned with promises of spirits, coffee and grills. It was a dry day, so we sipped a fresh lime soda (Rs 45) and a chaas (Rs 55) while we sniggered at the typos and fractured English in the menu. For what at first glance looked to be a quiet, subdued haven, Crimson was noisy. Not because it was full or patrons were yelling, but because of sheer bad design. The constant clatter of cutlery, every movement and word is preserved and amplified echoed through the room. I’m notoriously cranky about those things (“ossified old curmudgeon,” my politer friends say), so I checked with my dinner companion, younger, more tolerant, more inclined to smile. Nope, it wasn’t me. The place gave her a headache, she said. The food on offer seemed uninviting, so we decided to head next door to eat. To do so, we had to step through the hideousness that is the atrium (imagine the inside of a jukebox) into the even noisier Something’s Fishy.
The interior motif here is glass and silly curtains dangling coyly a third of the way down from the ceiling, and the tables are jammed way too close to each other. The senior waitstaff wear pinstripes and gold braid. ’Nuf said? And the acoustics are even worse here, or perhaps it’s the number of yelling toddlers gambolling in the aisles.
The name leads one to expect seafood. But there is something black in the lentil soup. Like the presence of lentil soup. Because the place is multi-cuisine, with Indian (when a restaurant in India does that, one, um, wonders), Chinese, Malvani, Mangalorean and Goan food. Pushy waiter wants our order before the chairs were warm. He is twice dismissed. When we’re ready to order, the first three items we choose aren’t available. The place being new, he confides, it hasn’t started preparing all the items on the menu. The baby at the table to the left has started to bawl, and from the one just below (our miniature table is on a raised sort of gallery at the back), a brat shows signs of wanting to stick his fingers in my water. We order before our appetites vanish, staying with the marine section of the card, and then attempt to converse through the din.
My Crab Meat Soup (Rs 125) arrives, and it is swimming with capsicum and chillies, which effectively smother all taste of crab. Gah. I do so love crab. Comes the main meal. The Kolambiche Ambat (Rs 350) is lovely. The prawns are succulent, the gravy has a mild bite, and goes well with the steamed rice (Rs 95) that has taken the place of the appams and neer dosas that they don’t make yet. The rice sets of the Tesereya Ani Batata (Rs 195) as well; the gravy’s spicy without taking the roof off of your mouth, but alas, the potato chunks easily outnumber the shellfish morsels.
Verdict: fair enough if you live in Vashi and want to try out a new place, but hardly worth the trek from any other part of town.

Something’s Fishy, Tunga Regency Hotel, Plot 37, next to Centre One, near Vashi Station, Sector 30 A, Vashi, 400703 – Mumbai. Phone: 66801818. Meal for two, without alcohol, Rs 1200 – 1500. Service charge and VAT charged over the bill.

Published in Time Out Mumbai, XXth XXXX, 2006.

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Bombay for beginners

Bombay beggars description. Which hasn’t stopped people from trying, borrowing and adapting freely, in typical Bambaiya style. Urbs Prima in Indus. Gateway of India. Bom bahia. The Big Mango. Slumbay. Bollywood. Maximum City. The city that never sleeps. The city of opportunity.

Of course the city has inspired others who have expended more than just a catchy slogan’s worth of words on it too. Arun Kolatkar, Salman Rushdie, Suketu Mehta and so many others have left their version of the city to posterity. And then, in my own humble way, as copywriter, hack and blogger, I have written at least a novella’s worth of copy about the place. So I thought it would be a bit of an ask to try and find new things to say about it without treading on some one else’s toes or one’s own. But, having studied, worked and lived in and just outside the city for over thirty years, I find myself with far more to tell you about it than the editor will condone.

Let’s start with a brief run through of the history bit. I’m told that the area’s first known appearance in writing is at around two thousand years ago, when it was part of Asoka’s empire. At any rate, there were seven hilly islands, home to fisherfolk, and not particularly in the mainstream of history. In the 1500s, the Portuguese laid claim to the islands, and christened them Bom Bahia, which meant “good bay.” Next century, they handed over both Catherine De Braganza and the islands to Britain’s Charles II, who leased them—just the islands, not the Princess—to John Company for £10 per annum.

The Brits knocked over the hills, filled up the swampy bits between the islands and, while they were at it, flattened the name out a bit as well, to Bombay. It became their Gateway to India, quickly growing into a major centre of commerce, attracting ambitious traders and suchlike from other parts of the country. They stayed, of course, moulding the city to their needs as it outgrew the old fort walls, expanding ever northwards, through its days as capital of the Bombay Presidency and later, the smaller Maharashtra state.

Such historical structures as remain are mainly in the old Fort area, and even those lack the sweep of a Delhi’s vistas or the grandeur of even a small former princely state; there just isn’t enough space for stately showing off.

Chances are that you’ll visit for business; the city is very much the commercial capital of India, home to corporate HQs for most industrial and business houses, banking and finance, advertising, media, and yes, the Hindi film industry. Even if it isn’t commerce that brings you here, it’s pretty likely that you’ll spend a few days in the city en route to the beaches, palaces, wildlife resorts or mountains, since Bombay is conveniently connected to almost anything else of consequence in India. So hey, come on in. Let us show you a good time, hm?

When? The summer can get awfully muggy. We’re on the coast, so be prepared for major humidity. The monsoon, much as we love it, is, we admit, an acquired taste. Hell, there are times when we get kind of sick of it ourselves. But come November, when the mercury begins to dip to pleasant levels, and going up to February, we’re in the zone.

But first things first. Whenever you do come, prepare yourself to face a city that is, quite simply, one of the most congested areas on the planet, with a population the size of your average small country. There are roughly 15 million people in the island city, and if you want to include the neighbouring towns that are pretty much part of the city though technically separate municipalities, that number gets even higher. (Yes, it is relevant to include them, since vast sections of their populations commute to jobs in the city six days of the week.) One estimate predicts more people than all of Australia in less than ten years. Which, to cut out the statistics, pretty much means crowds everywhere. Heaving masses of humanity such as you will find at very few other places. Traffic jams, noise, pollution, dirt, transport infrastructure straining at the seams, it’s all there. For those unaccustomed to it, this can be traumatic. I know people who holed up in hotel rooms for the duration of their stay after a brief dose of Bombay rush hour. I kid you not.

The other thing you have to keep in mind is that Bombay is a long city, with its “centre” in the south. Think of a conventional city map as a pizza. Now cut yourself a thin slice. That’s Bombay. And the pizza analogy isn’t half-bad either. Moves to decongest the South Bombay business district have had some success, so there are a lot more toppings closer to the crust than there were a decade or so ago. You now have clusters of glass-fronted office towers, industrial estates, malls and multiplexes not just closer to the city’s geographic centre, but in the suburbs as well.

With all of this, it pays to have a basic knowledge of how to get around. A task somewhat hindered by a rash of renaming; streets, railways stations, even the airport, all have been targets of the same zeal that renamed the city itself. Most residents, of course, cheerfully ignore the official diktats, and continue referring to them by their traditional names, to the further bafflement of the visitor. But not to worry, if you get lost, just ask around, and directions will flow from all and sundry. One little Bombay quirk: unlike other parts of India, where people will tell you distances to a fraction of a kilometre, here, you will get it in units of time. A half-hour walk, a twenty minute rickshaw ride, and so on. Corrected for time of day and state of traffic, natch.

Once you figure out where you want to go, how do you get there?

Bombay has one of the most efficient—if massively overburdened—public transport systems in the country, with its commuter trains doing the bulk of the heavy lifting. Visitors to the city, though, are advised not to seriously contemplate venturing into these mobile sardine cans anywhere close to peak commute hours. Which means you do not travel North to South between 7a.m. and 11a.m., and South to North between 5p.m. and 9p.m. That in mind, it’s usually the fastest way to get anywhere in the city. Just get yourself a first-class ticket (shorter queues, and deo rather than sweat to smell once you’re in the train) and you rocket past all the traffic jams and bad roads. For shorter and cross-town jaunts, the municipality’s red BEST busses are an option. Aside from the normal crowded busses, the company also runs air-conditioned sitting-room only specials on selected routes, an airport special that runs through the night with extra space for luggage, and open-topped double-decker busses for tourists on weekends, on the picturesque Marine Drive route. Both trains and busses run from well before dawn to way after the Cinderella hour.

Of course, if you’d rather not rub shoulders with the masses, there are the black-and-yellow taxis all over the city, and three-wheeler autorickshaws in the suburbs. These run strictly by a meter—except that these meters have not been re-calibrated to keep pace with fare hikes, and so require “tariff cards” (drivers must have these, by law) which translate the difference between the fare shown and what you must pay. Note the extra column that factors in the extra 25% “night charge” that applies between midnight and 5a.m. To keep the grime and noise out, you can also find or call for an ACed blue-and-silver “Cool Cab.” Or just hire a car and driver for the day. Self-driven rentals aren’t too thick on the ground, I’m afraid, but then, would you really want to drive here? Ditto for walking—the distances are just too much—or for quaint notions like exploring on bicycles—the traffic would kill you, with exhaust fumes or by more direct methods.

When it comes to places to stay, you have the spectrum from luxury hotels, to business traveller specials, to service apartments, to family hotels and guest houses, clubs, right down to hole-in-the-wall lodges and seedy dives. You’ll find them all over the place, from tony South Bombay 5-stars to beachfront suburban spreads, to smaller places near the air and train terminals to places handy for business.

And after you get that stay and transport thing licked, what next?

History? It’s there in gobs, if you know where to look. There are ancient cave temples within city limits; Mandapeshwar, Kondivita (or Mahakali), the UNESCO World Heritage Site Elephanta Island caves, and the oldest, the 2000-year-old Kanheri caves. Remnants of forts that have survived the urban invasion: the Portuguese Vasai Fort, the British Fort St George, other ruins in Sion and Bandra. Old churches date back a century and more. South Bombay’s Raj era buildings show off a wide range of architecture, from the Indo-Saracenic to the wildly Gothic to the Art Deco.

There’s culture aplenty, for brows of various elevations, with art galleries, music concerts (Hindustani, Carnatic and Western Classical, pop, rock, jazz, indipop, trance, whatever), dance and theatre, and of course the movies, in a multiplicity of multiplexes. In the cooler months (we call it winter), there are a slew of cultural festivals, mostly free and open to the public.

Wildlife and Mama Nature? The only National Park in the world within a city’s limits sits in the middle of North Bombay, a birders paradise. And flamingos visit the wetlands along the eastern coast. The North-Western stretches have a number of quiet beaches ideal for the weekend away from the bustle. Except that you’re likely to share space with a large chunk of the madding crowds with the same idea.

When it comes to sports, cricket rules, not just in the two stadiums, the Wankhede and the Brabourne, but also in local league games all year, including the unique and loony Kanga League in the rains. But you’ll also see top level hockey, tennis, badminton, football, basketball, swimming, golf, billiards & snooker, sailing, golf and horse racing. Those so inclined can indulge in most of these directly, at any of dozens of clubs and gymnasiums.

And when it comes to the truly urban attractions, Bombay leads all the rest.
The shopaholics are spoiled for choice. Most of the world’s big name brands have outlets here, and massive malls are beginning to proliferate. Traditional shopping—and bargaining!—is there for the asking too: handicrafts, textiles, clothes, antiques, leather, jewellery and more.

Food? This is practically the Universe at the End of a Restaurant. You’ll get it all here, from handcarts to the McFood variety international franchises and the restaurants that appeal to working stiffs and families to the best and most expensive cuisines of India and the world. And if you don’t feel like queuing up for a table, most of them would be happy to deliver. As a young chef I used to know said with some amazement, “You Bombay people don’t cook at home?”

Night life rocks too, with pubs, bars and discotheques that stay open and rocking until the wee hours (not all night, alas, the Government prefers its citizens to get home before the milk). And if you’re connected, or know someone who is, there’s a high profile party practically every night of the week, where the licensing laws have no jurisdiction.

When it comes to finding ways to fill each minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Bombay kicks the rest of India’s butt. Nothing’s truly unique, I’ll grant you that, and sure, some cities do some of it better, but you won’t find the whole vibrant package anywhere else.

Don’t be a stranger.

Published in Outlook’s Incredible India Travel Special, March 2006 under the title Bay of Bombast, which I hate.

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Shazia Mirza, live

Shazia Mirza played to a packed house at the Juhu Mocha. And I mean packed!
Seats had filled up long before show time. People continued to push their way in: celebrities-in-their-own-right lined up six-deep in the back row; Page 3 People sat on hastily-provided cushions in the front; others squeezed in with friends, four butts on three chairs, local train style; the more athletic perched on window sills. A group of people who insisted on standing in the centre aisle turning a deaf ear to impassioned whispers from behind to sit the f*** down were finally shamed into doing so by the star of the evening. Those who could not bluster their way in watched live video in the open-air area. (Which accounts for two large tripods set up in the middle of the aisle, effectively blocking the view for a large swathe of the audience, causing even more rumbles of dissent.)

Ms Mirza took a short while to find her rhythm; she seemed unsure of her audience, and in the first few minutes, made a few patronising references that stiffened quite a few backs. As the evening progressed, there were other moments when people did not quite know how to react. Partly, I guess, we’re not used to performers using adult language, speaking of sexual acts and dissing their parents (sometimes, all three in the same sentence!) in the relatively intimate confines of a live stage act. Still, one would have thought we’re pretty used to effing and blinding in our day-to-day interaction, and we’re reasonably broad-minded about sex. But perhaps it is more that we, even the relatively worldly-wise sampling that came to the show, aren’t quite used to comedy routines that poke fun directly at us. We’re happy enough with the slapstick, mimicry and the lame witticisms of cricket commentators. But enough already with the sociology.

Ms Mirza played the crowd expertly, and once she segued into her regular routine—with, it must be said, a few repetitions and occasional checking of set notes—helped along in no small part by a face that exudes mischief even when being insulting, the initial nervous titters soon yielded to honest guffaws. Her act is based around her life as a British Muslim woman, and is laced with scathing comment on men, conservative attitudes and family life. Her cheery willingness to make herself the butt of her own jokes notwithstanding, she seems to have made herself quiet a few enemies. Undeterred, she uses her hate mail in her routine, laughing at stuff that would probably drive me to seek anonymity behind purdah.

The audience lapped it all up. And Ms Mirza, did she enjoy herself? It was a roaring success, she told me in an email. And she’ll be back; she has offers to perform in Goa, among other places.

Published in the Times of India / Outlook City Limits Mumbai, December 2006.

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BEST days

We moved to Bombay when I was ten. I missed the old place, as I’d missed others as we moved from city to city, but as young lads do, I made friends fast—school chums, colony playmates, tuition pals.

It’s not as easy to make new friends when you’re older, in a new place; I know that now. For my parents, old pals from our home town were a link to their youth. The only such lived in Colaba and we in Chembur. And so, ever so often, we’d do our mini-expedition into South Bombay. For a middle class family, a taxi all the way was an indulgence. My brother doesn’t have the use of his legs, so the local trains, with the foot overbridges, and of course, the crowds, were too much of a hassle. So we took the bus.

The most convenient was the 8 Ltd, which then, as now, ran between Chembur’s Ambedkar Udyan and Flora Fountain. But then, the busses that plied the route were all double-deckers. The pollution, we quickly discovered, gave me blinding headaches when I travelled the lower deck. So I would be handed my ticket money and packed off to the top. (My parents and brother didn’t have the option; carrying John up the narrow stair to the top was difficult.)

Those rides were my introduction to the larger city beyond the lazy tree-lined avenues of Chembur. Over the years, I’ve got to know many other sides of this vast metropolis, but so many of those first impressions still define it for me.

Alone in the top deck, without Dad to point out the sites, I learned to orient myself in the city. Street signs were way too small to read from a moving bus; many were obscured with cloth banners and branches and, besides, the names weren’t the ones that I found on the old map I pored over, and they weren’t the ones that the conductor bellowed as he rang his bell. Commerce, on the other hand, can always be relied on for visibility. So shop signs, and even better, banks (because they put their branch names on their signage), those temples to Mammon, helped me figure out the geography of this city of money, the city Dad had moved to, to give me a better start in life.

I’d have charged to the front of the bus, of course, to pretend, when I thought that no one was looking (I was all of ten, after all) that I was the driver. With the wind blowing in my face, I’d mark off the areas we passed through: the bottleneck just before Sion, where now a flyover doesn’t seem to have helped matters; then Sion Hospital, and King’s Circle, which in all the years since, I still haven’t been in; and the broad sweep of road before Dadar’s huge traffic island; and the road narrowing again; and the confusing jumble before I found Byculla, marked by a Chinese joint visited once and forever imprinted; and then the church, and another hospital before the chaos of Mohammad Ali Road, with its fragrant set of restaurants, before VT, which was my mark to reluctantly make my way to the lower deck. And then we’d take a taxi to my parents’ friends home, within sight of Radio Club, where the adults would chatter away, and I’d be waiting to get home.

We’d head back, usually, at night. The return journey started at Electric House, with the 6 Ltd. Unless it was very late, in which case Dad would splurge on a taxi. As much as I dredge my memory, I don’t recall much of those return trips. I guess I slept through them, because all I recall is a blur of light and speed. In later years, I’ve come to know those sights better, as the boy-who-had-to-be-at-school-by-seven changed to the man-who-worked-into-the-wee-hours-by-choice.

And, ever so often, just for the memory, I take a bus back through the length of the city, even it means I have to change to another one to get me home, across the creek.

Published in Outlook’s City Limits Mumbai, October 16th, 2006.

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Udaya [Restaurant review]

In the days of one’s miss-spent youth in Chembur, Udaya was one of our choices for an evening out. Simple reasons, really. Dark, dingy, not too much of a mark-up on the beer, and decent chakna. All that a growing lad needs.
Life moves on, and so do we. And a decade-and-some passes. And, one day, one hears that there was this great place for aappams in the former home-burb. Further questioning reveals that it’s a respectable place near the station, called Udaya. Could it be, could it be..? And indeed it turns out that it is. A few years ago, Udaya refurbished itself, getting all bright and cheery. And has developed a reputation for excellent Kerala food. Thanks to early exposure to said cuisine, one’s response to mentions of aapams and ishtew is, very literally, Pavlovian. So, hauling in tongue, one repaired to Chembur forthwith, drinking buddy of one’s youth in tow. Beer was quaffed (purely for old times’ sake, one hastens to assure you), while waiters were commissioned. Obviously, the punjabi/mughlai/chinese sectionn was scorned, and we debated the merits of chicke, fish and mutton. And, in a bit, soft, fragrant aapams arrived, accompanied with a bowl of Irachi Ishtu (mutton stew to you and me). Heretic friend opted for Meen Urukiyathu (fish flavoured very heavily with tamarind) and Neichoru (a rather heavy rice preparation) and then proceeded to tick into my stew. The quantity, fortunately, was enough to survive his depradations, or old friendships be damned, one would have finished his beer. Yes, excellent stew it was. And you know what? The waiter told us that the place had always served Mallu food. I guess we, erm, didn’t notice back then in the day.

~ Peter Griffin

Udaya Family Restaurant
Shrama Safalya Building, Near Railway Station, Chembur, Mumbai 400071
Phone: 25214628, 25218792 (Home delivery available)
Hours: 11.00am-4.00pm – 07.00pm-12.00pm
Cuisine: Kerala. Also Chinese, Punjabi, Moghlai. Serves beer.

Published in Time Out.

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