The girl who lives in the past

“Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title.”

- Virginia Woolf

I have always been described as the girl who lives in the past. I know many who live in the past, some who live in the future and none who live in the present.( That's my quote). It's not like I have a wonderful past to stick on to. I actually don't remember a lot from the past but I am a nostalgic being by habit.I love old songs, old movies, old people and old fashions.

 Many of my memories from the past are sensorial. Like I can smell my dad, he always smelled good. The secret to this was that he changed three shirts a day and used three different perfumes, apart from the after shave, talcum powder and creams he applied. Yes dad is the only man I know in the Pre- Shahrukh ad days-  who used creams for that particular skin glow. In fact it was from him and not my mom that I learnt of vico turmeric and fair and lovely. In many ways dad had a lot many feminine qualities, my mom never had. I would have laughed at his devotion to beautifying himself then, but recently a quote by Virginia Woolf ( I am die hard fan of hers) reminded me, what dad did was perhaps normal.

" It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple: one must be a woman manly, or a man womanly."

I completely agree. I remember him fretting over a pimple in fact borrowing clearsil from us his kids. I can vividly see mom running after him to get a wound dressed and dad crying like a kid.In his demeanor he was gentle a quality people often related to a woman. Dad was the talker, talk , talk, talk. He had the charisma to keep people listening too. 

He had a taste for music and the first ghazal I heard was " chupke chupke raat din" by Ghulam Ali at the age of 3. Dad was a sufi when it came to music much to mom's disapproval he played the devotional songs of Muslims and Hindus and Christians too. Some of my memories of the past is quite musical. I remember each class I passed or failed based on hit or flop number that was popular those days.

Dad had a strong penchant for good food though he seldom shared it with us. He was indeed a glutton and never believed in sharing. He also got invited to lot of places he never took us and I remember listening to him vividly describe his trysts with food.Knowing we would never get to be to any of those places made me visualise what those treats would look and taste like.

Though I never admitted this when he was alive I think I have inherited the love for animals from him and the niceness and willingness to be fooled time after time by people I trust and love the most. 

I miss those long discussions, those sweet smells, those clamours over music, debates over politics and religion. I wish I could show him these blogs, my new inventions in the kitchen, progress at work and I think he would understand.
I was listening to this song 'Darmiyaan' from a boring movie called jodi breakers and though it was a romantic movie the lines' kuch toh tha tere mere darmiyaan' reminded me of dad and that's how nostalgic music can make me. Sometimes missing someone is not even painful it's a calm,serene feeling of contentment. The more one can recollect good memories over bad ones the missing seems more meaningful.

I know , I know I am getting too emotional in my posts these days but hey this is an online journal and I did not promise entertainment :)  and I am entitled to be emotional for I am the blue girl :)

Do listen to Shreya Ghosal version of Darmiyaan and if you have a penchant for music like me you''ll travel to a different world too, I promise.

Kia Kaha

Sometimes silence is golden. For me silence means I am burning within, things are chaotic and I am looking for the fire exit of my life or that I am punishing myself for being an absolute idiot. Sometimes it all happens to coincide- my reason for silence. I always considered myself an honest individual- too idealistic, aggressive a typical type A personality. But off late, I feel myself drifting, weak from the ambush of jerks. The fact that I am aware they are jerks do nothing to make me feel justified in times of crisis. My honesty is so compulsive that I tend to believe I am wrong when someone tends to label me in grey. I baked 8 cakes last time I felt ambushed ( choco-apple tea-bread) but my soul feels abysmal. 

A friend of mine from New Zealand said something quite soothing today. She repeatedly slipped in these words in her mail and the each time I pronounce it, I feel soothed. 'Kia Kaha', 'Kia Kaha', it feels like a mantra. It definitely feels like a name I would have loved to take up. Kia Kaha in Maori means ' Be strong' and my friend tells me this phrase means deeper than it's definition and has been a source of support to New Zealanders through out their history. Kia Kaha is part of their marching song, was a popular slogan and message during the Christ church earth quake and therefore is a term closely connected to the lives of  New Zealanders.

My friend often greets me saying "hi from the bottom of the world" and it often makes me smile.Thanks Keryn for this loving message. I know tough times never last but tough people do- all they need to do is keep chanting 'Kia Kaha'. Five years ago  I began blogging to prove to someone I could write. The comments motivated me, later built my hopes, then progressed me to a narcissist who fretted when there were no comments, when my friends did not become followers and my family never read me. As I progressed in life as a blogger and a human being I realised the comments don't matter and failures won't make me hide in fact they made me a fighter. But I still feel low on certain days and worry about things that have no significance at all. 

Do you feel stagnant in life? Do you doubt yourself? And try hard masking it with a phony face while your heart is throbbing all along? I would say- 'Kia Kaha'.

I am reading  'Life without Limits' by Nick Vujicic and a quote of his inspired me a lot. It woke me from my inertia and forced me to post this today. The quote goes like this -"Some injuries heal more quickly when you keep moving". I have been going through an excruciating phase feeling empty and wondering why I should even consider blogging. My topics that once were never ending were now empty or rather I found everything I wrote as trivial. We all go through such phases of self doubt in life which I call the Wilderness phase of life. Some say it happens when you think too much and some say it happens when you have read a lot. I don't believe in both the theories, I think the wilderness phase comes in before a beautiful spring to make you stronger.I believe that this phase has its lessons too and I need to be more observant and silent.

And I am amazed how help comes from the least expected channels when you lose hope from Nick's book, Keryn's mail. How life won't let me give up and wants me to strike back with all the vigour I have. Maybe one among you out there who reads this will find an answer through this confession of mine. And for you... I write. I get back to blogging..... 

Move ahead in life despite that stupid mistake, despite the wasted years, the wrong plan, the painful moment, the wrong relationship, keep moving because staying stagnant won't help you grow. And some wounds heal quickly when you keep moving.

I promise to keep writing for myself and not because someone out there will comment or not comment.

Like water for chocolate

This will be a very different post I promise to myself. It is not something from my kitchen but it still is something that reveals my passion for food. Culinary fiction was something I was unaware for 27 years of my life. Two years back I had a discussion with my bibliophile friend on how people never wrote novels on food when mystery, romance, drama and even predictions of the world's end were  recurrent themes in novels of our times. He then asked me if I had ever heard of culinary fiction. I was dumbstruck in awe and love for this new term that would remain a part of my life. The bibliophile  suggested few popular names and I bought my first culinary fiction novel through Flipkart. 'Like water for chocolate' by Laura Esquivel  is a classic piece for anyone in love with reading and food. I would not say cooking because I know many foodies who don't cook but imagine cooking and eating in their minds and they thoroughly enjoy a good read like their friends who cook. I won't give away the story of any of these novels not because,they are mystery novels but because it would be a sin to give away the story laced with home remedies, recipes at every chapter beginning and beautiful quotes.

For those who still want the story in a nutshell Like water for chocolate is the story of Tita and Pedro and their unconditional love for each other. Tita is a wonderful cook and has the ability to express her self through cooking. Every chapter in the novel begins with a wonderful recipe thereby situating it's relevance to how the story progresses. Tita bakes a cake for her sister's wedding , cocoa butter for chapped skin, quail in rose petal sauce and buns with sardines. She is always in the kitchen where her romance blooms, and her life ends.

To me the Mexican cuisine and culture understood from the book was quite fascinating  and so was  the magical realism binding food and life. In short this is a book for book lovers and you should not miss reading it. I have always wondered why the title is Like water for chocolate. The forums online inform me that this comes from the metaphor for hot chocolate. Hot chocolate in many countries don't use milk but boiling water so like water for chocolate means like the hot water ready to receive chocolate which denotes passion and sexual arousal. The love between Pedro and Tita in the novel befits the title.

Every time I see roses or quails I can't help thinking of Tita and so would agree most of you once you have read this book. Do let me know your views on the book till then Adios !!!!

Life is like a Falooda

I promised to myself that this blog would never go static just because I am starting a food blog. I was wrong and I am sorry for letting it happen. I meet friends who blame me for neglecting this blog and I know I am buying time from people who actually read this saying its the thesis writing or family responsibilities that's responsible for this. Well those reasons do matter but then I have had a fall as big as humpty dumpty recently when someone told me I can't write. I can't tell you all how much  I hated myself from that day. It made me feel this blog was a hoax or people who read me knew nothing about writing and so they commented and motivated me , but in my mind I had it loud and clear- I can't write. Or maybe I write well as a blogger but horribly as a researcher. It takes a lot of  pride, ego and confidence to admit that one sucks. So I decided staying off the blog was saving that 1 ounce self respect left in me. On the food front I was doing great, I had admirers and it was getting to be a pseudo project something I was good at or something I prove with my constant display of goodies to everyone that I could disarm them with my hexes ( goodies).

I call this phase a wilderness in my writing. I feel all dried up, I know there is a lot I want to discuss but the moment I start I am reminded that I cannot write and never can I punctuate properly. Let me admit that I never can be perfect because writing is the only thing I do as a catharsis and its a downpour of my feelings. I have never thought of crafting my posts as master pieces for publication perhaps that is what makes them sincere and daring too.

When it comes to academics oh don't get me started onto it, it's a different ball game alltogether. My audience need to coaxed, impressed to sell my argument and I feel like a 3 year old who showed her first draft of A's and B's to the kindergarten teacher.You know that feeling don't you when you were a shy, timid kid who gave that puppy eyed look for a golden star on your ABCD test paper?

My life these days is somewhat like that. Life these days is like a falooda every spoon has so many flavours, some nice, some like the complicated vermicelli that slips away. Some like the cold ice cream that freezes your mouth for a moment, some like the surprise fruit of the day that surprises you and in the end you are left with an overwhelming sweetness that is on the border between bitterness to sweetness. Oh its so easy to ramble and play with words. And that is what this whole game is about then why do I fail when it comes to academics? Maybe I am still not smart enough for the big game? or my life is oscillating between the bitterness and sweetness waiting to anchor???? Just some passing thoughts. By the way I love Falooda.............

The Bread Of Life

 
  And the Lord said, ‘I am the bread of life’. He could have said – ‘I am the rice of life’ or ‘I am the pasta of life’ but he chose the humble bread. But I think the modest bread also has a mysterious side to it because I have heard people say, “I made biryani today” or “I made payasam at home” or even made a Pizza, but I have never heard anybody say “I made bread today”. On the contrary there wouldn’t be anybody who has never tasted bread in his or her life. So how is that bread is something that everybody has eaten but have never made it at home. Even at my home, we have not made bread, though we have made a lot of things with bread.  But that is going to change in our household pretty soon.

 

  My encounters with bread go a long back in time. This was before the age of cycles and motorcycles and as a kid I used to walk more than a kilometer to reach the grocery store. During that time there were only two other things that made me do a long haul on the road - to buy milk or to buy Don’s cigarettes. Sometimes I used to get lucky when all these three things were to be fetched at the same time. At the grocery store, breads would have their own space, on a small table, just at the entrance of the shop, with one stack on top of the other like a pyramid. The local name for them was – ‘Double-Roti’. The name was a misnomer as the bread was not round in shape, as a Roti nor was it just double the size.  There never used to be more than two brands, three flavours and three sizes. I still remember the red and blue checkered wrapper of Modern breads. The three flavours used to be plain, sweet and tutti-frutti. And as far as size goes there was a small, the normal and a big long packet. I have not seen the big long packet from a long time now. Maybe it lost ground when the joint families started disintegrating into single units. At home, mom would usually make french toast, a no fuss and easy breakfast for a working mom. But I disliked the sweet and soggy taste of what the bread was turned into.

 Outside the house, the encounter with bread was with omelet and Aji. We both would go to Basanth Bhai's omelete shop, adjucent to the Habibganj Railway crossing. It would usually be a crowded place in the evenings but on days with less footfalls Basanth Bhai would conjure up a delight for us. He would first do a side of the big omelet, then place in four bread pieces flat and turn it around for another two minutes and then fold it all up on a plate. It was bliss to have it with the green chutney, on a winter evening, with life passing by. We would discuss the ways of the world and the happenings of the unworldy, with Basanth Bhai kept busy in the background, such that in those days we would usually wound up sans dinner.   

In Kerala, where we used to go during our summer vacation, the bread was called ‘Paccha-Roti’. Again an improbable name in terms of not being ‘uncooked’, as ‘Paccha’ meant it to be. Unlike its cousins in the north, the Kerala bread was a single undivided unit of bread and not sliced into pieces. We were very fascinated with this difference in appearance, same as a person looking at a complete fish, who would have had only seen fishes in cut pieces till now. Also unlike Bhopal, where I used to usually bring home the bread, in Kerala it used to mysteriously appear in the pathayam (a box in which rice harvest is kept). We would never know about it until there was an offer from the higher powers to have bread. We would be very happy to step into the pathayapura, which was dark and cluttered place where the pathayam was kept. Inside the pathayam the bread would be kept wrapped in a newspaper, along with bananas kept for ripening. I think the most exciting part of this bread was that it could be sliced and torn into any shape we wanted. We often used to sneak into the pathayapura to try our luck, to see if there was a ‘Paccha-Roti’ inside the pathayam.
       

  Another event that I remember clearly was during the curfew that was imposed as an aftermath of the riots of 1992 in Bhopal. Because of the curfew all shops and establishments got closed and therefore we had to depend upon a guy to get us our groceries. This guy used to come on a Bajaj M80, with an iron box saddled on the back, instead of a pillion. Because it was curfew time and with all our outside activities stalled, this was the only guy who used to break the monotony of the day. So the moment the guy used to honk at the gate everyone would jump to get outside. You would then see the whole neighbourhood crowding around him. People would claw inside his box and claim whatever they could get. Inside his iron box there used to be variety of breads, more than those at the grocery store. It was in his box that I first saw a bun. Mom was not too happy as it was a small thing, which would not satiate the whole family and then we would have to buy a lot many of them. Because of all the riot issues around we used to stock up things from him, because we never knew when he would next show up. I am not sure what we did with the bun but was definitely happy when I held it for the first time. But once the curfew was lifted and life came back to normal, my routine went back to the grocery store, though I would often see the guy riding his bike with the iron box and remember the curfew days.

 Now in Bangalore, a place which I would say has the largest number of mallu bakeries, maybe second only to the homeland, but definitely more than the average number of pan shops in the north. Mallus have kind of monopolized the bakery business, if not at owning a corner bakery shop. It’s in a bakery like this, the one on the starting of 5th Cross, the road opposite to Canara Bank, at 100 feet road Koramangala, to be precise, that I saw the divide of the south and the north collapse, the day when I first saw the - the bread slicer. It was a metallic contraption, which was at almost waist to chest height and looked more like a part of the printing press. The guy would put a ‘Paccha-Roti’ at one end and it would come out as a ‘Double-Roti’. I stood there for a whole half hour, eating three to four egg puffs and having as many teas, just to see how the whole process worked. And in the end I bought  a ‘Paccha-Roti’, for old times’ sake.  Unfortunately I have not seen this device after that day,  though I frequent many bakeries even today, eating egg-puffs.

  Quiet recently, I moved from being a bread eater to a bread creator. The opportunity came via Bhujji, who forwarded a mail regarding a bread course offered at Lavonne Academy, Indiranagar. (www.lavonne.in). The course was on a weekend, from 10am to 4pm, costing Rs. 1700. I think the course is a little costly but Bhujji says because they are letting you make your own dough, bake it and eat it too, it’s reasonable. We were taught by Chef Vinesh, a jovial and pleasant guy and surprise surprise, is also a mallu. We were taught to make four kinds of breads - Soft Rolls, Grissini, Foccacia and 7 grain bread. We were five people who attended the course that day, and surprise again, four of them were mallus.

   We were each given our own working tables and ingredients for each kind of bread. Under the watchful eyes of Chef Vinesh, we mixed, we rolled, we kneaded, we rolled a little more and we kneaded further more. In the first half we got our hands dirty and by the second half we were on a roll.

We waited patiently for the doughs to rise and then impatiently to get them baked. Chef Vinesh would often give tips and tricks in between and we tried to remember most and others we noted in between the kneadings. The first to come out of the oven was the Soft Rolls and they were a delight to watch. I am sure the pics would not hold me as a liar.

  We ate our own Soft Rolls as antipasta with garlic butter and it was awesome.

   In the end it was a bread-filled day as we had SUBWAY for lunch and then packed the Soft Rolls, Foccacia, 7 grain Bread and a whole lot of Grissini as we said our good-byes. On a whole it was a nice experience to learn how to bake bread and add it to my bread stories. Hopefully I would be able to add a few things I learned here too as a blog post. Next time when we plan to go to Lavonne Academy, it’s going to be the Mr. and Mrs. together.                    

  And I also hope that the Lord would agree that those who bake bread together should be happier than those who just break bread together. So for happier days ahead, bread be with us. Amen!

Jango's master

This isn't my story but my master's. It's rather my observations on him, his family and the very little I made out of what I saw. It's rather unfortunate that I am choosing the day after his death to narrate this tale.I am practically bored and no one paid any attention to me for two days since my master's death and when they did, they didn't think of feeding me or changing my water. I don't know what my fate will be, but I thought story telling was a good activity to activate my brain and keep myself from dying of boredom. I am an African grey parrot from Central Africa. I am considered quite intelligent for my ability to speak though humans consider it just an ability to mimic. I know quite a few words even before picking up this funny Indian language of my master. But he took great delight telling his friends he trained me to talk. He was a man of vanity and I loved him for the love he lavished on me. After all how many master's get their parrots mixed fruit juice and assorted nuts. So I decided to play my cards. I called out 'Jesus' and 'Treasa' two words that made my master beam with pride though the frequently used words by him were moron, donkey and shit head. The elder daughter of my master named me Jango. I was happy that it did rhyme with tango but then I overheard her telling her friends it was the name of a pigeon from some Indian movie starring a funny guy. I hate pigeons because they have no sense of hygiene, they shit around and insult our species of birds. I am toilet trained and mind it I never shit on the railings. My shit falls directly into the plate placed beneath my railings.

My life on a daily basis was quite mundane. Master came in to feed me. He talked, cooed and I enjoyed the only human contact that came my way. Trease his wife wasn't a pet lover but she did smile and wave and call my name from the kitchen next to my bathroom. The eldest daughter was an animal hater or she hated the attention I got. She was the only one who paid no attention when the others got around me to help me spit the chickpea I choked on. My master took care of me like a kid, he cleaned my shit and read books on me to help me feel more homely. I was beginning to like this guy especially after his family shifted to India and he sat there and talked to me about them.To please him I even did the balancing act of walking from his shoulder to his extended arm. This had sort of become the prime show when his friends gathered for a drink.

But that night he did not get me out, I could hear papers rustling, glasses clinking but I was not brought out. I never saw light for the next two days. I could here footsteps, people mumbling but nothing was clear enough to decipher my loss. And then they barged into my room broke the toilet and frantically searched for something. I saw them rip the carpets searching for a clue all along. They were cops I deciphered, trying to find why my master was killed. And then came master's nephew who fed me some water and seeds. They were clueless about my affairs, my daily routine. I could not be mailed to India, that was paper work and noone wanted to do extra paper work. They were shipping master but maybe his family did not ask for me. Must be that stupid elder daughter who decided affairs. I didn't see his body  had I been in the crime scenes sat there in a corner I could have seen the face of that one man whose anonymity would taunt them all for the rest of their life. For I was far more intelligent than they all thought. Only if they let me out.

Jango was a bastard now. He had no family, no more assorted nuts, no passion fruit or mixed fruit juice. Would I end up in one of those pet markets? I wish I went somewhere I could receive my daily food. The nephew and few friends came in. They were to pack of stuff that went with master's body. "What will happen to the bird?" asked the nephew. "Noone wants to buy it because it comes from a house where the master was murdered", said the friend. That's stupid and how foolish can human beings be, I thought to myself. " For that matter nobody wants to rent this house", said the friend. " But leaving this bird all alone?", asked the nephew. " I guess we have no option but to let it fly". No you morons I screeched but they gave me more nuts to eat. I cant fly and its so hot where will I find food?, this is no place to leave me to fly, take me to Africa, ship me there, give me to the pet market, I continued screeching as they held me and walked towards the window. They caged me when I was free and now they set me free when I can't fly how stupid can human beings be? I turned around for the last time and could see nothing but the marking of master's body made by the police. I really loved that guy, I thought to myself and then spread my wings to fly.

What would happen to his other pets, the guinea pigs, rabbits, ducks- they can't fly. Would they...... the thought made me stronger and I flew with all my might. I''ll never forget 'Treasa' and 'Jesus' and the nuts and the juice..................

Meandering foodies in Pondicherry

If there is heaven on earth it’s where you can taste butter, butter and more butter. And Pondicherry comes close to be that place, but strictly for a glutton. More than sightseeing we got caught up in tasting some good pizzas, pastas, coq au vin and beef bourginion. We researched a bit before this trip and were aware of the places we would visit and where we could get some good grub. This trip was very special to us; being our first road trip alone. WHO was all excited using his navigator app on Ipad. And he gave me his co-pilot seat to track the routes. With a couple of misses and wrong turns we reached Pondi in 4.5 hrs from Chennai and that too after attending a colleague’s wedding for which we had driven nonstop from Bangalore the previous night.

We were famished and directionless on our first evening in Pondicherry. After wandering around to
decipher the many Rue’s (roads in French) in Pondi, with promising restaurants at every corner, referred by other bloggers, we ended up dining at ‘Café d le Oriente’. I found their stuff over priced for the quantity they served. I wanted to taste a quiche, because I never had an authentic one, though have had experimented with quiches back home. The quiche served was a small slice and a rip off at Rs. 185 apiece. And the chicken soup had an overwhelming cilantro taste. I suggested Spaghetti Carbonara and was again appalled at the quantity served. I think the serving size had a foreigner stereotype to it. The spaghetti tasted quite different from what I had tasted in Italy. In short, nothing managed to surprise our palates. This was a restaurant not recommended on the websites we had google’d and so we decided to do penance by only following the recommended ones on our list going forward.

On the way back to our hotel, I had a sudden craving for dessert. We were discussing about our breakfast next day during our dinner at ‘Café d le Oriente’ and the spread at ‘Baker’s Street’, so when we found ourselves right in front of their doorstep I thought the universe was conspiring to let me taste a slice of heaven. I remember how mesmerized I was when I entered ‘Baker’s Street’. WHO says my face had a glow he had never seen before. I was excited seeing tarts, tiramisu, éclairs and petit fours. Since it was closing time I could see that most of the trays were empty. I had an éclair and it tasted divine. We again landed there the next day, after a walk at the beach, for a hearty breakfast. We amassed a bill for Rs 700, which is definitely costly, but then we tasted everything we fancied – a spinach quiche, a mushroom- hamomelet, plain omelet, orange juice, pineapple juice, bacon sandwich, butter croissant and we liked everything.

And it was like having a gastronomic orgasm. We choose this breakfast over the one at ‘Promenade’, who were offering a buffet for Rs 400 per person and we were pleased at what we saw there too. If you have a bottomless tummy I would suggest the ‘Promenade’ but if you are like us (poor eaters at buffets) ‘Baker’s Street’ might suit you. Now if you think Rs. 700 is still expensive you definitely need to taste the croissant and I bet my you salt that it is made with a lot of honesty. When we tasted a croissant at ‘Hot Breads’ the last day I realized the difference.

We visited ‘Baker’s Street’ again the next day to pack some breakfast for a trip to Pichavaram (second largest mangrove in the world). Pondicherry attracts people for three reasons- beach, booze and shopping. But mapping the city and familiarizing would not take more than a day or two. So if you have more than a weekend at hand, Pichavaram is one place you should not miss. I have lived all my life in cities with proximity to the sea and beach so these were definitely not my reason for a trip to Pondicherry. What excited me was the French food safari. So I would add a fourth reason why people should choose Pondicherry for a holiday, it’s to satiate one’s foodie soul.

Our travels from Pichavarm were filled with hope of savouring the local eateries ut we were disappointed at not finding any worthwhile joints to refill ourselves. And that’s how we ended up at ‘Madame Shante’s’ at 3pm. Now that indeed was an odd time to have lunch, but after a two hour boat ride at Pichavaram and a great bargain on some dry shrimps on our way back, ‘Madame Shante’s’ was the only place willing to offer us a decent meal at 3pm. We had a sausage salad, beef in red wine sauce and Pasta Arabiata for Rs 350. And I must add that this was one reasonable meal we had in Pondicherry. I was more than happy to have Pasta Arabiata well prepared, after a long time.

A year ago my friends from insti and I had visited Pondicherry and the first meal I had tasted then was at ‘Satsang’. With all the good experiences of that meal, especially the beef bourginion, which I first saw in the movie Julie and Julia, WHO and I decided that we would have our dinner there. But the food did not match our expectations. WHO ordered beef bourginion and I kept wondering why it looked so different from the one I ordered a year ago, only to realize they served us Beef Burgundy instead of Beef Bourginion. I ordered a Coq au vin which turned out to be grilled chicken with French fries. What upset me the most was their slow service. There was no warmth and promptness to serve on the part of the waiters while compared to the other eateries we went to. We chose the rooftop and perhaps the staff at ‘Satsang’ was finding it difficult to manage two floors. I would recommend their Beef Bourginion and my suggestion is solely based on my memories of Beef Bourginion a year earlier. By then we had quite a few experiences to have a bench mark in our minds as to what was worth and what was not.

Another eatery that surprised me, my taste buds to be specific, was ‘Hotel Qualithe’ located at Rue De, Labourdannain. We missed them the day before, after our visit at Auroville, as we were later for lunch time. But the next day we were on time and found quite an impressive menu on their chalk board. And since we love pork we ordered Schezwan pork which was the spiciest I have ever had.

We also tried out a fish curry which was nice as well. I am usually skeptical of fish curries, prepared other than at home, or you could say I am an ethno centrist when it comes to fish. I want it prepared my style. But I broke this prejudice of mine at ‘Hotel Qualithe’ and though I was not completely happy we did manage to finish the fish curry served to us.

If you ever Google eateries in Pondicherry, wood fire pizzas are something that always come up. And having been to Italy I immediately switch off to the luscious imagery of prosciutto filled pizza coming out of the stone oven with a long peel (Peel is the shovel used to shove pizzas and bread loaves into the oven). We could not make it to most places that promised these pizzas in Pondi. So on our last night in Pondi, we went to ‘Pasta bar Veneto’. It is not as expensive as it sounds and plus it has the American booth style seating. A small bar with some bar stools makes it look even more chic.

We ordered a Neapolitan pizza and Pasta Bolognese for Rs 540. Even though the place is small we loved the ambience. If you are a diehard fan of Pastas and Pizzas this is one place you should visit. There is also a chocolate shop right across ‘Pasta bar Veneto’ which would amuse chocolate lovers, even more reason to go for your antipasti and Il Primo at ‘Pasta bar Veneto’ and then your Dolce from next door.


I hope the pics excite your taste buds and these suggestions can help those who wish to visit Pondicherry and learn the place through their palate.

We have a post on wine making due in 3 days so get back here for the most coveted recipe on wine making :)