[An
Indian-born chef explores the foods and culture of Himachal Pradesh, where
Punjabi and Tibetan flavors meet.]
By
Romy Gill
When I was a child in India, we were the
first family on our street to get a television: a huge black and white affair.
Occasionally, we’d have neighbors and friends round to watch Bollywood movies
filmed in Shimla, the Himalayan city that was once the summer capital of India.
With its stunning colonial architecture, snow-capped mountains and rolling
green meadows, it looked like paradise.
Now, as a professional chef, I was intrigued
by the different ways of living, speaking and eating, and the different rituals
ingrained into everyday life in Himachal Pradesh, the northern Indian state
straddling the Western Himalayas.
In Himachal, the daily diet is based around
lentils, pulses, yogurt and milk: simple flavors with plenty of foraging and
very little meat. They use what is available, and don’t let anything go to
waste. It’s a cuisine that provided much of the inspiration for my upcoming cookbook,
and I began planning a visit. My plans changed when my mother passed away
suddenly. The trip was put on hold, and when I was able to return to the idea
of making the journey, I decided to go with my father, cherishing the
opportunity to spend more time with one of the two people who have shaped my
life the most.
From Chandigarh, the northern city designed
by the modernist architect Le Corbusier, we traveled by car to Shimla, where we
were welcomed at The Peterhof Hotel. Built in the 1800s as accommodation for
the Viceroys (it was home to at least seven of them during the Raj), it was
rebuilt in 1991 following a fire
I was keen to stretch my legs and explore, so
I left my father to rest. First stop: the Indian Institute of Advanced Study.
A true Shimla landmark, the Indo-Gothic
building, which dates to the late 1800s, stands proudly among pine trees and
well-maintained gardens. While it’s now home to Ph.D. students, it hosted the
famous 1945 Shimla Conferences, and the decision to partition the subcontinent
into India and Pakistan was made inside.
After the tour of the spectacular
architecture (50 rupees, or about 70 cents), I sat in the cafe and had bread
pakoras, deep-fried bread stuffed with mashed potatoes, and a very sweet cup of
chai. Eating them, I was flooded with memories of traveling with my mother on
school holidays to see family in Punjab from West Bengal, where we were living,
a 24-hour-long journey. We always had bread pakoras and I thought, why I
haven’t made them?
I took a taxi to the Ridge, the large, open
space in the heart of the city. It was filled with tourists from across the
globe, and newlyweds clearly distinguishable by their bright red chula bangles,
sitting and watching the world go by.
At Ashiana & Goofa, a restaurant run by
the Himachal Pradesh Tourism Development Corporation and where we had dinner,
the focus is on authentic, regional home cooking.
You won’t find salt and pepper on the tables
— instead, you’re served onions, chilies and lemon or lime on the side for
flavor, along with achar pickles.
We feasted on chickpeas with yogurt — an
unusual combination — and a jeera (cumin) rice whose delicious simplicity
reminded me of dinners with a childhood friend and her family. The star,
though, was the roti, or flatbread, with chickpeas, a simple yet magical
combination.
Onward
to Rampur
Thin, crispy aloo paratha, flatbreads stuffed
with potatoes, fueled Dad and me for the next leg of our journey: a drive to
Rampur, about 75 miles north east of Shimla.
The change in scenery was instantaneous. We
drove down the valley under the shade of lofty trees and views of the
snow-covered mountains and traditional villages.
The city of Rampur is connected to major
trading routes that join Indian markets with those of Central Asia and Tibet. I
was told that the place is buzzing in November when the Lavi Fair comes to
town: It is the largest trading event in the north Himalayas, and attracts
traders from Kashmir, Ladakh, Yarkand in China and other parts of India. Here,
you’ll find all manner of things for sale: dried fruits, raw wool, pashminas,
even stallions. (We traveled in the spring, before India revoked the statehood
of Jammu and Kashmir and imposed tight restrictions on communications and
movement there, devastating the region’s economy.)
After a quick lunch of rajma chawal — a
hearty kidney bean curry with rice — we headed out in search of the Bhimakali
Temple, said to be 800 years old and dedicated to the ruling deity of the
Bushahr region.
At an altitude of 6,900 feet, it’s not a
journey for the fainthearted.
The place is steeped in mystery and intrigue:
One legend claims that the entire building tilted after an earthquake in 1905,
and righted itself with a subsequent tremor. Other stories tell of secret
tunnels hidden within, used in centuries gone by for priests to travel to the
nearby village of Ranwin.
While the better-known temples in India are
packed full of tourists, pushing and shoving, Bhimakali was genuinely peaceful.
The priest told us of an intriguing spiritual walk in the nearby Himalayas, a
dangerous path that is only open for two to three weeks a year.
He gave us his blessing, and we departed,
deciding to take tea at one of the food stalls by Rampur’s Bir Bahadur Palace
before continuing our journey. While the others were mostly staffed by men, two
women smiled at us from this stall. It was clear that the younger woman was a
newlywed: her red and white chula bangles, plus her bindi and lipstick — which
are only worn in public when married — revealed her status.
A
bridge across the river
The parathas we ate for breakfast at our
heritage hotel, Nau Nabh, weren’t a patch on those we enjoyed in Shimla, but
they did the job before our journey to the Kalasan Nursery Farm, near the tiny
town of Karsog.
We took the scenic route, which was
breathtaking for a number of reasons. The single-track mountain road was
terrifying.
From the car window I spotted a
rickety-looking pedestrian bridge across the Sutlej River, and, intrigued, I
asked the driver to stop. It seemed like a precarious way to cross the river,
but I conquered my fear of heights to do so, and was rewarded with some of the
most memorable views of the trip: the shining mountains on all sides, the river
flowing aggressively through the middle.
Weaving our way up a steep and narrow road,
we reached the farm where we had booked a farm stay and were greeted by the
owner, Vikram Rawat, and his family, who applied a bindi to each of our
foreheads, symbolizing honor, love and prosperity, and gave us each a Himachali
hat, called a topi. Originally worn to protect the wearers’ heads from the
biting winter winds, these hats are now a colorful cultural symbol of the
state.
Vikram — then still a banker — came to
Kalasan 15 years ago. He was encouraged by his wife, Rajni, to establish an
orchard and demonstration farm. As she was born in Himachal, they were able to
purchase land — something that those born outside of the state are not allowed
to do.
Instead of traditional apple farming, he
opted for high density farming. He learned how to grow apples using clonal
rootstocks, building up his knowledge over the years. At first, both other
growers and the government were critical of Vikram’s farming methods, but now,
more than 5,000 farmers visit his orchard each year to study it.
He and his wife along with their daughters,
Vasu and Charu, now employ 38 people. Growing their own vegetables, kidney
beans and apples, they also sell apple juice and cider, and raise cows, goats
and chickens to provide a supply of milk and eggs.
I was lucky enough to cook with the family:
one of the highlights was a fermented roti that I have never seen outside of
this region of India. Fermented jalebis, sweets made from deep-fried batter,
and dosas, or rice-batter crepes, are well-known, but the family stressed just
how great the fermentation process is for gut health, and how well it keeps —
making it ideal for workers who are out all day without access to somewhere
cool to store their provisions.
Instead of water, the flour for these breads
is mixed with yogurt, then left outside for a whole day to ferment. This
creates an incredibly sticky dough that expands easily — and which can’t be
rolled. Instead, I was shown how to wet my hands and dab it to flatten it
before cooking
We also made an apple murabba, or chutney,
which combined the farm’s apples with dried coconut, sultanas, fennel seeds and
salt, and is simply eaten with roti or paratha. This combination of flavors
impressed me so much that I now make my own version.
Kalasan is known for its ancient temples,
constructed from wood and stone in the traditional kath kuni style of architecture.
Vikram and Rajni took us to see a nearby example, where we saw the locals
feasting on traditional Himachali cuisine. We then took off to a local
Himachali restaurant where we cooked and tucked into a thali (a plate of
various foods, known as a dham in the region) consisting of a Khatta black
chickpea curry served with black mustard tarka as the spiced oil or ghee is
known; tender dal (lentil) mash; Himachali kadhi, a gravy made of yogurt and
chickpea flour with cinnamon and cardamom, to which vegetable fritters are
added; and an incredibly sweet dessert of badana, or deep fried chickpea balls
made with moong (mung bean) dal — as well as local plum wine.
The restaurant’s kitchen was tiny and dark —
and the chef didn’t weigh a single thing, relying on the feel of the
ingredients in his hands. He knew the exact quantities he needed for the number
of people he was going to feed, and his eyes lit up as he explained what he was
doing — it was clear that this was a man who was passionate about food and feeding
people. And despite how remote the place was, I felt a real connection with
him.
Vikram drove us back to the farm after the
evening meal, the lights from the houses twinkling through the pine and cedar
forest, making the mountain look as though it were lit with candles.
Our breakfast included the previous day’s fermented
flour roti, chickpea flour pancakes and mandwa (ragi or a kind of millet) grain
roti served with some of that beautiful apple chutney, as well as a sabzi, as
Indians call a vegetable cooked in gravy, of lungdoo, or fiddlehead fern, which
I learned how to make.
Bir,
a hotbed of momos — and paragliding
At our next destination, Bir, the Colonel’s
Resort was jaw-droppingly beautiful with horses frolicking in the fields and
paragliders floating in the sky — the town is a hotbed for the sport. After
taking our luggage to our rooms and leaving Dad to rest his swollen ankles, I
set off to explore.
My journey took me along a street flanked on
both sides with shacks selling momos and other Tibetan/Indian dishes. As a
young girl in Bengal, my cheap meal with friends was momos, dumplings filled
with vegetables or meat served either with spicy tomato chutney or soya sauce
chili dip. From the corner, I could see young children from the local Tibetan
school running around and playing, filling the air with the sounds of joy.
That night was spent chatting with other
families staying in the resort and sipping wine around the bonfire, staring up
at the stars. Before my trip I had decided that I would try paragliding.
Normally, this would have terrified me, but losing my mother had made me
fearless. But after going to bed early, I awoke to heavy rainfall and thunder,
my heart racing at the thought of paragliding in those conditions.
My flight was canceled, so instead we made a
stop at the Chokling Monastery, which is open to the public for chanting
sessions each evening — and is also the best place in Bir to catch a sunset
Tea
and the Dalai Lama Temple
Dharamshala was our next and last stop.
On reaching Blossoms Village Resort, I met up
with Anamika Singh, who I had connected with via mutual friends on Facebook. My
love of good tea and her knowledge of tea were a match made in heaven.
Anamika’s father, Abhay Kumar Singh, has been in the tea industry for decades
and now runs the Manjhee tea estate, where Anamika creates her own Anandini
blends.
First, we paid a visit to the Dalai Lama
temple in Mcloedganj, stopping first for an Indo-Chinese-Tibetan lunch of
momos, chili chicken and chow mein, which reminded me of my native Bengal,
where the Chinese Hakka community would cook up dishes like these. Then we
marched off to the temple.
Unlike other Indian temples, you won’t find
huge idols outside — this is an incredibly simple building, right at the top of
the Mcleodganj hill station. The Dalai Lama was there and the temple was
buzzing with people seeking an appointment for his spiritual guidance.
Early the next morning we went to visit the
Manjhee tea estate and do the tea trail.
We were shown how to pluck the leaves from
the trees around us — trees approximately 100 years old. We ended with a tea
tasting, enjoying different blends and tea from what are known as the first and
second flush.
After its first flush of growth, tea trees go
into dormancy. When the tree starts growing again, the leaves are full of thick
sap.
Growth is slow and the shoots are small. As a
result, the flavor and aroma are strong, the cup color is amber, and the infusion
is coppery in color, compared to first flush where the tea is light and bright,
with a flowery taste and fruity aroma.
I’d told Anamika of my disappointment at the
canceled paragliding experience, and she suggested that we head back and try
again.
First, we took a detour to visit the famous
Verma dhaba, one of the roadside restaurant and truck stops common in India.
Because it was Navaratri — a Hindu festival that celebrates the triumph of good
over evil — the queue was incredibly long, but we managed to get a seat to
enjoy a thali of khadi (a yogurt-based curry), rajma (kidney beans), dal and
tandoori roti with onion and chili. It was one of the most outstanding meals of
my life, and we paid something like $3.50 for four of us.
And as an added bonus, when we left we
stumbled across an old man selling buransh flowers, which come from a native
rhododendron bush, and chickpeas from his bike, ingredients which I purchased
and took back to my dad’s at the end of my trip to make a Himachali-inspired
black chickpea dish.
With full bellies, we approached the
paragliding landing site and after a few prayers, I was able to take off,
soaring through the air, strapped into a harness with a guide at the glider’s
controls.
Throughout the flight, I thought of my
parents, reminiscing about the experiences and emotions I’d shared with my
mother during her lifetime, and thinking of the strength of my father during
this heartbreaking and difficult time.
The feelings of exhilaration and accomplishment
when I landed were incredible: I experienced a huge rush of adrenaline, and was
so proud of myself for facing my fears. But those feelings were nothing
compared with seeing the look on my dad’s face when he saw me land safely: a
combination of pride, happiness and relief that I will never forget.
@ The New York Times
