If this doesn’t make you drool, well, try the lower photo. Sfogliatelli must be the most exquisite pastry ever invented. Found only in Naples, Italy, unless you know the few secret bakeries beyond that make or import this special treat. The one pictured above is a two-inch giant (but not too much to eat, no!). I prefer the smaller version—then I can eat them twice as often!
The crisp, flakey pastry holds a delicate, aromatic surprise:
a creamy ricotta filling, only slightly sweet, scented with bits of candied orange rind.
Sfogliatelle Mary, the most famous purveyor, doles them out warm, as they should be. Powdered sugar is an option—unnecessary in my opinion. All that’s needed is coffee which, in Naples, is the smallest, darkest, strongest, richest of any I’ve had anywhere. I can’t bring home sfogliatelli, but I always have a pound or two of Caffè Kimbo stashed in my luggage.
Sfogliatelli make me happy. They make me happy to visit this unique part of Italy. I especially like place-specific delectables, and I even like that they must be enjoyed in their native locale.
Oh, I can smell the warm, delicate orange perfume, I can taste it, I can hear the pastry crackle as I bite through the hundred paper-thin layers. But where great things lurk, confusion abounds, waiting to trip us up. Be sure you get “sfogliatella riccia,” and not the vastly inferior, unflakey sfogliatelle frolla. Perfection in a pastry.
You saw Slumdog Millionaire, right? It was filmed in Dharavi, one of the world’s largest, densest slums. Bob and I spent half a day in this Mumbai slum, walking around with a couple of residents, Tauseef and Shanu, who showed off selected areas of the slum with a certain pride.
Anyone who’s visited Mumbai has driven past the slums. Awestruck and saddened by the unspeakable destitution, the flimsiness of building materials used, the population density, the proximity to lavish wealth, the naked children running in traffic, the sheer vastness, the visitor stares, horrified. Now that Mumbai’s airport has successfully banished them, the beggars come into view later; they are where the tourists go. Beautiful, tiny women with delicate features, red bindi, and elegant saris, they carry their infants and ask for money for milk powder. Or they are small, adorable children, half naked. Or maimed men. Strong impressions, for sure.
Dharavi—the biggest Mumbai slum
These images of the Mumbai slum are so renowned, and so off-putting to some, that many people say flatly “That’s one place I don’t want to visit. I don’t want to see the poverty.” Those ostriches will miss extraordinary and unforgettable scenes of lives lived in the open, from the gut-wrenching to the joyous, the heart-rending to the beautiful, the stereotypical to the eye-opening.
Dharavi from Mahim Junction overpass
In Dharavi, one million people live in about a square mile. Bob and I were accompanied by two college student residents who were born and raised there. They led us through narrow, muddy alleys humming with activity, where we had to watch our footing, dodge men, women, and children with gigantic loads on their heads, avoid refrigerator-sized sacks of stuff lined against walls, mud puddles, and barely-covered holes in the ground.
The biggest business in Dharavi is trash recycling, exactly as in the book I’m reading, Behind the Beautiful Forevers. The trash that is sorted is not what we Westerners know as recyclables; value is found in the smallest, most insignificant things, which are heaped into piles in small, dark, brick rooms and in sacks and stacks in the alleyways. I saw four men sitting in the dirt untangling a nest of wires, the copper and aluminum from which would be stripped out. Oil drums were being scraped clean, their painted linings burned out. Cardboard was cut into new boxes; plastic cleaned, ground, melted, extruded into spaghetti and chopped into pellets; electronics taken apart; toys reconstructed; and bottles, bottles, bottles…
We visited a bakery, where a hundred infant-sized lumps of yellow dough were lined up to rise on the floor. A boy cradled them against his stomach one by one, carrying them to a shelf where men rolled them into thin sheets, folded, rerolled, and folded; then they were sliced, baked into crispness, and packaged. I ate one there, to the delight of the workers: a “puff,” they call it, a delicious flaky pastry. Yes, there were flies everywhere. Yes, men walked across the floor the dough rose upon. Yes, the boy’s undershirt was sweaty. No, I did not get sick.
A one-room batik factory was most fascinating. Fabric was laid on mounds of perfectly-smooth packed sand where men stood like machines, dipping a wooden block in hot wax then stamping it precisely in position to make a continuous pattern, swiveling, dipping, stamping. The fabric is dyed three times for ultimate brilliance.
A Dharavi laundryworks?
We entered unlit workshops (sweatshops?) where men and women barely looked up from their jobs except to return our greetings: a black-soap mill; a pottery shop; a wood-carvery; a room with long rows of computerized embroidery machines. We climbed a rickety ladder to see silk chiffon stretched on giant wooden frames being hand embroidered with sequins. Up another crude ladder and we were on the roof: dusty, gray corrugated metal as far as the eye could see. We saw leather tanneries and proudly-displayed belts, wallets, and purses, all plastic-wrapped for export. Who knew such incredible industry occurred inside a Mumbai slum? Dharavi is an economic hub with a billion-dollar annual production.
From a Dharavi rooftop
The wide, litter-strewn main street was itself a thriving market lined with vegetable, spice, and legume sellers, cooked food stalls, barbers, delivery trucks and carts, motorcycles, and people on cellphones. We peeked into a cinema—men allowed only—with no chairs, where tickets cost 20 rupees, forty US cents.
Our sense was of continuous productivity, ingenuity, and ability to squeeze a tiny profit out of almost nothing. The mood was somber. We didn’t get the spontaneous greetings we received everywhere outside of the slum. Rarely did someone in Dharavi volunteer a hello or even a smile, but they never hesitated to return ours. We did not sense hostility, and certainly not danger. We noticed a few children working, but most were supposed to be in school, of which Dharavi has many. We heard very little music, but saw a few TVs on, and there were many satellites on the roofs. We were told that as well as TVs, some residents even have washing machines.
The Mahim Junction train station, with Dharavi behind
Though that was hard to believe, based on the residential area we walked through. Between buildings were mazes of narrow tunnels—not more than shoulder-width—with low ceilings, dangling wires, and wet ground made of rows of cement manhole covers. The tunnels were pitch dark and seemed to go in every direction. We got glimpses into tiny rooms which spilled a little light into the tunnels, smelled cooking here and there, heard children playing and wailing, adults talking, and the occasional TV. There were steep ladders leading to upper levels. It was otherworldly.
We came out of the dark and into a litter-filled schoolyard, where small kids played on the edge of the Mithi river, basically a cement-lined sluggish stream of sewage. Bob stood over some kids playing with a marble or something—they didn’t even look up at him. The men’s and women’s public toilets were there. Free for residents, who are expected to keep them spotless.
Bob and I had other obligations in Mumbai and had to leave Dharavi before we’d seen enough. I’m sure that in such a huge community there are celebrations, musical gatherings, sports competitions, and scenes of simple happiness. Although we didn’t get to see these, I have no doubt that they exist, despite the hard work and poor conditions that are so obvious.
Tauseef and Shanu
Except for our rooftop vantage point, we were discouraged from taking photos “to protect the residents.” Imagine the images I could have posted! Instead, I can only encourage you to visit Dharavi yourselves. Tauseef is co-owner of another Mumbai slum industry: Be The Local Tours & Travel. Owned and run by college students, the company’s mission statement is “With the help of students of Dharavi Be The Local is trying to dispel the negative image of Dharavi. By participating in the tour with Be The Local, you are helping the students of Dharavi.”
I’ve written here about the Mumbai slum called Dharavi, where the city’s poorest live. Many residents are migrants from India’s rural villages, seeking employment. This is by no means a story of Mumbai; just a subset of it, albeit a large one. More on Mumbai to come.
I have to laugh at the great sense of humor shown by the creators of Stashitware, men’s and women’s pickpocket-proof underwear. Start with the name: where do you stash your shit? The product better be good, because the name begs to be shortened to Shitware if not.
But it IS good. It’s great. The men’s and women’s models have huge, deep pockets, into which endless items can be stuffed. Which brings me to its hilarious demo video. Never has stowing valuables been so entertaining.
http://youtu.be/WxNs3WGbNNw
Some of the items shoved into the man’s crotch — cigarettes, prescription meds, condoms, jewelry wadded up in tissue — suggest motives other than thwarting thieves. Stashitware’s made for stashing and it does a stellar job of it. What and why you want to stash is your business. The man pats and squeezes his privates to demonstrate that the hidden items can’t be seen or felt—to a point. “You could fit a gun in this pocket!” a subtitle states. Not sure how comfortable that would be.
The undies look good. They’re comfortable, even loaded. Wearing a medium boxer brief Bob packed in his passport, credit cards, a camera battery, and cash. There was room for more, but he wouldn’t want to bulk up with more than that down his pants.
The small men’s boxer brief was too tight for my skinny husband, but great for me! So I had four pairs to test: the comfy men’s, and three designs made for women: a boybrief, bikini brief, and thong, which all held progressively less as they got skimpier. I comfortably carried a camera battery, cash, two credit cards, a passport, and an iPhone in the men’s small shorts and the women’s boybriefs. The bikini and thong, with their low cuts, naturally hold less.
Pickpocket-proof underwear
These good-looking skivvies are pickpocket-proof underwear. With their easy-access pockets, they’re also pretty convenient, though in some situations a little privacy might be in order before deep digging.
Stashitware pocket pants should be in vending machines in the lobbies of hotels in cities with a pickpocket reputation. In airport arrival halls, too. They would put pickpockets out of business—and this blog, too.
“If these were in stores,” Bob Arno said, “pickpockets would become shoplifters to get them off the shelves.”
UPDATE May 2, 2012: I wore Stashitware on the world’s most crowded trains, trains so crowded you have to see them to believe it, and I have to say: I loved Stashitware! I never worried about my cash, credit cards, and ID. It was perfectly comfortable to carry it all in Stashitware. None of the many kinds of pickpockets would be able to get it. And my stuff was quick and simple to get out and put back. Excellent pickpocket-proof underwear. And no—I have no connections with the company.
Just part of the line of people waiting to get into Mamak.
Mamak is worth standing in line for. Bob and I waited 50 minutes for what is actually rather ordinary Malaysian food. But you can’t get these dishes just anywhere, and here, they’re done to perfection. I’d call this restaurant perfect in every way my single visit allowed me to experience. Let’s start with the entertainment on offer…
Mamak window showcases the making of roti.
After standing in line for 30 or 40 minutes, you finally creep up to the glass wall of the kitchen. Two roti-makers work like machines at their stainless steel counter, stretching small balls of dough by flinging them over their heads until they look like giant, translucent handkerchiefs. You just know one is going to become a kite and sail onto the head of a grill cook. Or one will rip and fly into shreds. They never do. After the final toss, the dough lands on the counter stretched into the size of a sheet of newspaper.
Dough thrower
That’s when the roti is given it’s specific form. It might be quickly folded into an air-filled pillow and simply thrown on the grill, where cooks hover over the rotis, pressing them, flipping them, and rushing them off to drooling diners. Or the dough might first get a sprinkling of red onions. Bob and I ate rotis often when we lived in Singapore. In their most basic form, they’re simple flat breads served hot off the grill with a bowl of curry sauce for dipping.
A filled (and filling) version is called murtabak. An egg is broken onto the stretched dough, which is then topped with a smear of curry sauce, a toss of onion shreds, and possibly shredded chicken, mutton, or sardines. The gossamer dough is folded into a many-layered square, cooked on the grill, and served steaming hot with a bowl of spicy curry sauce. Perfection! Mamak serves murtabak. I wish I could have tried it, but we ordered other items.
Mamak kitchen
I’d gotten a menu to look at while in line, so we’d be ready to order right away. That’s the one tiny improvement that could speed Mamak’s turnover just a tad: menus outside so diner’s can use the waiting time to peruse the offerings.
When you finally enter the restaurant, all primed for a roti (but which one???), the fragrance of baking bread slays you. The urgency of the cooks and waiters increases your heart rate and your stomach announces its presence and desires. Luckily, Mamak is fast! Your order is in and out in moments.
Mamak cooks a small selection of Malaysian dishes (most of which are traditional street foods) which keeps the menu from overwhelming people unfamiliar with the cuisine. They do a variety of rotis, two kinds of satay, several curries and stir-fries, and spicy-fried chicken. There’s the classic nasi lemak, which is fragrant coconut rice with condiments (which we ordered), and a couple of fried noodle dishes.
Rojak and lime juice
We also ordered rojak. I’ve had it many times in Singapore, but never like Mamak’s. Typically a salad of crisp and crunchy fruits and vegetables, julienned yambean and cucumber, fried tofu, and prawns, it’s coated with a spicy peanut sauce and garnished with hardboiled eggs. Mamak’s version was heavy on the sauce, sweet, tall, and… delicious.
Crisp and fluffy roti cania looked to be the most popular item on the menu. So simple, yet so satisfying. You lick your finger to pick up every last flake of the toasty bread.
Making roti planta
The rich and exotic roti planta requires a time-consuming process. Twenty or so little dabs of butter are spaced out along one edge of the stretched dough sheet. The sheet is then rolled into a lumpy, air-filled snake, the buttery dots along its length like undigested mice. The fragile tube is then carefully coiled like a sleek-skinned cobra, and set on the grill to crisp, melt, sizzle, and brown.
An egg roti and one with red onions inside puff and sizzle on the grill
Mamak also offers a variety of Malaysian tea and coffee drinks, and two typical desserts: ice kachang and chendol. I ADORE chendol, a complicated ice dessert composed of many ingredients. Instead of trying it here though, Bob and I chose to go next door to the Taiwanese dessert shop called Meet Fresh. Yeah, funny name! I got “handmade taro-balls #4” with peanuts (soft), pearls, and red beans. I could have ordered it hot, but chose to have it over ice. Bob got mango sago coconut soup.
Taro-balls #4 was nice, but it’s no chendol. Come to think of it, chendol needs a post of its own. I dream of chendol, but only a certain kind. It must be topped with one particular fruit. I will tell you… soon!
In addition to the selection and quality of its food, Mamak gets a gold star for speed. Our meal arrived eight minutes after ordering it. When we left, the line was as long as when we got into it an hour and a half earlier. And guess what? After we finished dessert next door? Yep, the Mamak’s line was even longer.
On Goulburn at Dixon in Haymarket, on the edge of Sydney’s Chinatown, Mamak is a winner.
I thought Kevin Mitnick was a friend of mine—but that was before I read his forthcoming book, Ghost in the Wires. Kevin’s the consummate liar, it seems. He’ll say anything to get what he wants, going to extreme efforts to research, then set up support for elaborate cons. He’ll claim to be a cop, a utility employee, or your colleague from a remote office, if it serves his purpose. A faceless voice on the telephone, he’ll sweet-talk one minute, and command with authority the next. At least he used to do this, before spending five years in federal prison…
To become the boldfaced name in social engineering, Kevin honed a natural knack for people-reading from childhood. He was a telephone Zelig who rarely needed to get out of his sweats. He always found a plausible pretext for his capers and pursued them with outrageous chutzpah. Rarely would he fail to obtain the information he sought.
Can one retire a talent like that? I doubt it, but as I can’t think of what use Bob and I are to Kevin, I prefer to think that we really are his friends.
Ghost in the Wires: My Adventures as the World’s Most Wanted Hacker is Kevin’s third book, to be published in August 2011. I love that title. The book chronicles how Kevin, from an early age, tinkered with communication devices: ham radios, telephones, cellphones, computers, and the software that runs them all. Although he was obsessively compelled to dig deeper and deeper into the gizmo-code, he never tried to make or steal money from his exploits. He did it out of his own curiosity, to learn more, and to challenge himself to do what seemed impossible.
Sometimes, in his relentless pursuit of knowledge, he simply had to break into a company’s computer to get the software, the code, or the user names and passwords that he needed. In an electronic sense, that’s breaking and entering. And when he copied that proprietary information for his own use, well, that’s stealing.
Once he’d gained access to his target computer, he’d usually fiddle with its inner settings just enough to plant a “backdoor,” an easy way in for his next visit. He might read his target’s emails and even copy them, but he never destroyed the files.
Imagine an intruder who breaks into your house, sneaks around and looks into your secret hiding places, rifles your files, and picks through your drawers. Satisfied, he then backs out quietly leaving everything just as it was, sweeps up his footprints and, oh yeah—copies your house key on the way out.
I’ve heard Kevin call himself a “non-profit hacker.” Sure, he got himself free phone calls, but throughout his hacking career, he was always gainfully employed. With the information he had at his fingertips, he could easily have enjoyed a life of leisure from credit card fraud. He could have sold proprietary source code in the hackers’ underworld. But no; Kevin lacks a vital attribute. He has nerves of steel and gigantic balls, but he does not possess a criminal core. He was simply educating himself.
That is, until he got himself in trouble for snooping. Then he needed that information to protect himself, so he could make untraceable phone calls, so he could listen in to others. As the Feds closed in on him, he needed to know how much they knew about him, too.
Many times while reading Ghost in the Wires I wanted to smack Kevin. I wanted to shake him and say “you just got out of juvenile detention for doing just this—why are you doing it again?” He makes it clear that his hacking was his idea of fun and entertainment, to see if he could get to the next level. Like an addicted gamer.
It turns out, after all, that Kevin was busy educating himself. From “the world’s most wanted hacker” he has become one of the most wanted security experts in the world. He’s now considered the ultimate social engineer and an “ethical hacker,” one who’s challenge is to break into his clients’ systems, whether electronically or by social engineering. In other words, as Mitnick Security, he’s now paid to do what he loves, and he no longer has to look over his shoulder.
Social engineers are an ominous bugbear to security. A company (or you!) can have the tightest security system in place, but humans are its weakest link. For a hacker like Kevin, it’s easier to simply ask for the key to the front door than to steal it. He simply has to ask in the right way. Because social engineers are basically skillful actors playing a role, they’re an invisible threat and a daunting challenge for businesses.
I’m no hacker, that’s for sure, nor even a programmer. Yet, I found it fascinating to read exactly how Kevin finagled himself into systems and tweaked them to his advantage. Kevin wanted to include more of the nitty-gritty hackery in the book, but his co-author, Bill Simon, saved us readers from too much esoterica. I think they struck an excellent balance. I never felt bogged down by the technical bits.
Does an exhaustive explanation of theft techniques actually teach the thieves? Kevin and I obviously came to the same conclusion: no, there’s more to gain by putting all the details out there, the better to protect yourself.
I feel a little sorry for all the good people whose trust Kevin exploited. They bought into his ruses in a good-faith effort to be helpful. No doubt that he used them, and probably got many of them into big trouble. Well, in my line of work too, thiefhunting and training the public to avoid theft, a kernel of cynicism is not a bad seed to plant. Kevin’s patsies will think twice before giving out sensitive information.
Ghost is 400+ pages of tension, broken only by Kevin’s sentimental musings about his mother and grandmother, who are constant supportive figures in his life, and the heartbreaking side-story of his brother. It’s fast reading—a tribute to the clear writing and exciting story.
Yeah, yeah, you think I’m all positive because Kevin’s my friend. He gave me an unedited galley copy of the book (littered with typos), but didn’t ask me to write about it. If I hadn’t liked it, I wouldn’t have written a word.
Or maybe I would have. After all, Kevin might not be a real friend of mine…
You are lucky indeed if you ever get the opportunity to experience a kaiseki meal, especially one in a ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn. You’ll enjoy a long, relaxed procession of delicacies in small portions, exquisitely presented, and usually specific to the season.
I had the incredible good fortune to indulge in a week of kaiseki lunches and dinners in Japan. One meal featured tofu in many forms. One featured tempura. Another was Buddhist vegetarian. The most breathtaking were those served at Yagyuno Sho Ryokan in Shuzenji, on Japan’s Izu peninsula.
I’m in awe of Takashi Shibayama, Yagyuno Sho’s chef, who showcased an endless variety of glorious creations in perfect balance, meal after meal. As you’ll see in the following photos, his magnificent presentations are the synergetic result of his ravishing edible works of art complemented by precious serving pieces, and owe a nod to whimsy.
These photos are from a single kaiseki dinner titled “A Picnic Under the Cherry Blossoms.” A menu was provided in Japanese calligraphy, along with an attempted English translation.
One Kaiseki dinner
Cold sake in iron pot
The meal begins with a treasured sake poured from iron pots into flat red lacquer bowls. Just a sip, it’s a fruity and fervent taste bud wakeup call, accompanied by a tiny red lantern glowing with a short-lived candle. In a deeply-textured covered bowl, a surprise awaits.
Foie gras Japanese style
Surprise indeed! Who would expect haute cuisine—and foie gras, no less? It’s a silky paté “with white radish agar (moon) and salty meringue (cloud),” a garnish of gold foil and cherry blossom petals—an edible haiku in beige. How about…
Fat goose flies in spring
Cherry blooms, moon in cloud, his
Liver is dinner
Kaiseki understatement: “Simple Meal”
A wooden tray is presented. Paradoxically called “Simple Meal,” it is anything but. In the gorgeous little covered bowl: “bamboo shoot, udo, butterbur dressed with young Japanese pepper and moso.” In my excitement, I forget to take a picture of the opened bowl. The central plate of gold-leaf floats on a gold-leaf-spattered strip of handmade paper. It holds “sushi balls, picnic dumpling, and dried wheat.” On the black ceramic dish, sesame seed tofu with caviar. In the beige: “rape blossoms with dried wheat gluten.”
Gluten makes frequent appearances. Itself bland with a pleasant, chewy texture, it’s an excellent sponge and carrier of flavors.
Cold sake
Our cold sake arrives in crystal glass decanters deep in red lacquer bowls of ice and flowers. You must not pour your own sake—but look after your neighbors, and make sure their cups are full. I can’t help noticing the uniformity of the ice—crushed to perfection.
Small soup in big bowl
A small “clear soup with red sea bream dumpling” is in a large lacquer bowl, black with gold bamboo on the outside, dark red on the inside. We are reminded that we are not expected to like or consume everything, but I can’t help myself. I do and I do.
Covered boat sashimi
Boat-shaped dishes with tantalizing covers are set before us. Our chopstick rests are swapped for porcelain cherry blossom petals. We begin to wonder how large the ryokan’s tableware pantry is.
Sashimi revealed
Lifting the bamboo roofs, we discover sashimi: tuna, sole, and horse clam. We’re gently instructed on which condiment highlights each fish. All the garnishes are edible, including the cherry blossoms.
Hot stone at table
Done with delicate for the moment, a hot rock is brought to each of us wrapped in fresh juniper branches in a wicker basket. We are served at meals by the same women who look after our rooms, and now they cook for us. Izu beef, shrimp, squid, and a green chili pepper are placed on each heated stone, which sears the food in a minute or two. I get two fat scallops instead of beef.
Dengaku
These colorful popsicles are called dengaku: “grilled tofu and dried wheat gluten on skewers coated with miso glaze.” They’re balanced on a bamboo cane on a rough plate the color of bamboo.The plate is a mossy pond whose surface is disturbed by koi kissing air.
Steamed icefish on raw sea urchin.
Steamed icefish on sea urchin. The tiny white fish are complete with little eyes. The beautiful bowl and urchin-colored saucer are paper thin. We’ve learned to recover our bowls when finished with a dish. The staring fish and raw sea urchin gonads are too much for some; their bowls are quickly covered.
Tomato juice
“100% fresh tomato juice.” It is thick enough to eat with a wooden spoon, and very cold in a crystal shot glass. A concentrated flavor break between two hot dishes.
Bamboo shoot in liquid starch
In a brown and gold covered lacquer bowl, “deep fried bamboo shoot with liquid starch.” There must be a better translation for “liquid starch,” but the Japanese haven’t found it. Enriched broth? Thickened consommé?
Miso soup mystery
This one has an element of mystery. The menu translation is “dark brawn miso soup with bean curd tofu skin.” Is that dark brown soup or dark prawn soup? Either way, it is delicious. Ahhh… another bottle of sake, please!
Rice finale with small shrimps
Finally, and always last, comes the rice. It’s in a stunning stoneware bowl with an accompaniment of cooked small shrimp. A plate of pickled vegetables on the side.
Sweet summer yellow orange
And for dessert, something small, cold, and light on a silver dish. “Sweet summer yellow orange,” a strawberry for contrast, and a sweet drink made from fermented rice with soybean milk pudding.
Breakfasts at the ryokan are just as spectacular, but served expeditiously, in well over a dozen different little plates and bowls. I’ll spare you the photos.
Over five dramatic meals on the property, I never saw the same serving piece more than once. And all of this was managed just days after the earthquake and tsunami, under the threat of nuclear meltdown, between scheduled rolling blackouts. Praise and thanks to Yagyuno Sho Ryokan and its wonderful chef and staff.
Bhel puri just might be my favorite Indian food. A snack commonly prepared and served on the street, you can find it in restaurants, too. It’s hard but not impossible to find it in the U.S., where Indian restaurant almost always means a predictable menu of Northern Indian dishes, often dismal and boring.
The dish is a perfect mix of sweet, sour, hot, and spicy, plus soft and crisp. It always includes sev—delicate crispy yellow noodles—and puffed rice. There’s usually chopped potatoes and onions, and sometimes tomatoes. It’s all tossed with a spicy sweet-hot sauce and topped with green coriander leaves. It must be eaten as soon as the ingredients are combined.
Bhel puri walla, Bombay, 1989.
I discovered bhel puri in 1989, my first trip to Bombay. I was intrigued by the long line of people buying from this humble bhel puri walla. Using only his hand, he mixed fistfuls of the ingredients in a bowl, then transferred the concoction to another bowl for the customer to eat from, right there. Yep, I got in line. Nope, I didn’t get sick.
Bhel puri cart, Bombay, 1989.Bhel puri and other street food for sale, Bombay, 1989
Once I recognized the ingredients, I began to see dramatic displays like these all over the city, each more artistic and appetizing than the next. I ate at many of them.
Savoring the last few bites of bhel puri on Chowpatti Beach
In March of 2010, I saw very few street food vendors, no bhel puri wallas. Perhaps I just didn’t walk in the right streets, though I criss-crossed the city and spent much time in Colaba, as I did in 1989. The food stalls on Chowpatty Beach, long famous for bhel puri, have been swept into a permanent organization of stainless steel stands, similar to Singapore’s street food culture.
Chopping onions at Chowpatty Beach.
I had excellent bhel puri (and many other dishes) at the vegetarian Kailash Parbat on Colaba Causeway. Across from the restaurant, they run a sort of glorified street food stand, at which one can order all the standard snacks and sweets. I had incredible panipuri there, one after another until I had to hold up my hand and reject the last of the six that come in an order, handed over one by one. Panipuri are crisp hollow spheres, punctured and filled with spicy potatoes or chickpeas, then topped off with spicy, cumin-flavored water. The entire fragile globe must be placed in the mouth, sometimes a tricky maneuver for a small mouth. The payoff is a satisfying burst, a crackling, a flood of liquid, an explosion of flavor and texture like no other.
Delicious do-it-yourself panipuri at the upscale restaurant Soam, in Mumbai. Mysore paanki, steamed between banana leaves, is peel-and-eat spiciness.
The vegetarian restaurant Soam is a few block’s walk from the north end of Chowpatty Beach, and definitely worth the trip. The small, trendy place serves upscale versions of street food and Gujarati home cooking. Bob and I loved it.
Jackfruit for sale in 1989 Bombay. I didn’t see any this time, though it was the same month.
Beer is served in tall, iced dispensers at Leopold's the famous cafe that was bombed in 2008.
I drank fresh coconut every day from this vendor around the corner from our hotel.
Reviewing my 1989 photos, I found the same heap of coconuts in front of the same temple on Colaba Causeway.
Paper masala dosa: crisp and light as air, except for it’s full middle.
Why did we order two?
Paper masala dosa is one of my favorite meals. I order them at every opportunity when I’m in India, Singapore, or Dubai. It was a restaurant in Phoenix, though, where I was served the biggest one I’d ever seen.
Dosas are hard to find in the U.S., but I discovered Udupi in Phoenix, where they serve 17 kinds. 16 kinds I don’t care about. It’s paper masala dosa, every time. I dream of its shiny mahogany surface complete with streaky tracks from the dosa-maker’s spatula, the intoxicating fragrance of ghee, and the traditional accompaniments. I like the drama of its arrival, even when it isn’t this gargantuan; even when I fetch it from the grill myself. And I like the eat-it-while-it’s-hot urgency, even though it’s impossible to eat it while it’s hot.
Paper masala dosa
Paper dosa is a thin, crisp pancake made from a fermented batter of rice and lentil flour. They’re always large, but I’ve never before come across the three-foot long version. Then again, I’ve never before been to Udupi—the restaurant, or the city in southern India.
A giant version of the paper dosa, with its three little bowls of accompaniments.
A paper dosa always comes with a little bowl of sambar (a thin tomatoey broth) and two fresh chutneys. Indian chutneys are not the sweet-hot preserved fruit bits in jars, as sold in U.S grocery stores. Those are “pickles.” Chutneys are fresh. With a paper dosa, you get one of ground coconut mixed with chilies and fresh green coriander or mint leaves, and one other, complimentary chutney (the kind varies).
If you order paper masala dosa, your dosa is rolled around a ladle of potato-onion curry, and the meal becomes hearty. They are always too much for me, but this one was amusing in its hugeness. It was no joke, though.
The paper dosa is cooked on only one side, with ghee (clarified butter). A hidden surprise of potato curry lies within.
Indian restaurants are everywhere now; unfortunately, they all seem to have the same predictable menus: butter chicken, chicken tikka, lamb korma, beef vindaloo, aloo gobi… They’re all north Indian restaurants and they all must use the same boring, failsafe recipes. If you’ve never had the cuisine of south India, it’s worth seeking out. You’ll get dosas (maybe 17 kinds!), other unfamiliar crepes, pancakes, and “donuts,” and dishes rich with coconut and chilies.
Udupi Cafe
1636 N Scottsdale Road
…¨Tempe, AZ 85281 …¨
Phone: 480-994 8787
The UK comedy guide Chortle.co.uk reviewed the Just For Laughs Craig Ferguson Gala. The most interesting part of the review:
The next act, Bob Arno, steals material. Ties, belts, watches, cellphones and wallets, mainly—as he’s an expert pickpocket. He romps through his act with verve and speed, rattling through some polished, witty banter as he displays his amazing talent. The biggest thing this lively, compelling performer stole, however, was the show.
Along with the Montreal Gazette proclaiming Bob Arno as “best act,” we’re happy.
