Somewhere in Space

A restaurant with a view. An outlet whose popularity is fanned by the ever whistling wind. A passing shower that sprinkles you with droplets of joy. A menu that keeps changing by the season. And a fraternity of friendly foodies.

What more can anyone ask for?

We were there at Olive Bistro yesterday for the launch of their Monsoon Menu. For me it was a very important day. While I am from the generation that has explored the surroundings of Durgam Cheruvu as a teenager; and from a profession that has used this place for shoots and for Tourism Events and Promotions, my physical limitations in the last few years have precluded me from visiting any of the outlets that peppered the local landscape. The outlets were too far from the drop point and there were too many ups and downs to be negotiated. But yesterday I decided to walk the talk. And so I huffed and puffed into the Olive Bistro almost sharp at 12.30.

That there is something magical about the view, many people know. That in the rains this view is reminiscent of the heavens is popular perception. But I was seeing it for the first time in many years and I was indeed breathless.

And as we stepped into the restaurant (after having walked around and through some delightful open air seating nooks and options) we were hit be a wave of hospitality that only an old friend can exude…or her son(thank you Shaaz).

But that bit of personal affection aside, the place was simply…fantastic. Open was the key word and white, light and wide open were the preferred accents.

Now I must tell you that though I knew specifically that I was going there for a taste of what they had as part of the Monsoon Menu. And I was told that their menu changes every four months in keeping with the seasons. And having been e-mailed a gist of the menu…I was still curious.

In a country that believes the rains are a divine signal to bring out the hot hot pakoras and steaming hot chai the menu indicated was a contrast. It was indeed a departure from popular notions and seasonal myths.

The beverages on offer for instance were all about chilled, fruity and subtle. Both mocktails and their naughtier cousins were on offer but I chose to stick to the virgins. Because I wanted to keep my palate sober I suppose.

The first starter that did the rounds explained the concept of the menu very clearly. It was a nice, flaky puff topped by scrambled eggs and mushrooms. Now those of you who have been brought up on the occasional diet of Irani Hotel and Bakery Egg Puffs know about the boiled egg wrapped in puffs feel…tasty yes, but definitely filling and a bit on the heavy side. Now, just scramble those eggs and throw in some kind of a shredded mushroom garnish and serve them atop a flake…and you have what can only be described as a light hearted flirtation with deliciousness.

The brie was a wonderfully cheesy affair. It was filo wrapped and came to us with its good friends Orange, Toasted Almonds and Saffron Honey. And I could see that I was in for a great afternoon as long as I kept it Nice & Light.

What followed was a bevy of salads, meat balls, flat bread pizzas and salmony, porky, ham and bacony fillers that pandered to every one of your food fantasies.

I am not going to write about the food too much. Around me yesterday were some of the biggest foodies in town. They are more equipped than I. And I am sure that they will be putting up their reviews…which will tell you more details about the great monsoon spread that Olive has going till November. And the 50% off on food offer this week. Yes I am sure they will tell you about that. But me…I am still drooling from the experience of which the food was but one essential part.

To me Olive Bistro, Hyderabad is just a wonderful feeling. It makes me wish I had hair that was long enough to fly. It makes me wish that I could sing. It makes me wish that I could tell all my friends to join me there for what my Bengalis call an ‘Adda’ Session.

And yes, it makes me feel like going back.

I count myself blessed for having had the opportunity to eat at the most exotic places in the world…to have been invited to dine with some of the finest cooks in the world…and eaten food that is undeniably gourmet.

How I managed that without actually going to some or rather, most…of the known food destinations…and how I talk of the finest cooks in the world without ever having been on the Master Chef trail is understandably a mystery. Just as my nomination of the world’s best food.

But the yardstick you see is what makes the difference. I do not measure anything using the norm…and definitely not the mind. To me, everything is a functional unit of the heart. It is this that defines my perception of the most exotic places. So while places like a lonely Srilankan Beach do figure on my list and a personal seaside barbeque with a live band playing just for my family will always be a fond memory, also on my list of the exotic are quaint little hole-in-the-wall places like 13 Dhaba where I get all the love I need for free.

It’s not about the food you see…and it almost never is. It’s about a state of mind, a state of the heart and a certain vibe. Some places make you feel special and whatever you eat there is always delicious. Some people serve the best but miss out on something and a lot, as they say, is lost in translation.

The same with drinks. The finest whiskey or the most exquisite wine cannot compare to a cup of timely tea or coffee or even for that matter, a glass of chilled water. There are many times when I have just had a glass or two of water at home and felt that I had been served some special mineral water from the source of the Ganges.

Another kind of food that I discovered had a special feel about it is the Langar Food. When my Sardar friends told me about it, I did not realise…but I have been partaking for a few days now…food from a community kitchen that runs on the fire of one man’s passion to feed a society…and I must admit that the taste is amazing.

I have always thought that the simpler derivatives of every cuisine are the cornerstones of that particular specialty…curd rice and pickles for the South Indian…dal roti for the Northerners…some fish and rice for the Bengalis…vada pav for the Maharashtrians…dhoklas etc. etc. etc.

The satisfaction of eating a simple, honest, unpretentious meal is more fulfilling than many a gourmet spread. And it’s happened too many times for me to think that this is an aberration.

What makes it so good? Is it the timing? The venue? The state of your heart? Or is it just a Universal Reality that we prefer to ignore most of the time?

I do not know. But it often makes me wonder…is divinity susceptible to the ornate? Or is it more genuinely present in the simplest of souls?

If your love affair with food starts from deep within you and not just from your palate, you will know that Calcutta is a city that is by inherent character, more than just a Bengali City…much more than mere Bengali Cuisine.

Truly, Calcutta is an amalgam of various cultures and cuisines and all of them contribute significantly to the delicious cauldron of delicacies that we know today as Calcutta.

So when we thought of going to Call of Bengal, the newly opened Specialty Restaurant in Gachibowli, opposite the famous DLF Enclave, we were enthusiastically looking forward to a wholesome Bengali meal. But as Sumita Ganguli, the owner of this cosy little joint, explained to us, they had attempted to show Hyderabad a horizon beyond the stereotype.

So apart from the usual Bengali delicacies, Call of Bengal also showcases other dimensions of Calcutta Cuisine by featuring Anglo Indian delicacies from Park Street, Kolkata biryani, chaap and rezala from Park Circus, office goer’s street food from Dacres Lane and local Chinese fare typical to Tangra. Plus of course the legendary Mishti (Sweet) as part of a sumptuous dessert section.

In an attempt to be extra smart I had requested COB (as Call of Bengal is called) and Sumita, to work out for us a kind of a pre-plated menu or a sampler if you like, so we could try most of their signature dishes.

What happened in reality though is that we felt like the English invaders who once they captured India, found that it was too much to handle.

The attack started with Dimer Devil, the boiled egg wrapped in a minced meat batter and fried to perfection that is quintessential Park Circus. Served with a mustardy, saucy accompaniment it almost eradicated hunger from the table.

But we bashed on regardless. Dared to drop in at the infamous Mocambo Cafe and gorged on Fish Florentine. And just as we were congratulating ourselves on tasting heaven while still on earth, the Bhapa Chingri or rather the prawns cooked in mustard sauce, made their grand entrance.

Then followed a barrage of loochis (you may be forgiven for calling them pooris) with aaloor dom of potato fame and poshto of the mutton dynasty.

To show off their dependence on Russian Artillery, the restaurant served next the Chicken a’la Kiev…the chicken breast that oozes butter and charms you with the mashed potato dressing.

And then she said…what about the Biryani?

Now tell me, which true blooded Hyderabadi can resist that? Some of us dived in, albeit into surgically operated upon portions, but soon realised that with the raw mango chutney that was served, this was definitely mine field territory.

Most of us by now were flat on our feet and were not ready for vicious ground fire in the form of Rossogollas, Kesar Bhog and Mihir Dana.

But we survived. And lived happily to tell the tale.

A happier tale has not been told, a more satisfied story teller never been found. But a word of caution, plan your COB visits with care. Choose to sample one school at a time. If you wander around Park Street one day, stumble into Dacres Lane the next time. Alternate between Park Circus and Tangra…the options and the combinations are many.

But watch out. Do not try to discover all of COB’s repertoire in one evening. It is not only injurious to health, it may be a waste of so many evenings that you could otherwise have dedicated to the cross bred ingenuity of these wonderful people.

And yes, the next time you hear an inviting voice echoing the Call of Bengal…listen!!!

There’s something magical about the number 80. Especially when the person celebrating that milestone is a gracious lady who has known you well since you were a khaki trouser sporting HPS teenager. And someone who has been a part of some of the most important dates in your life.

Someone who is warm and vivacious, and someone who will always find a special place in your heart.

Well, it was her birthday and there was a party. And I went expecting to enjoy meeting up with this favourite aunt but I got something much more than I had imagined.

Because as I stepped into the venue I realised that the hall was filled with her contemporaries and friends from another generation. And naturally they were mostly people we knew as kids.

An aunty whose sons were schoolmates, college mates even; an aunty who was responsible for me getting into advertising. A lady who was for a while a stylish neighbour; and many ladies who were my late mother’s friends. And of course there were the other children who had also grown up with us. Friends who we see once in a few years and still feel as if we never lost touch.

As I was mentally ticking off all these lovely people and remembering various incidents that involved each of them I realized that I was truly blessed…me and my generation I mean.

Such lovely parents and guardians we all had. Such simple, unassuming legends. Theirs was a different grace, a different era almost. When each of us was regarded as a son or a daughter just because we were friends of their own. What dignity they all had and continue to live by.

Truly, a meet up of several milestones and an afternoon of rediscovering flashes of youth. I just had a Coke. The atmosphere was so heady.

As I was leaving, a single thought crossed my mind. Will we ever be even half the parents that ours were? Will we be ever the kind of guardians these varied people were? I hope so. I know I am trying my best to measure up to this wonderful generation.

I hope one day my children will feel about us what we feel about this older generation. This golden generation.

Dog goes woof, cat goes meow.
Bird goes tweet, and mouse goes squeak.
Cow goes moo. Frog goes croak, and the elephant goes toot.
Ducks say quack and fish go blub, and the seal goes OW OW OW.
But there's one sound that no one knows...
WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY?

That is a fairly popular song and the kids love it. Every time it is played the whole room is full of squealing children and giggling teenagers…perhaps even some shell shocked parents.

Today however when I heard that song, my mind travelled to another dimension and I decided that I had to address another common query. Not because I am qualified to do so but because I felt like it. And the question is simple…what does the brand say? Or perhaps more specifically, what does YOUR Brand say?

But before I launch into any kind of advertising spiel, let me tell you that I come from a generation that grew from non-brand to
only-brand and then went on to become
brand-immune. So there are a few stages of evolution that we witnessed and cannot ignore.

One of the most significant brand introductions was the ubiquitous blue denim jeans that are, or were almost generically known as Levi’s.

An original Levi’s was an exclusive possession. It said that you had people who went abroad and got you one. If you were more flamboyant it said you were a foreign traveller. And then the fakes began…and the local brands began…and Arvind Mills let out its secret of being a Levi’s fabric supplier. And suddenly denim was no longer premium. It became a fabric of the masses. And (God Forgive Me) it began to discover the femininity of embroidery. Strange cuts invaded the market and stars like NTR and Krishna made popular the green, the violet and even the orange jeans.

Now you have a Levi’s Store in almost every city and it sells the Red Tab jean to almost anyone.

I remember when we were in school and we used to be given a white T Shirt as part of our PT Dress. The coloured shorts and the white T Shirts with HPS printed on the front were signature uniforms and we used to wear the costume with pride. Till parents started taking the T Shirts that were too small for the kids and gave it to the rickshaw-walla, the dhobi or the peon’s child. Now suddenly the ‘riff-raff’ was sporting HPS Colours…and that was a No-No.

Someone ran a campaign to discourage students and their parents from donating branded school stuff to the undeserving or unqualified…but things came to a surprising stop only when the school discontinued the T Shirts.

…and then there were the cigarettes. My father who used to smoke John Players, Camels, Dunhill and the like switched to Panama when it became difficult to source the foreign cigarettes. And there followed a time when showing off a foreign brand was considered acceptable. Those were the halcyon Vat 69 days and the cigarettes fell into the duplicate traps ever so easily. Fakes came into the markets and so did the habit of carrying a foreign pack with Indian maal.

But what did you surmise from a man who carried two-two packets of State Express 555 cigarettes at the same time?

That he was rich? That he was a show off? That he was a bit of a boor? Did it say anything about his caste or creed?

I had a friend whose father was guilty of what I now know is a fashion crime, a social faux pas…he used to carry two packets almost all the time. And just in case you missed seeing his brash display of wealth and affluence, he used to leave two packets behind his car seat on the window space.

555 was supposed to be a premium brand…no, a super premium brand. So much so that everyone from tailors to car mechanics began to use the name to denote quality. I even had a friend who called his fashion store in Vizag State Express. And I landed up making a film for them.

So when I heard about a new Haleem in town I thought 555 Haleem would be something special. It was special alright, and disastrously so. But that is another story.

All I am saying is…that each brand conveys so much about itself and even more about you. And we need to be careful about which brand we allow ourselves to be associated with.

So which brand do you think you personify in your friends’ minds?