Global Fusion

Having anointed Delhi my invincible Mecca for food, I almost felt like I was cheating on a loved one while delighting in the gourmet experiences in Bombay. In my defense, I was only looking for what land-locked Delhi could not offer me. Fresh seafood. And so I found myself turning to Global Fusion @ Linking Road, that foodie haven for all things that live and move under the sea. Actually, for all things that once lived and moved under the sea. The restaurant's motto appears simple enough: if it swims, it will be steamed, grilled, tossed, toasted, baked, braised, fried, sauteed, rolled, dressed, undressed, de-gilled, de-boned, de-finned, (sometimes) de-clawed, wrapped and served!

A large counter laden with bite-sized dumplings, sushi, sashami, prawns, salads, soups, sticky rice and noodles snakes along two sides of the largish hall replete with Japanese ponds and bridges. (Makes me wonder why it's even called Global, the feel is so totally Oriental?).

Anyhow, let's just concern ourselves with the food... The starters are over a whopping hundred. And with an eat-all-you-can mantra at a very affordable price, it is also a den of iniquity for greedy taste-buds.

Scores and scores of snacks later, bursting at the seams - gills, whatever - I still managed to groan my way to the dozen or so items in the main course. The only one that caught my fancy was peppery crabs. Shlurrrp.

Verdict: worth every moment of discomfort that denim waistbands inflict on bloated middles!

The Tea Centre, Churchgate

Simmu, one of my dearest friends, lives and works in Bombay. She is quite the foodie albeit a vegetarian one. Her favourite repast is the evening tea. Mind you, she attaches great ceremony to it... a multi-hued, rooster shaped tea-cosy knitted by a favourite aunt included! It was no surprise therefore, when on a recent visit to her I was proudly introduced to The Tea Centre. Close to her place of work, it soon became a rendezvous for us girls (Mahima, another friend from school had recently moved there and was promptly seduced by this treasure-trove of tea).

Charming, old worldly and clubesque, it was an anachronism in this day and age of coffee bars. The one thing that strikes you about the place is the welcoming lack of piped music. Soft murmurs, clinking china and tableware, and the gentle tinkle of tiny bells to catch the waiter's attention - the only sounds. Enhancing the colonial flavour, a tad inconsistently, were their wafer-thin sandwiches, freshly baked muffins, and crumbly scones with jam and clotted cream.

While eye-catching posters emblazoned wall spaces with humourous tea quotes. "Kissing is like drinking tea out of a strainer, you can never get enough of it", said the cheeky one hanging in our preferred corner.

Cacao @ Gangtok

Then there was Cacao, that delightful oasis in the midst of tea-land. Located just off the pedestrian-only section of the old-worldly MG market in Gangtok, it was discovered by my highly charged and (temporarily) caffeine-deprived olfactory sense.


Exactly what the doctor had ordered for a weary visitor limping her way along the quaint, almost anachronistic, shop-fronts of a homogeneously painted marketplace. I say limping because I was returning from Nathu La with a nasty sprain, as a sort of a painful reminder of an otherwise near-nirvana episode. A cappuccino has never tasted, nor looked, as welcoming as the one placed before me that day. While a lot can be said for frothy calligraphy, it took me no time, nor remorse, to decimate the artwork in one giant gulp. Heaven. Mirrored closely by their crumbly Danish pastries.

By way of quality, quantity and taste, their banana pancakes followed closely on the heels of the carbonara and club sandwich. Fluffy, warm, well-done and topped with a generous layer of the fruit drizzled with honey, I for one can't imagine a more delicious way to start a morning. Or, end an evening??
During a week's stay in Gangtok, Cacao became my preferred any-time hangout, beginning with breakfast, to the elevenses, through lunch, tea-time and dinner. Not necessarily on the same day. Come aawnn, what were you thinking?! The stylised wall-art and cheery interiors coupled with a young and friendly work-force was an invitation I was hard put to turn down.

That, and the view of course. As delicious as the fare on the menu. Snapped the usually shy Mt Kanchenjunga peeking out from behind ascending clouds one fine morning...
With Valentine's Day but a few days away, the staff were enthusiastically preparing the place, and perhaps themselves, for the big event. In between serving and clearing tables, the girls kept busy blowing out balloons. Not very successfully, I gathered from the number of pops followed by squeals that reached my ears! Hard work had paid off, however, as on the day I was to return to Siliguri, I stepped in for one last cuppa to find Cacao prettily infused in red, pink and white.


A real romantic send-off, if ever.

Siliguri Tea Stall

Siliguri as a destination has no redeeming feature. As a people, the residents boast of a high literacy rate but with an extremely low, almost negligible, civic sense. Surrounded by thick jungles and lush tea gardens, the city is considered the gateway to east. Its a gateway you want to zip through! The city roads are filthy, the markets narrow and uninviting, the affordable hotels clones of that delightful Hotel Decent in Jab We Met, and the street life lowly.

Is it any wonder then, that the humble street-side tea stall, that quintessential nukkad meeting point, would find its way into the air-conditioned environs of an upcoming mall?

This is what I found.





For you purists out there, here's a revelation: superior Darjeeling flush tastes just as good in a kasora as it does in fine china!

This ones for Sanjib.

Ema darshi

Then there was that supremely fiery ema dashi, Bhutan's national dish... cooked variously with peppers, potatoes and mushrooms.

It seemed only fair that after a 4-day steady diet of dust, grime, fumes, mobile oil, bangla meters, odometers, tulips, TCs, PCs and the like, the weary participants of the 3rd Indo Bhutan Friendhip Rally would now wish to tank up on some tipple. The Zone was a unanimous choice for our last round of drinks together in Thimpu (cleverly dubbed as the winner's treat so that Thinlay would pick up the tab!!)

Going down a mental checklist of stuff-to-do, I turned to Choki to whine about lost gourmet opportunities (read: a taste of the promised ema dashi). Too late, everyone commiserated, before going back to their respective conversation and Kesang to propping up an aching head! It was close to 2am after all. Sonam diverted my attention to a colourful tome about things Bhutanese. So yes, we all forgot about the ema dashi.

But not Choki. Using arm-twisting methods that work only on very dear, long-suffering friends, she had the owner rush after the chef already on his way home following lights-out in the kitchen. Cut to the chase: halfway through the narration of the Fable of the Four Friends, a bowlful of this cheesy delicacy of colourful peppers was placed in front of me with a flourish. Squealing in delight, I spooned the delicious contents of the bowl into my mouth. Looking up from my greedy occupation, I felt the same sets of watchful gazes and widening eyes trained at me as earlier. Deja vu! What now? Looking out for smoking ears, said grinning visages.

Oh boy, was I going to disappoint them again?

The paan from Bhutan

Got my first taste of the 'doma-pani' on my last day in Bhutan. It was gingerly proffered with a disclaimer to watch out for the slow-release effects of the soft areca nut and betel leaf smeared with lime. Pfffft. My immediate reaction. Every wholesome Indian meal I have consumed in my adult life has been followed by a variety of paans: sweet, spiked and otherwise. How different can it be?
Watchful gazes, widening eyes and polite queries directed at my masticating person had me alarmed for a bit. Yet, I continued to chew thoughtfully (awaiting the expected lightheaded-ness) and my lips continued to redden: unbeknownst to me, the reason for added watchfulness in the gaze, excessive widening of the eyes and more direct question, "How many of me can you see?" Just the one, my boy, just the one.
Many minutes later, still nothing. I felt cheated of an experience, dammit. There I stood unexpectedly steadfast,in complete sobriety, and as smug as reddened lips with similarly-tinged spit trails on the chin would allow.
A fake if ever there was one, I accused my new-found friends. You're built like a horse, they retorted. What's your point again? Takes longer to hit the spots... So on and so forth. My favourite: you'd make the perfect Bhutanese wife. Yeah, right. (They had evidently not heard of us Patialvi women).
Legend has it that early settlers of the Moen Yul were cannibals. They were tamed by Guru Rinpoche, a spiritual leader, by introducing them to a substitute combination. Rushing (bark of a creeper plant) for raw flesh, Areca Nut for the bones, Betel Leaf for the skin and Lime for the brain. The red color that emerged from chewing this combination was to be the blood that these people used to drink.
Go figure!