Who Wants to be a Toff?

Just finished reading Sarah Lyall's book, The Anglo Files: A Field Guide to the British. Overall, what stayed with me were the characteristics she outlines of the British upper class, a status that everybody else in Britain aspires to reach, including the "aspirational middle class" so despised by the toffs. Here is what I understood: in order to be a member of the aristocratic upper class in Britain, one has to eat some very bad food and drink a lot of very good alcohol (no doubt to wash down the execrable food). Lyall writes about going for a picnic with an aristocrat of long lineage who served his guests canned soup, bad ham and white bread sandwiches, swilled down with good wine. Given these criteria, here is a list of peoples and nations who will never be upper class Englishmen or Englishwomen, and some who might be eligible:

1. Indians. No way, will the people who eat fragrant biryanis, pulaos, chutneys, dosas, sambhar, curries, spiced dals and fresh yogurt, ever belong to the world of mediocre food. Besides, Indian alcohol sucks. Except for Old Monk rum, when hidden inside a chilled glass of Coca Cola.
2. The French. They are disqualified on two counts. First, the wines of France are ambrosial. Second, why would any Frenchman or Frenchwoman in his or her right mind ever give up Confit de Canard, Coquilles Saint-Jacques and Pommes Duchesse in order to eat Wonderbread and canned soup? No, no, the food and the drink is too good to qualify them for the English aristocracy.
3. Italians, Greeks, Spaniards and Portuguese. See last sentence in previous paragraph.
4. South Americans. The alcohol probably sucks (I don't know, have only drunk Chilean wines which are pretty good) but the food is great. So sorry, amigos and amigas, you can't join the bad food club of the English upper classes.
5. Chinese, East Asians in general. Again, no alcohol, but the food - oh my God! So, no entry to them either.
6. Americans. Inspite of the best efforts of McDonald's and Burger King, a people that can invent things like Buffalo Chicken wings and gumbo, and peach cobbler and smothered pork chops, are barred from the English upper classes. Well, maybe the North East with their love of boiled dinners might qualify, except that their clam chowder might prevent them from enjoying full membership benefits.

So what does that leave us? I'm going to offend a lot of people here and offer up for full membership of the English aristocracy, based on the criteria of bad food and lots of alcohol - the Germans.* Any others who might qualify?

*I say this with great sadness. The nation of bratwurst and frankfurters, the land of bad food, how could that be?! Well, it was the boiled cabbage that decided it, for me.

Shubho Noboborsho and Happy Baisakhi

In honor of the Bengali New Year and the Punjabi Baisakhi, we went to eat at the Indian restaurant Bangalore in Fairfield. I was looking forward to this as I felt that finally M. was big enough to sit through a meal at a restaurant and so we could all enjoy our dinner at leisure. The restaurant is a pleasant place, the food is very good, but the service was very disappointingly hit-or-miss. Now this is not a hole-in-the-wall place so one is definitely expecting better than for one's dinner to arrive in fits and starts with long gaps between dishes. The waiters were quite sweet and very polite and you knew it wasn't their fault that the cooks were not producing the dishes in a timely way. But we all ate in a staggered way and needless to say, by the time my Rava Masala Dosa arrived, the kids were quite done and then it was all over for me. It was back to the bad old snarfing-down-my food ritual to the chorus of "can we go home now?" "are you done?" "I'm full" "I'm tired." Hmmm....maybe we will try this going out to eat business in two more years.

In the City

Yesterday was Girls' Day Out in New York City which actually turned into Girls' Day and Night Out as we strolled from pleasant place to pleasant place until we finally headed for dinner. I am always amazed when I head into New York - it is so urban that rightfully the place should be setting one's teeth on edge, but it always ends up dazzling its visitors. It is, I think, the pulsating liveliness, combined with the sheer magnificence of the city's buildings - the highrises with their gleaming windows, the gorgeousness that is Grand Central Terminal, the stateliness of New York Public Library - that consistently wins one over. See, I told you that I am always amazed. This despite the heaps of garbage bags waiting to be picked up and the taxis driving like maniacs and darting in and out of lanes.

There are also so many young people there. I wonder how they manage to survive in one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in the world. Are they visiting like me or are they residents? Like the young man in the worn down Converse sneakers and faded corduroy pants riding the M-1 bus, blue eyes looking off into the middle distance like everybody else's eyes on crowded public transport. Or the woman with the bleached hair and the shocking orange tights worn under her short-short shorts. Or the teenager with the heavily embellished leather jacket. What a place to people-watch, this city. Not as pretty as Paris or as soft, but edgy and stylish and strong and just so, so diverse. As I walked I heard heavily-accented voices say things like, "In Italy, we..." or "In England, this..."

We headed down first to the little three-table Kati Roll Company on MacDougal St. that sells the most delicous kati rolls. I ordered a chicken and unda roll and we all shared an achari paneer roll. Then, we headed down to the lovely little organic Priti Spa, which sadly is being sold and will disappear, hopefully to be resurrected soon. I bought an organic nail polish for the sandal season coming up so soon. And got myself a much-needed pedicure from the efficient and pleasant Nadia who, I hope, will land on her feet.

More walking landed us first in NoLita for window shopping and then in Soho, browsing at Sur La Table, followed by a stop at Marie Belle where we lingered over iced cardomom chocolate (moi), guava tea (U.) and mocha European style (R.). Despite the snacks, the long walks had more than whetted our appetites for dinner at Grand Sichuan International (we went to the branch off 23rd St.). It was early enough that we only had a ten minute wait (otherwise on Friday nights, expect far longer wait times). I have heard mixed reviews about the service but one goes to these places for the food, not for the personableness or lack of it of the waitstaff. We ordered the pork soup dumplings, the excellent spicy Au Zhi (sp?) fresh chicken (poultry is slaughtered the same day as it is cooked, or so they claim), the so-so whole braised tilapia in hot bean sauce (not worth ordering a second time) and the really good beans with pork (we asked for more beans, less pork, which was an excellent idea as otherwise it would have been way too salty). Grand Sichuan is hearty eating, not fine dining, but it totally hit the spot.

As I took the 10:22 PM Metro North back to Fairfield County, I reflected on the day and came to this conclusion: life isn't half bad when you have kati rolls and organic spas and good chocolate and plentiful Chinese, a train ride away from the quiet backyards of suburbia.

A Revolution

We're living through a revolution. And nobody has any idea what to do. So we carry on with our everyday routines, the commutes to work, the school drop-offs, the soccer games on the weekend. What else is one to do? We are in uncharted waters here. I drive to my part-time gig and as I drive down the much-diminished (thank God!) traffic on I-95, I think to myself: "This is what a revolution looks like, this is what a revolution looks like." It looks like empty retail space, less inventory in the stores, fewer cars on the highways. Social peace hangs by the thin thread of cheap gasoline prices. If that thread breaks this summer (or, worse, this winter), what will happen?

"I'm in the Bathroom!"

Guess, that excuse won't cut it in these hotels. See, I could never go for these sort of places, with their exposed bathrooms. You mean, I can't get away for even those blessed ten minutes now?!!!

Chronicles of an Accidental Gourmet: The Imperfect Italian

Despite my bad introduction to Italian cuisine via White Hen Pantry Pizza, I have developed an affectionate relationship with Italian food over the years. In lieu of pizza I developed a strong bond with the pasta family. My favorite pasta dish was the shrimp fettucine at Rudi Fazuli's, a wonderful Italian restaurant that was a ten minute walk from our Chicago home in the Lakeview area. We used to eat there once in a while only, because the food was so good that you had to waddle out of the restaurant, stuffed to the gills. Then, other people got to know about this great little restaurant and Rudi Fazuli's moved down to the ritzy Lincoln Park neighborhood where I know not whether it still lives and thrives. Anyway, the awesome experience with Rudi Fazuli's convinced me not to give up on Italian food, that like all cuisines, it was about the cook, the spices and the location.
After I had children, I was really glad that I had given Italian cuisine a second chance, because what khichdi (a separate post on that later) is to Indian children, well, pasta is to American children. Pasta and meatballs, in particular. Not being a beefeater for cultural reasons, I have created my own version of Italian meatballs, using ground turkey. I call these my Imperfect Italian Meatballs because try as I might, they refuse to keep the cheese inside them (or maybe I'm just too lazy to get them perfect). Here is what you need:



1 lb ground turkey (not turkey breast)
1 small or medium onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 medium zucchini, grated
1/4 cup feta cheese
2 tablespoons olive oil plus one more for oiling the cookie sheet
1 tablespoon Montreal Steak Seasoning
Zest of one lemon
Juice of one lemon
Fresh mozarella balls in water or oil (use small balls of cheese or chop large into smaller pieces)
1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley or 1 tbsp dried parsley

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Line cookie sheet or baking tray with aluminum foil (that's aluminium to Indians). Grease covered sheet with 1 tablespoon olive oil. In a large mixing bowl, combine ground turkey, chopped onion, garlic, grated zucchini, feta cheese, 2 tablespoons olive oil, Montreal Steak Seasoning, lemon zest, lemon juice and parsley. You shouldn't need salt after all the feta cheese and steak seasoning, but if you do, well go ahead and add a pinch. Mix well, but go easy on the meat. Roll a piece of mixture between your hands to make a small ball. Make a dent on the top. Insert a small mozarella ball. Cover dent with more mixture and roll to smooth it. Place meatball on prepared cookie sheet. Repeat till you have about 12-14 meatballs. Put the sheet into hot oven for 40 minutes. Check at 30 minutes for doneness as oven temperatures vary. You can also mix some chopped assorted vegetables (red peppers, zucchini, carrots, etc) with olive oil, salt and pepper and roast alongside meatballs as a side dish.

While meatballs are cooking, put water into pot to boil. Prepare linguini according to package directions. Drain, put spaghetti back into dish and coat with a splash of olive oil if desired. Open and heat your favorite prepared marinara sauce (what? You think I'm going to make everything from scratch?). My choice: Trader Joe's marinara.

When done, meatballs are golden brown and deliciously imperfect because some will have mozarella oozing out of them. Here is what they look like: