Flavors of India

A few years ago, I went on a work trip to Bangalore, India, for two weeks. A coworker who had grown up in Bangalore joined me for the first week. I hadn’t realized that he would be there (nor that he had grown up there), but it was great because he took me to see various sights in the city and taught me the ropes. One of the things he taught me was how to take an “auto”. That’s what they call the motorized rickshaws. It was much cheaper than booking a ride from the hotel, but a bit less . . . comfortable. The rickshaws are open to the air and a bit small. And rickety. The two of us could reasonably fit in the hard metal seat, but we sometimes saw these autos with four or five passengers. Once, we saw one with seven passengers, though they were all children.

Traffic in Bangalore is more chaotic than in the US. Most of the vehicles were scooters. Vespas and their ilk. Frequently, they would not stick to the lanes. Instead, they would gain advantage by slipping between lanes, whether traffic was stopped or moving. They would bunch closer together than I would have thought possible. If there was an inch on either side, they would pass. When traffic stopped at a stoplight, the scooters would assemble at the front of the line, passing between and in front of anybody they could, jockeying for position. When the light turned green, they would all accelerate quickly and rush to the next mass assembly.

The autos (rickshaws) were larger than the scooters. They resembled a motorcycle with a small, open cabin on the back. Yet, they were smaller than the cars. They followed the same patterns as the scooters, driving recklessly between other traffic. They would use the lanes, the spaces between cars, and even the gutters to rush ahead as quickly as they could. They would often pass other vehicles at speed with only an inch or two to spare.

I mentioned the stoplights. They did have stoplights, and traffic seemed to honor them. But not every intersection had them. Even some major intersections lacked traffic controls. In such cases, traffic would just merge chaotically. The unspoken rule seemed to be that if there was enough room that somebody could stop without hitting you, then you were free to merge in front of them. I think that also explained why traffic followed as closely as possible to the vehicles in front of them. At major unmarked intersections, traffic would inch forward, bit by bit. A quick rush to gain ground and then a rapid deceleration to avoid a merging vehicle and then do it again.

People would say to me that though it was chaotic, it worked. I was never quite sure. I think it took a lot longer to get anywhere than it should have. Still, it’s hard for me to say because we don’t have that many vehicles on our streets. Could our traffic systems run efficiently with so much volume? I’ll have to leave that question to the traffic engineers.

My coworker also helped me navigate the cuisine. The corporate cafeteria served a buffet lunch each day. Most of the workers were vegetarian. Each day, the buffet featured half a dozen “veg” entrees on one side of the room, and a single “non-veg” option on the other side. Additionally, they had rice and fresh fruit. I loved all the fresh fruit! I think I had fresh pineapple at nearly every meal.

For the other options, I didn’t really know what I was eating most of the time. My coworker would explain it to me. I noticed they used lentils a lot. They have so many varieties of lentils. They also used lentil flour to make crepes and batters. The cafeteria food was, well, cafeteria-quality, but my hotel served high quality food. Either way, it was always spicy. It didn’t matter what time of day it was. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They were all spicy. I didn’t mind the spice, at first. I did okay with even the hottest stuff. However, it kind of got to me after a while. Two weeks of spicy food at every meal wore me down.

One morning, I went to my hotel’s restaurant with French toast on my mind. They hotel restaurant made a lot of different international foods and at breakfast they had a French toast station. Tired of the constant spiciness, I was really looking forward to something more familiar. But this was a nice hotel. Everybody who worked there was friendly and solicitous, always doing their best to make my stay enjoyable. So, one of the chefs saw me loitering near the French toast station and came to offer me something special. I demurred, but he really wanted to please me. In his own way. He said he would make me something nice, something especially for me.

And so, he did. He made me a breakfast dosa. A dosa is a type of crepe made from lentil flour. For breakfast, the chef stuffed it with some sort of potato filling. Spicy, of course. All I wanted was to take a break from the endless spice and enjoy a French toast for breakfast. I couldn’t even do that. Before my two-week stay ended, I found a Hard Rock Café within walking distance so I could enjoy a steak without all the local flavors added to it.

On the weekend, one of my local coworkers took me outside the city to see some more sights. We stopped at a historic hotel for lunch. My coworker ordered a “Garden Platter” for us to share. It was a simple relish tray with carrots, celery, olives, and pickles. It also had some sort of chili pepper that I didn’t recognize. It didn’t appear to be a garnish, and I figured if they included it on the plate, it must be fine to eat. So, I grabbed one and took a bite. I chewed it while my coworker watched me with a quizzical expression. Finally, he asked, “Isn’t that hot?”

I shrugged. It wasn’t hot at all. He decided to try one himself. As he did, I could see him flush and start sweating. Apparently, his was very hot. He thought I had played a joke on him, but mine simply wasn’t hot at all. I wish that were the end of the story, but the truth is I curiously took another one. The second one was indeed hot. Very hot. And I had to eat it while pretending the whole time that it wasn’t.

The hottest thing I ate while I was in India was a condiment. A relish. They called it a mango pickle. It was a dark, chunky sauce, apparently made from pickled, unripe mangoes with plenty of spices added. I tried it in several places, but the best was served at my hotel. It was the hottest, but it was also the most flavorful. I enjoyed it so much that one of the waiters gave me a bottle as a gift before I left.

I had a great time experiencing many new and interesting things. I don’t remember all the details, and I certainly didn’t become an expert in the culture or the cuisine. But I made many memories. Sometimes when I visit an Indian restaurant, I’ll get just a hint of the experience I had there.