Enchanting eateries

Not since spelunking through Bangkok and Cambodia have I been so entranced by wayside eateries. (Perhaps it's because I've thrown dieting to the wind and could thus enjoy plates upon plates of momos and thick slices of Tibetan brown bread slathered in butter.)

The Moonlight and Sunrise cafes are flush with one another and seem to serve exactly the same menu (chai, omelettes, what have you). But no, my friends, don't be fooled: The Sunrise Cafe actually serves -- I kid you not -- "the best chai in Asia." It sounded like a gauntlet, and S and I were eager to disprove the haughty man at the grill, but I'd be a lying, sinful blogger if I said my cuppa wasn't among my top five chais of all time.

I suspect that we could have had an excellent brew at the Tea O'Clock Cafe, but the shutters festooned with flyers about finding my chakras and learning traditional Tibetan massage perhaps indicates that the proprietors of the Sunrise Cafe ran them out of town in some sort of West Side Story-esque turf war, punctuated by an extravagant Lhamo operetta. That's OK; at our flat in Delhi, it's always tea o'clock, and we won't even glare at you if you malinger or start singing along to the Bob Dylan playing on a loop.

Sidewalk sellers of the ubiquitous fried/steamed momos were plentiful, and we availed of their goods no fewer than thrice. These men were selling freshly made spinach momos, though they weren't as chipper as some of the women in the lane, chatting and joking as they despatched the steaming plates. Nonetheless, and despite what all the fast food chains say, the food tastes just as good without service with a smile.

Although Chuki's Restaurant was being renovated, and we thus could not sample their earthly delights, the establishment wins my vote for best exterior decoration. However, some Googling indicates that the food is every bit as good as the vibrant political statement being made.

And thus concludes our abbreviated tour of McLo gastronomique -- it's round about tea o'clock, and a soothing mug of Kangra green tea is calling my name.

Open, mix, and eat!

I saw this new product -- Haldiram's Bhel Puri, in an"one-the-move pack" -- and, despite skepticism, decided to take it for a trial run.

I suppose it tastes OK, but that's not the point. Bhel puri is a pretty quintessential street snackie, and this sanitized, hygenic, festooned-with-yellow-flowers form simply does nothing for me -- or for thousands (millions, billions?) of others weaned on the gritty mix of puffed rice, peanuts, imli chutney, chopped onions, tomatoes, spices of various persuasions, and, of course, the all-important green chillis.

The ingredients the bhel puri-wallah doesn't list, and which Haldiram's CERTAINLY would not look too kindly upon, are heaping helpings of dust, oil that's been seasoned, sizzled, and reused as various component parts are fried in preparation for the mix, dirt, and other detritus. It's the unwritten list that makes other expats shiver in anticipation of contracting cholera, but even those that have had a bout or two of Delhi belly know that sometimes, the greasiest, grottiest street food is worth a day in bed. When I was in Kila Raipur, for instance, after a few hours of shooting, I suggested we get a drink; S pointed at a man making fresh OJ, and I immediately knew that I would be sick for the rest of the day (which may have been intuition, or it might have been the fact that the man grinding kinoos had a wracking cough). I drank a glass, its rim thoughtfully wiped clean after the man before me finished his quaff, sat down for a few minutes, and spent the rest of the day vomiting. Que sera sera.

So thanks, Haldirams, for giving us this option, but I prefer my street food from, well, the street.