It tastes better in my memory

Next to AC market, Calcutta, existed a hole-in-the-wall joint that served the best chicken curry in the world.

AC market, Calcutta / Circa 1998

It was a balmy evening in Calcutta. The city was on the verge of monsoons, with stormy grey clouds thundering on the horizon and promising rain anytime now. The MET department had predicted torrential rains later at night.

“If the MET says it’s going to rain tonight, then we can safely assume that the monsoons will hit only by next week,” joked my father. The Calcutta Meteorological Department was infamous for its forecasts and was rarely known to predict anything accurately. “I’m not cooking tonight. It’s too hot, and I’m tired,” huffed my mother, not looking amused.

My heart skipped a beat. If my mother did not want to cook, that only meant one thing.

“Favourite chicken!!!!” I screamed before any other option could be presented. My father ruffled my hair and chuckled. “Yes, yes. Where else would we go?”

“Is that a yes, papa?”

“That’s a full yes, beta. Get ready. We will leave in five minutes.”

Favourite chicken was my nickname for a hole-in-the-wall joint that served the best chicken in the world. It was a small rectangular space, with just enough space for two cooks and a man who would take your order. A few stones piled up on the pavement opposite the establishment were meant for seating strictly on a first cum first-serve basis. It was one amongst hundreds of small roadside eateries that you could find all over Calcutta. I don’t know if they had a signboard or name. It did not matter. What mattered was that their chicken was consistently delicious every single time.

My father would take my brother and me on days when my mother was fed up or annoyed. Our routine was simple. We would park our car in one of the by-lanes, cross the road and walk through the crowded pavement outside AC market to the restaurant. The standard order was three chicken handis* with roomali rotis**. We would then head towards Victoria Memorial to find a horse-ridden carriage that would make four rounds around the maidan, enough time to finish our dinner.

I would watch as the chicken was scooped up from a massive iron kadhai into terracotta handis, sealed with foil, tied with a thick black rubber band and put into plastic bags. The roomali rotis would go next, delicately folded into brown paper bags.

Calcutta pavements are crowded and utterly delightful - a culinary journey of roadside food.

My father would find a suitable carriage and negotiate the price. We would wait patiently to be hauled up to sit on the soft velvety seats facing each other—like true royalty. The carriage was higher than the cars, and we could see the world as clearly as the world could see us. The rider would cluck, and the horse would begin moving, its hoofs a gentle rhythm on the tar road.

We would open our handi and dig into the delicately flavoured curry, which was never enough, and the moist and tender chicken thigh that melted in our mouths. Not a drop of meat, curry, or oil was left when we were done. After the ride, we would break our handi near the roadside dustbin, dump them in, wipe our greasy hands on our father's handkerchief and then head to Flury’s for a slice of pastry.

This is my fondest childhood memory – one that is so sensory and tactile that if I close my eyes, I can still taste the chicken, its grainy curry melting in my mouth, the oil dripping from my fingers as I wrap a piece of roomali roti around the meat.

A few years ago, I dreamt of eating my favourite chicken and woke up with a craving that no other food would satisfy. The restaurant no longer existed; the hole-in-the-wall now replaced by some franchise that sold fancy rolls. I had no recipe to follow, no reference from which to begin. All I had was the taste, from my memory, mixed in with the warm smell of the horse as it ploughed on, the humid air and the incessant honking of cars.

I tried every possible combination—from cashews in an onion and garlic paste with whole spices to marination in curd with garam masala. I tried cooking in ghee and then mustard oil. I tried chicken masala and a no-masala variation. I tried different amounts of spices trying to balance the flavours. But nothing worked. I failed every single time.

I called my father, trying to jog his memory. I called my cousin sister, who had accompanied us on a few occasions. They tried to help, but nothing came close. While my husband and daughter enjoyed every variation, I was left feeling frustrated.

After my twelfth failed attempt, I had almost given up. In an effort to cheer me up, my husband ordered Kolkata-style biryani and chicken chaap. It was delicious but nothing compared to the biryani I had grown up eating at Shiraz. I remember grumbling like an annoyed child, trying to get the thick and greasy dalda off my fingers when it struck me that I had not tried dalda in any of my trials. It might just be the umami flavour I was missing.

The next day, the chicken was lovingly marinated in hung card with ginger-garlic paste, turmeric, and salt. I bought 500 grams of dalda, surprisingly hard to find in our new health-conscious world, and dumped half of it on a sizzling steel kadhai with a cinnamon stick, a few pieces of whole cardamom, and three cloves. The chicken went in next, mixing in with the dalda and whole spices. I let the meat simmer on low flame for 45 minutes, gently stirring and turning the pieces over every 5 to seven minutes. Eventually, the chicken was cooked, and it was time to taste.

My husband and daughter waited with bated breath. When I lifted the lid, the smell hit me in the most glorious way. I took a spoon and dipped it in the gravy. The grainy texture melted in my mouth, reminding me of the smell of horses and the honking of horns.

I had finally managed to recreate my favourite chicken. After two years of trial and error, I had found the magic ingredient – the humble and unhealthy dalda.

As I ate the meat wrapped in roomali roti, the oil dripping from my fingers, I was transported back to the horse-ridden carriage on a balmy evening. I savoured every bite, holding the taste in my mouth and letting the juices slide down my throat. All I was missing was the terracotta handi.

My favourite chicken is now my daughter’s favourite chicken. Every other Sunday, she asks me to cook it for her and relishes it in the exact same way I did as a child. It is precious - this memory that I get to share with her.

But with every meal of favourite chicken that I cook, the flavour diminishes a little. I fuss about the quantity of curd or the amount of oil. I complain that the quality of chicken was not good or that the spices did not balance well this time. My daughter finds it all the same as does my husband.

I am the only one who is unsatisfied.

Because I know that it tastes better in my memory.

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handis* - a terracotta pot

roomali rotis* - paper-thin rotis cooked on an inverted round vessel.

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Favourite Chicken Recipe

Ingredients:

• 1 kg chicken (with bones)

• Ginger garlic paste (freshly ground)

• One cinnamon stick

• 3-4 Cloves

• 3-4 Whole Cardamom

• Turmeric Powder

• A pinch of Asafoetida (hing)

• Salt to taste

• Dalda (cooking oil)

Instructions:

Marinate the chicken pieces (half an hour to an hour) in hung curd with ginger-garlic paste and turmeric powder.

In a large steel vessel, add copious amounts of dalda, a pinch of asafoetida and the whole spices (cinnamon, cardamom and cloves). Add in the marinated chicken and stir well. Cook in low flame for about 45 minutes, stirring every 5 to 7 minutes till the meat is tender and fully cooked.

Add salt to taste.

Add more dalda if needed. That is the umami flavour and you can’t go wrong with too much here :)

Serve hot with Roomali Rotis.

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