A few days ago, some of my friends and I were discussing the impact of Cubism on Modern Art (just some casual evening chatter, you know), when we realised that one fellow was completely lost in his own thoughts. He had a pained expression and a faraway look in his eyes. Concerned, we asked him if everything was alright. He slowly shook his head.
“Have you guys ever eaten Dal Baati Churma?”
Most of us murmured that we had.
“I tried it during my recent trip. I think it is the most horrible thing I have ever tasted in my life.”
The room exploded in protest. Suffice to say that his was not the popular opinion. Some people held Dal Baati Churma in high regard. Others, like me, did not think it evoked any strong emotions, whether good or bad. Almost everyone agreed that it was unusual for anyone to harbour such intense hatred for a fairly popular and largely innocuous food item. Our friend argued that the brouhaha associated with Dal Baati Churma had led him to expect a glorious gastronomical experience, while the reality was disappointingly mediocre. The traditionalists concluded that he must have visited the wrong restaurant. He was invited to sample the ‘authentic, homemade version’ of the dish; which he accepted with scepticism writ large on his face. When your opponent in a food-related debate says, “Come to our home to eat the real thing and then you’ll see”, the appropriate response is to politely agree and end the matter. Adopt a different approach and you will end up friendless and alone.
This discussion set me thinking about food that I genuinely despise. In order to avoid the quintessential ‘you-have-not-tried-the-original-version-we-make-at-home’ argument, I decided to limit myself to Bengali cuisine and items with which I am intimately familiar. There are many, many Bengali delicacies that I absolutely love. But when I say that I hate some things, be assured that I speak from personal and painful experience.
Machher Jhol, et al: If I had a rupee for every time someone told me: “Arre, how come you are a Bengali and you don’t eat fish, haha”, I would have never needed to seek gainful employment. I have hated fish preparations for as long as I can remember. As you can imagine, this created unique challenges in a milieu that revelled in adding fish to everything. For instance, imagine yourself at a wedding dinner buffet. You see a large number of fish curries on display - unfortunate but understandable. You spot a chafing dish labelled Muger Dal (Moong Dal) which seems promising, judging by the crowd around it. You amble across and scoop a ladle-full onto your plate. Amidst the sea of yellow dal, a glassy fish eye stares back at you. You realise that the severed head of a fish is now resting on your plate, drops of dal dripping from its gaping maw. You struggle to come to terms with the realisation that they polluted an innocent dal with fish heads. What would drive someone to do something so abhorrent, you wonder. You’re too young then to know of the myriad appalling ways in which the Bengali mind can incorporate fish into food.
Short of electro-therapy, my family tried everything to address my deep revulsion towards anything poisson1. I remember one occasion when my mother had prepared a dish akin to meatballs, allegedly with minced chicken. The texture seemed off and it smelled funny, but I was young and gullible enough to take a few bites. I discovered later that my mother had de-boned a fish and rolled it up into balls so I would eat it under false pretences. A child hoodwinked by his own parent. The memory of that betrayal still rankles deep within my soul. Perhaps that is why I cannot stand the smell of fish till today.
Rosogolla: I know that many will consider this a controversial view and truth be told, my dislike for rosogolla is fuelled partly by its irrational popularity. Much like our friend, whose hatred for Dal Bati Churma was triggered by its reputation more than its inherent taste, I have always been irritated by the mythical status that rosogolla has attained. The fact that everyone assumes (as with fish) that as a Bengali I must love rosogolla, only serves to stir up my contrarian spirit.
It is obnoxiously sweet and has the texture of Scotch-Brite. If it were just another entry in the pantheon of Indian sweets, it would have been unremarkable in its mediocrity. But this spongy, soggy thing has had Bengalis and Odiyas spend years arguing about their separate claims over its origins2. Is Scotch-Brite really worth fighting for?
Shukto: There is nothing I can say about shukto that is worse than how it looks.
How can anyone see that and willingly decide to eat it? Oliver Twist wouldn’t want another bowl of this abomination.
To those who are unfamiliar with shukto, I would say, congratulations. You have done well to avoid this devilish stew. It is difficult to describe it. I believe it involves a medley of the most disgusting vegetables, cooked in an unpalatable broth, till the whole thing attains the colour and consistency of a partially rotten corpse. And of course, there exist variations where fish is added to this delightful concoction. What’s not to love, eh?
For years shukto (the non-fish variety, thankfully) was a Sunday lunch fixture at our home. It was advertised as possessing beneficial qualities; such as, turning a man away from all worldly desires and leading him to asceticism (to avoid having to eat it ever again). Having eventually accepted my refusal to eat fish, my parents took a sterner stand when it came to shukto. In a devious ploy, access to mutton curry (which was the headline item of Sunday lunch) was made contingent upon consumption of shukto; I had little choice but to comply. In retrospect, it was a cruel but necessary life lesson, and they have my grudging respect.
I am proud to proclaim that I have not tasted any of the above vile things, for over a decade. I have many complaints against a societal system that compels one to earn a living, but at least it allows me to steer well clear of machh, rosogolla and shukto. May it stay that way for many years more. Amen.
The French word for fish resembles poison. Coincidence? I think not.
Odisha and West Bengal both hold Geographical Indication (GI) certificates for their respective versions of the rosogolla.
Finally! Thank you. Loved the writing of course, but absolutely loved macher jhol and shukto being called out as torture food. Mandatory reading for all Bengali parents.
Are you a maach-disliking but sushi-loving bengali? According to my folks, I should be ashamed of myself for this (the declaration was made, ofcourse, in chaste Bangla)