Though it stands
there, right in the centre of the busy shopping complex, one is liable to miss
it. And that is because its very nondescript shopfront consists of only a few
ordinary karahis, tawas , angithis and a tandoor so blackened by soot and grime
that the shop is like a blind spot in your vision field, ensuring that you
invariably miss it. But the true Gourmet Gurus of this city, like Rowling’s Wizards
gone shopping at Diagon Alley, never miss the place. In
the beginning we too, a la uninitiated Muggles, had never given the place even a cursory once-over but since initiated into the
inner circle of city gourmands, have now made this joint our regular weekend
dinner destination.
The place is called
‘Papa di Hatti’ which (correct me if I am wrong) means ‘Papa’s Shop’. There is
a slight doubt as to who ‘Papa’ really is, though in all probability it must be
the middle-aged man who mans the master tawa, expertly wielding the massive
karchi; to spin, whip, slide , turn and
blend the ‘freshly emerged from tandoor’ still bland chicken tikkas with the magic
masala mix to conjure up a heavenly dish which sadly has been given the very
mortal name of “Tawa Chicken”! He also
doubles up as the Maître de Hotel, solicitously inviting you (in case he finds
you waiting in line) with a ‘Sir, backside
mein baith jayiye (Sir, come sit at the rear), jagah hai (There is space)”. Now
the ‘backside’ of Papa’s shop is really not somewhere you would like to spend
your Saturday dinner date, but since Other Half has no such qualms when Papa’s
Tawa Chicken is beckoning, I have to follow perforce , squeezing gingerly into
the narrow passageway between the red hot angithi and the brown oily wall, to
the little porch on the ‘backside’. Here there are two or three ex-white
plastic tables decorated with a few unstable ex-white plastic chairs and no fan
or cooler or air conditioning. A drain packed to the brim with stuff drains
usually are full of flows right next to the tables and in the distance stray
dogs battle over bits of chicken discarded by the dish washing employees of
Papa. The smell is very ‘drainy’, and in summer this smell combined with the
stultifying heat and humidity renders you frozen in shock. But that is only the
first time you visit. Once the food has been tasted, every other thing recedes
into the very back of your consciousness, at least for the period you are
gorging on Papa’s food.
The waiter who also
trebles as the dishwasher and the occasional karchi wielder, rushes past you with
a garbled, 'Kya khana hai’ as he carries a steaming ‘Tawa Chicken” to the next
table. Its fragrance is wafting all around us and Other Half rendered hoarse
with anticipation, is taking great deep gulps of drool. He manages to ask me, ‘Kya
khana hai…’ in between his gulps but we both know that the question is
rhetorical. The waiter breezes by our side and Other Half yells, ‘Ek butter
chicken and do tandoori roti……’ The man picks up the echo of his words and
dances out, singing ‘Ek butter chicken aur do tandoori rottttteeee…….’
As we wait for the
order to materialize, the heat rises in direct proportion to our anticipation.
We marvel at the resilience of the cooks standing so close to the red hot grill
and the white hot tandoor preparing our chicken and our roti.....We watch them
in wonder as they work, nonchalant to the heat, sweat dripping down their faces
and their backs, leaving dark stains on their banians and tingles of heat down
our spine that make us shiver in sympathy………..
The waiter waltzes in
once more, crooning, ‘Butter Chicken aur Tandoori Roti’ as he sets the bowls
down ceremoniously over the rickety table. The fragrance is overpowering and the
frequency of gulps taken by Other Half has trebled. But graciously, he ladles
out generous portions of the chicken and gravy onto my plate first before his
own and suddenly I get a little maudlin…..After nearly nineteen years of
togetherness, love manifests in such commonplace ways… …..!
The butter chicken is
a mass of molten gold topped by a generous dollop of snow-white malai….The
aroma is heady a mix of pure desi ghee and all that is best of our oriental
spices and we can’t wait to dig in. But before I have even dunked my first
piece of roti into the gravy, Other Half already has his mouth full of gravy
and chicken and is chomping busily, a look of artless happiness on his face. I
smile and take my first bite. The gravy is a work of art, a masterpiece that
can put the best of Michelin starred restaurant fares to shame. It is silky and
spreads like good chocolate over my tongue, firing my taste buds out of their
slumber. I take a bite of the chicken and it is cooked perfectly, a zillion
times superior to the KFC junk that we tend to rave about. The spices and
flavours have inundated the very heart of the chicken and each bite is packed
with flavor. It is soft, succulent and in one simple word, delicious. The
spices, the butter, the cream and God knows what other wonderful ingredients
all combine beautifully into a rich tapestry of flavours and as I eat, I
compose the next post for my blog in my mind, fishing for one superior adjective
after another from the inspiration inundating my taste buds.
Soon we are both done
and leave the table. I glance back for one last look at the table and find to
my amusement the battered steel katora and plates shining clean with not a drop
of gravy remaining. I laugh to myself when I realise that One Half has actually
chomped to pulp even the stray chicken bone and so there are none on his plate!
As Other Half shells
out the cash (which I must say is very, very reasonable), ‘Papa’ asks us, “Theek
tha?” But he knows as we do, that this question is redundant, because the
answer is writ large on both our faces. We simply nod our heads pleasantly in
answer and turn back, my hand snugly in Other Half’s, a sense of utter Nirvana
adorning both our faces as we walk back to the car!
