We lived in Laj Pat Nagaar, right near the market. We had a wedding hall on one side working at the rate of about three weddings a week and on the other side there was a clandestine factory. The factory would only switch on its machines at night.
The best Vegetarian meals in New Delhi were in the Lodhi hotel and there was a Tandoori restaurant near Connaught Circle. You could watch as the cooks slapped the dough onto the inside of the large clay ovens at the back and the sweet tasting beer was served in teacups, flouting the anti-alcohol law.
Monahar, an elderly man, the former cook to a British general, made every meal into something of a performance. There were swans from mashed potato and huge pink blancmanges. He made sure there was always cold nimbu pani and lemon and barley water in the fridge.
Near the house, now a government office, the large school bus would come out from a side street onto the main road and we would see pigs rooting around in the rubbish tip. We all suspected that this combined rubbish dump and pig toilet was where our half street dog, half Alsatian went to get his jollies with the New Delhi dingos. He used to howl until we had to let him out. When he came back he stank like hellfire. He was out of control, but my mother loved him like an errant son.
Further along the ride to the British School, there were buffalo standing or sitting in pungent grey water. The buffalo were our source of daily milk. We were used to drinking it. Buffalo milk tastes, accurately enough, like badly mixed single cream with lots of water. When we complained about the milk my mother or father would joke:
-"Ada Dood ada pani", that is milk in Hindustani.
Every day we drove through Laj Pat Nagaar market on the school bus and past the street food sellers. There was one image in particular that put me off eating Indian street food, I'll share it with you, the image of a man blowing his nose vigorously into a dishcloth and then cleaning a large frying pan with the same cloth.
From the bus window I only saw snapshots of his activity. Now he was pouring yellow syrup onto the Indian sweet ostentatiously from a ladle, now he was filling the pan with oil, now he was twirling the dough into spirals and the oil boiled up.
The point about street food is you need to know when to look away.
In the end I did get hepatitis before we left Delhi, far more dangerous than Delhi Belly. The same hepatitis you can get in Mexico and Shanghai. But it was, I am assured, the friendly non-infectious type.
The best Vegetarian meals in New Delhi were in the Lodhi hotel and there was a Tandoori restaurant near Connaught Circle. You could watch as the cooks slapped the dough onto the inside of the large clay ovens at the back and the sweet tasting beer was served in teacups, flouting the anti-alcohol law.
Monahar, an elderly man, the former cook to a British general, made every meal into something of a performance. There were swans from mashed potato and huge pink blancmanges. He made sure there was always cold nimbu pani and lemon and barley water in the fridge.
Near the house, now a government office, the large school bus would come out from a side street onto the main road and we would see pigs rooting around in the rubbish tip. We all suspected that this combined rubbish dump and pig toilet was where our half street dog, half Alsatian went to get his jollies with the New Delhi dingos. He used to howl until we had to let him out. When he came back he stank like hellfire. He was out of control, but my mother loved him like an errant son.
Further along the ride to the British School, there were buffalo standing or sitting in pungent grey water. The buffalo were our source of daily milk. We were used to drinking it. Buffalo milk tastes, accurately enough, like badly mixed single cream with lots of water. When we complained about the milk my mother or father would joke:
-"Ada Dood ada pani", that is milk in Hindustani.
Every day we drove through Laj Pat Nagaar market on the school bus and past the street food sellers. There was one image in particular that put me off eating Indian street food, I'll share it with you, the image of a man blowing his nose vigorously into a dishcloth and then cleaning a large frying pan with the same cloth.
From the bus window I only saw snapshots of his activity. Now he was pouring yellow syrup onto the Indian sweet ostentatiously from a ladle, now he was filling the pan with oil, now he was twirling the dough into spirals and the oil boiled up.
The point about street food is you need to know when to look away.
In the end I did get hepatitis before we left Delhi, far more dangerous than Delhi Belly. The same hepatitis you can get in Mexico and Shanghai. But it was, I am assured, the friendly non-infectious type.
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