Enjoying ‘chola batura’ in Sweden
I feel empathy with the Indian expat in Sweden who paid 1000 rupees (about 50 Dhs) for a plate of comfort food, which I also emphasized when I bought tomatoes in Saudi Arabia.
The expatriate has received a huge outpouring of sympathy from internet users who were angry about how the plate of “chola batura” was presented and its price.
For the uninitiated, ‘chola batura’ is a dish with fluffy, fried bread, with chickpeas cooked in spices.
The fun of eating this bread is to quickly poke at the puffed bread and almost burn your hand when the steam comes out. The waiter brings out the dish to your table with the bread on the plate that looks like brown balloons waiting to be punctured.
As the years passed, I had to pull a tissue from the box on the table and soak the oil from the fried bread for a few minutes, while curious people watched and wondered what was happening. (Most Indians think that oil is good for you and cleared butter (ghee) is even better).
Soul food
“Chola batura” arrived on the expat’s table delicately and aesthetically produced by the chef, with the chickpeas placed on the bread, which unfortunately looked exhausted.
I quote the disappointed expat: “For those who are curious about the taste: Well, it was bad. “Batura” was sweet, super thick and almost dry. “Chole” was like “palak paneer” but with “channa” instead (AND WHO (Excerpt) CALLS TO Pomegranate ??). The taste of the chole was bland. No spice or any prominent “masalas”.
In the earlier days of the expat migration from India to the Gulf, one could take all the necessary spices like red chili powder and turmeric powder (the latter has now become a hit in Western countries where it is added to milk and is called the Golden Milk Latte, or something like that).
And nutritionists today say that chili is good for health because you sweat and cry when you eat, and say that it cleanses the pores and helps to detoxify.
Indian mothers would slave in the kitchen just before expats left for their flights out, preparing various pickles, with lime, mango and shrimp pickles were the most valuable and eagerly awaited by expats homesick friends.
But while the mothers took care of the culinary additions, expats still had to buy groceries from the supermarkets. “OMG, look at the price of tomatoes”, I would say to my wife as I figured out how much it was in Indian rupees.
I love mango and its cost in a souq in Jeddah, was astronomical. “Let’s just buy a kilo and see how they feel,” said my wife, not knowing that once you start eating mangoes, you can not stop. One kilo gave us a large mango and a small one. “Let us no longer count in rupees,” she would advise.
Many, many years later in Bengaluru, I would repeat the exact same thing to my wife, “OMG, look at the price of tomatoes” I said, after the unusually heavy rain, which destroyed the crops and pushed up the price of vegetables and fruit ” Look at the ridiculous price of ‘benishan’ (‘banganapally’) mango “!
A few years back in Canada, we took our friends for a “can” of candy in Mississauga and were warned that if we did not book our table in advance, the wait would be an hour or more. (The crowd must have been due to all the IT guys in Canada from Bengaluru, Telangana or Chennai).
Since I had become a little sophisticated over the years, I did not goggle on the bill when it came, but had to take out my credit card to pay for it, because the cash in my pocket was not enough. (One can was Can $ 8, about Rupees 430).
Meanwhile, if you crave an appetizing “shawarma” and become nostalgic for Arabic and Turkish cuisine, never eat a “shawarma” at a restaurant in India. It’s pretty boring and you would be just as disappointed, just like our expat who was served a cold and sweet “chola batura”.
Mahmood Saberi is a narrator and blogger based in Bengaluru, India. Twitter: @mahmood_saberi