Spot On

On an unusually listless Friday morning, a friend's enthusiastic Tweet prompts me to engage in some NPR trolling, and I stumble across an interview entitled, "When Cultures Collide." It's a collision I'm always intrigued by, so with a cup of strong mint and lemongrass chai by my side, I proceed to listen, undisturbed, for the entire, seventeen minute segment, as the band "Goldspot" is profiled. I'm somewhat charmed by the curious melodies crooned by the lead singer, Sid Khosla. Named for the effervescent and syrupy orange soda, exclusively available in India, Goldspot combines dreamy, Bollywood strings (you practically want to dash through a field of marigolds) and a Beatles-inspired commitment to effortlessly hummable tunes, evident in their second album, "And The Elephant is Dancing." In short, happy music.

3 days later, I still have the album on repeat, and I'm baffled by my own obsession. What's with me? A little bit of soul-searching leads me to believe that Goldspot, in all its fused glory, has managed to evoke something in me that I thought wouldn't surface for decades to come: nostalgia.

Khosla's infectious lilt, which at times is inspired by the legendary Bollywood serenader, Kishore Kumar, coaxes me to remember childhood afternoons, when my mother, an accomplished multi tasker, would regularly load up my sister and I in the car. She'd slip in a KK mix tape to accompany us as we expertly whizzed through downtown Kobe. Despite the occasional raised eyebrows we'd receive from some of the locals (ever heard the man yodel?) we'd cross off her exhaustive to-do list, stop by stop, with our trustee tapes blaring. These were the songs that lulled us to sleep and the ones that served as audible mood indicators, letting us in on whether it was an opportune moment to ask for our favorite dinner dish.

In college, surrounded by fellow B&W Bollywood devotees, I distinctly remember when the songs of my childhood unassumingly crossed the cool threshold (in my mind, anyway) as they composed the background score to many a house party, more romantic than rowdy.

As for The Beatles, I'm an ardent fan thanks to my father, who regularly belted out "We Can Work it Out" and "A Hard Day's Night" during family karaoke nights. He'd tell us about stocking up on records as a child, and memorizing the words without the help of the lyric pamphlet we grew so accustomed to, inserted alongside our CDs. There is little else that compares to being stuffed in a room the size of a matchbox with your loved ones, watching them go euphoric (however off key) over a song.

The trouble is, despite being tangled in precious memories, my fascination for sepia-toned Bollywood tunes and The Red Album always felt a little borrowed. So I'm grateful for the existence of a band like Goldspot, which reconstitutes tried-and-tested tunes, pays homage to the legends, all while managing to inject something fresh and spunky along the way. Rather than forcing me to choose between my many worlds--past and present--Goldspot melodiously reassures me that I can, in fact, listen to everything at once.

Under Pressure

If there’s a sound that catapults me back to childhood, it’s the rattle of a pressure cooker. I would watch in awe as the star soloist in my mother's kitchen ballet performed. A silver nozzle engaged in dizzy pirouettes, swirling maniacally, until a whistle marked its aromatic finale. Out came other worldly meals: fluffy pulao, silken dal, and potatoes, gracefully bordering steamy and soft.

Intimidated (who isn't petrified of prying it open a few milliseconds too soon, only to face an eruption that would probably put that volcano in Iceland to shame?) I never envisioned possessing a stainless steel gadget of my own, until I was provided one by my mother-in-law last fall, a warm nudge encouraging me to replicate the gastronomical traditions of Gujarat, the northwestern Indian state that both our families call home. It sat in the desolate corner of a cabinet for months, as I airily assured myself that there would always be time to go the languid, slow boil route. But watching lentils cook is right up there in the entertainment category with paint drying, and I soon relented.

I’d like to think I’m solely upholding heritage but my reasons for perusing the vessel are far more utilitarian: it whittles down an otherwise sluggish ordeal, docks dollars off the energy bill and hardly takes up real estate in my microscopic, metropolitan kitchen. Vinod, as I have not-so-creatively christened my cooker, thanks to the letters emblazoned across his shiny midsection, marks my first--albeit, reluctant--foray into the world of Indian cooking. We'll see where I go with it. For the moment, I face a looming graduation date, a myriad of half-written job applications, a dreary employment market and the occasional bout of homesickness. When it all gets a little overwhelming, I am comforted by the fact that a fragrant, hot meal is just a few screeching whistles away. So along with my cooker, I blow off some steam.

This post is dedicated to my friend, Sima Thakkar, who just launched a brave new website for those who approach tradition with a healthy dose of trepidation, just like me.

The Inheritance of Optimism

I'm in the Wall Street Journal!

Original Blend

I was raised in the port of Kobe—one of the first Japanese cities to pry its doors open to foreign trade, circa 1867—where the triumphant honks of docking ships regularly punctuated my evenings. In transit, the vessels fueled up on Kobe water, abound with minerals from the city’s statuesque Rokko Mountains, proven to retain freshness despite long and arduous transcontinental voyages.

It’s the calcium and potassium enriched water, known to locals as miya mizu, that lends a sublime flavor to the aromatic mugs of coffee served at my favorite city café, Nishimura. When it was first established post WWII, the café began as a humble, provisional goods store, sandwiched between shell-shocked buildings in 1948. Situated steps away from Ijinkan, a brick laden neighborhood that was designated for foreign settlers in the late 19th century, Nishimura constantly emanates a tart and smoky scent, eager to transform even a nonchalant passerby into a connoisseur. When I visited the cafe on a recent trip home, my conversation with the store's VP (his voice dipped, almost reverently when discussing the drink) taught me that prior to Nishimura's existence, locals once drank coffee pressed from soy beans.

The café’s cosmopolitan menu, second in worldliness only to the map of the world that’s displayed inside, (crafted entirely from coffee beans) touts ten roasts, ranging from the rich and weighty Kenyan Peaberry to the milder Brazilian Bahia Santos. Nishimura’s signature blend, however, is a collection of approximately six bean varieties—a carefully guarded proprietary secret—combined to create a nutty mélange. Other sip-worthy drinks include a sinfully creamy Vienna Coffee and my personal favorite, the Nishimura cappuccino, frothed to perfection, topped by an earthy, cinnamon bark. And then there’s the food. Pillowy wedges of toast, filigreed with strawberry jam, decadent German cherry chocolate cake, and a range of gem-toned parfaits—edible testaments to Kobe’s mottled but vibrant culinary heritage, a checkered amalgam of France, Germany and certainly, Japan.

Nishimura has thrived mainly because of its remarkable ability to pick up on a major transition that Japanese food culture experienced in the 1960's, as it flowed from tatami mats to table-tops. This marked the advent of Nishimura’s highly westernized setto menu (literally, “set menu”), combinations of double-decker sandwiches, salads and gratins, all flanked by a bottomless cup of the original blend. Yet there is something distinctly local about one of the menu’s most popular items, Horenso Toast, comprised of 3 slabs of shokupan (fluffy, Japanese sandwich bread) layered with spinach, sautéed in generous pats of butter. It is this unobtrusive, culinary balancing act that will ensure Nishimura's survival as it continues to preside, quietly, over the city.

Busted: The "Asian" Myth

Leading the lackadaisical schedule associated with grad students has prompted me to form a love-hate relationship with daytime TV. Between flamboyant Court TV judges, All My Children, and frothy episodes of Tyra, I think its safe to say I'm heavier on the hate.

But I can't think of the last thing that's made my blood simmer the way this morning's segment on The Today Show did--Kathy Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb's overly simplified and borderline insulting simulated tour across a bizarre interpretation of "Asia."* The women, outfitted in a garish combo of silk kimonos and questionably angled bindis, enlightened their viewers on quintessential "Asian" experiences, complete with a sloppy origami lesson, a food sampling that frenetically spanned the continent (bibimbop, biryani, and bubble tea) and a makeshift petting zoo featuring a who's-who of Asian animals including a 47-year-old Macac and a Bactrian Camel. All topped with a whirlwind bhangra tutorial--insert the obligatory, "balle balle" here--from Masala Bhangra guru, Sarina Jain. Bite-sized culture nuggets, reducing age-old traditions to snappy, 30-second television spots. Excuse my lack of eloquence. But what the hell?

Though I'm no certified expert, I can certainly claim that the more mainstream American media finds it acceptable to present viewers with this weird and dare I say, Orientalist-inspired agglomeration that is "Asia", the more we are misinforming our audiences. And though I'm slightly embarrassed to quote the title of an existing Facebook group to bolster my point, here goes: "There's More Than One Country in Asia, People!" (yes, I'm a member). Japan is not China. And neither is Taiwan. But how are we to drive home this point if the all-encompassing, "Asian" umbrella is conveniently flapped open when any of these distinct nations becomes a topic of conversation?

Thoughts?

*Tomorrow on Today? South America!

The Raga Saga

I always wondered how old I'd be when I'd develop a fondness for Indian classic music, namely, the delicate twang of a sitar. The magic number, I learned, is 24*.

I was first introduced to the stuff on my family's weekend excursions to far flung corners of Japan, when my father would slip in the occasional Ravi Shankar CD as the backseat bickering between my younger sister and I bordered on unbearable. Back then ragas took on the role of a stern warning--the melodic precursor to a scolding.

As I matured, the intricate rhythms became synonymous with meals at our favorite Indian restaurants (to this day, a Chaurasia flute tune leaves me craving a deep-fried paneer pakora) often smothered by cacophonous dinner table conversations, not getting the showcase it deserved.

But this past weekend, ensconced in a plush seat, amidst the sustained silence of Carnegie Hall--give or take the occasional loud cougher...free Ricolas in the lobby, people!--I watched, entranced, as a petite figure in a swash of pomegranate pink and violet silk (ironically enough, the word "raga," is derived from the Sanskrit term for color and passion) strutted her way to center stage and offered the audience an exuberant namaskar. Perched on an elevated platform, she cradled her sitar, eyes half-closed and head cocked endearingly to the side. The gentle pitter patter of carefully constructed chords served as the lead-up to a more guttural, thunderous crescendo. The young virtuoso was soon joined by an orchestra of 34, a conglomeration of flutes, clarinets,oboes and violins, whose instruments momentarily criss-crossed cities, from the icy banks of the Hudson to its bustling counterpart along the Varanasi.

I was at an Anoushka Shankar concert, watching the young and overwhelmingly talented artist collaborate with the NYC-based Orpheus Chamber Music Orchestra, a unique musical transaction penned by her legendary father, the sitar maestro himself. I was most impressed by the way the orchestra instruments, Western in origin, took on a second life as they traded their typical harmonies for a highly amorphous musical form, which is "not a tune, melody, scale, mode or any concept for which an English word exists."

The grueling practice sessions behind the concert are chronicled on the Orpheus website, and serve as a candid portrayal of a cryptic musical journey, for those musicians being acquainted with the raga (and all its bells and whistles) for the first time. Rather than getting lost in translation, though, the two musical forms, when combined, were able to infuse one another with greater meaning.

*This was also how old I was when I discovered I could appreciate Autumn foliage along the Merritt Parkway, eat contentedly at a restaurant solo and kind of enjoy getting up early on Saturday mornings.

An Epicurean Affair

This post is dedicated to a fellow foodie and my friend, Dave. Wish you were here!


Combing through a mountainous heap of press releases at my new internship (a temporary stint at the Metro newspaper) I do a double take upon seeing the "Saveur" logo emblazoned across an e-mail. It's a food magazine I've come to revere lately, for its worldly sensibilities, commitment to simple--and almost primordial--home-cooking and breathtaking layout. The mag released its acclaimed 100 must-have food items list, aka, The Saveur 100, last week and I'm psyched to know that the big cheese himself, James Oseland, is available for interviews. A flurry of phone calls leads me to an enjoyable conversation with the Epicure-in-chief, a pleasant and spirited gentleman with a penchant for pressure cookers, DIY ketchup and Indonesian fare.

Upon identifying my desi connection, James fills me in on an Ahmedabad trip he took last year to shoot a spread on Gujarati cooking. "It's really a work of art," he gushes, forcing me to re-examine a world of cuisine I've apathetically consumed for the majority of my life, never really paying special attention to seemingly inconsequential details--vibrant flecks of cilantro that accessorize most vegetable dishes, the glittery film that coats traditional date and nut rolls (aka, varak, or thin sheets of pounded silver) and even the Zen-like patience required to sprout lentils, a prominent feature in many typical Gujarati meals. James excitedly informs me that the article will most likely run next year, and before I know it, he's inviting me and a guest to a Saveur event the following evening, a celebration in honor of the 10th anniversary of the publication's hit 100 list. Rumor has it that a secret 101st item will also be announced that night.

The next evening, with my favorite foodie in tow (thanks, Raj) I find myself in a crowded test kitchen midtown, bowled over by the scent of caramelized onions and baked goat cheese. Saveur's breathtaking evening menu includes a tart, made with the aforementioned ingredients, a succulent veggie lasagna, a pork and white bean cassoulet, bite-sized black and white brownies, and the piece de resistance--two oversized cheese trays, overflowing with slivers and slices of cheddar, brie and camembert, sprinkled with unlikely embellishments including thyme and parsley. We can hardly contain ourselves as we join a line full of fellow food journalists and wide-eyed plus ones, eagerly clutching their disposable bamboo plates (attractive AND biodegradable? I'm digging this!). Mid-bite, I spot an animated man in a breezy, carrot-colored Balinese shirt, ushering crowds of people towards the dinner spread. We walk over and introduce ourselves to James, while I share a Saveur-inspired anecdote: months ago, Raj and I ditched an afternoon of what was, in theory, supposed to be wedding planning and opted to churn our own butter instead, thanks to an intriguing recipe from the magazine (try it, it reads more like a magical potion than a set of instructions). James laughs appreciatively, chats for a minute or two, asking me when his interview will be published, and thanks us for coming before resuming to mingle.

During the course of that delicious evening, we warmly laud the announcement of the highly anticipated 101st item on the Saveur list (parchment paper), catch a glimpse of the Italian home-cooking sensation, Lidia Bastianich, and even squeeze in a quick, jittery hello with one of my all-time favorite writers, Suketu Mehta--needless to say, those few hours were rich with all the ingredients for a night to remember.


Stay tuned for a Metro NY piece on the Saveur 100, scheduled to run on Jan 21, 2009.