Food Glorious Food

Who would think that any sort of memory of Calcutta would have such a strong and intrinsic link to food. Every place, every time has its own flavour and its own strong memory link with that flavour; for example, walking beside the river in the late afternoon has to be a Kwality choc ice, getting the handicaps for the races on a Thursday - Flurys and chicken toast.


Bengali food is delicious as is most Indian food from biriani to daal. The thing about Calcutta food was its constant variety. Gregg, my American friend, said the other day that he never seemed to find Chinese food that tasted as good - and I would agree. From the Waldorf to Mamma Sung it was all memorable.  My best friend Annabel and I often torture ourselves with recitations of a week's menus - lobster Thermidor, Bekti Orly, Crumb steak, filet steak. We forget the lack of nice bacon - the idiosyncrasies of Amul butter and that both of us unpeeled apples were a novelty and a thrill.

We had a cook,  Bertie, who, on his day, would put most professional kitchens and chefs to shame. His pies and his desserts were scrumptious and even his alarming combination of Buddhism and Communism failed to put any of us off ploughing through his meals with attack and vigour.


Some of my earliest memories of Calcutta are related to food, in particular, the delight of Sunday lunch at Firpos. Firpos was the quintessential Calcutta restaurant - founded by an Italian before the Second World War - it remained open and popular right up to the late 60s. Sunday lunch there was a Calcutta tradition, for our parents it meant fabulous curry and several Gimlets, for us children always the same: Prawn Cocktail (no horrid limp green lettuce and real strong dash of Tabasco), Fried Chicken and to finish the best ice cream and chocolate sauce any of us ever tasted. While we eat our way through the menu the band would play and people dance, half way through the lunch time there would be a cabaret- exotic dances, magic or a ventriloquist. 


The maitre d, Mr David took over the catering at the Turf Club after Firpos closed and every Saturday I would recreate my childhood Sunday lunch, only now moving on to Chicken Kiev as the more sophisticated version of fried chicken. We would arrive at the races at about 12.30, always sit at the same table and eat and socialise in the way that one did in that  environment. Mum would be on the lookout for trainers and jockeys - looking for that elusive gift, the sure thing. Once Willy Carson came and sat with us for awhile before he went to change and ride - he wen through Mum's card and gave her 6 out of 7 winners. He was always revered in the Watkin household as a result.


Park Street was the main social thoroughfare with most of the upmarket restaurants situated in the fist half mile or so as you left Chowringhee. Trincas, hallowed home of the Jam Session, offered food that was not the best but also had delicious iced coffee with large dollops of cream and ice cream. Further down, Sky Room has no other claim to glory than its delectable Chicken Patties - wish I could get the recipe for them. My sister could often be found there with her friend Katie as they bunked off their shorthand/typing classes with the nuns at Loreto. Flurys, on the corner of Park St. and Middleton St., offered a range of chocolates and cakes that had us dropping in most days for a little snack. Chicken toast- liberally buttered, soft and salty, meringues that Annabel would try and eat in one go and then be stuck grimacing as she tried to work her jaw around an impossible obstacle. Round the corner from Flurys was the Kalimpong Homes shop that sold the cheese from the Swiss Fathers that Mum would sent to Freda Bedi and Hopela.






The oddest thing that we remember is the quality of the meat. Odd because Calcutta is predominately Hindu and that meat at all should be available was exceptional, Kathmandhu for example offered Buff Burgers: not nice, while we enjoyed undercut or filet as routine. We had the large Muslim population of the city to thank for that.  It certainly spoiled  you for steak as until I was 22 I didn't know there were other cuts of beef! Likewise the fish - fresh from the coast we had bekti, firm white fleshed fish that tastes of heaven - cod is a sad cousin. Lobster, plump and sweet  dressed a la Thermidor with mountains of melting cheese or in Newburg sauce rich with sherry and cream. Hilsa, the iconic Bengali river fish, cooked delicately so the many bones would not spoil its exquisite flavour.


Any ex Calcuttan will request the same dish if asked to choose for a desert island: Nizam's kathi rolls. How can they be described? Basically a kebab wrapped in a paratha but so much more than that. They were the food of late nights or a snack before going to the cinema or pretty much any time the hunger overtook us/ Rumours were always rife that the meat inside the roll was cat but if you didn't look too closely you could push that to the back of your mind as you allowed the flavours to overtake your fears of eating a moggy. As well as Nizams there was Teen Murthi where you could sit at a table and eat your roll - delicious but the brown paper bag and the eating in the car or as you walked were as much a part of the experience as the flavour.

There was an evening, not long before I left, when Harish phoned to see if I would like to go to the Royal for Friday night dinner. I naturally  assumed he meant the golf club, and, although thinking it was rather a long way for dinner, said yes and rushed off to get ready. I dressed up a bit - the Royal was a posh golf club - and we set off. We seemed to be going in the wrong direction - all the landmarks I could see pointed towards downtown Calcutta not Tollygunge but I held my peace thinking that Harish must surely know where he was going. We arrived at a place that was most definitely not a posh golf club and there raised eyebrows from my bejeaned friends at my long dress and make up. They were kind enough to say nothing and we went into the building. The restaurant was at the top of the rickety stairs and as we entered a hush fell briefly over the room. We were escorted to a enclosed booth and without consultation Chicken Biriani was ordered for all.


It turned out that the Royal was a restaurant that mainly catered for a Muslim clientele and the Friday nights were the time to eat there as the Biriani was cooked specially for an after prayer meal. It was superb, fluffy white rice mixed the with fluffy saffron rice hiding beneath it the secret of juicy chicken and new and exciting flavours. Better than anything a golf club could offer.


Two extremes will serve as my ending: both Friday lunchtime specials. The Bengal Club, holding firm to its past as it reinvented itself for the future would serve steak and kidney pudding. To eat something so quintessentially English in the heat of 102 with 90% humidity was to fully appreciate Noel Coward's genius in writing Mad Dogs and Englishmen. The other was favourite restaurant and I have spent years trying to recreate the meals I had there. Chicken Butter Masala, naan and cheese and peas - this is meal that will be served in heaven if I ever get there. Amber. Close to the Statesman offices this was a lunchtime treat as often as any of us could afford it or make the right excuse. Chicken Butter Masala has no relationship with Chicken Tikka Masala other than a vague similarity in the colour of their sauces. Chicken taken from the bone placed in a butter masala - sheer bliss.


I am going to have to stop - I am starving!