The rosogolla’s existential crisis
By Dhruv Mookerji
Bengali weddings once saw rosogolla-eating contests. Today, banned on flights and with its origin in doubt, the sweet is looking for Kolkata’s love.
Imet with an old acquaintance from my television days in Kolkata, Sanjoy Da (name unchanged, just as he’d love it), at an ad shoot in Mumbai where he was assisting production. I will forever remember that conversation for two reasons. The first was his assertion that Kapil Dev would have been the finest Prime Minister India could have had, a thought he asked me to seriously mull over rather than dismiss outright (I’m on it, Sanjoy Da, give me a few more months). The second was his revelation about how he’d solved the roshogolla flight problem.
Indeed, that detour was hardly brief, but we’re only just getting started with beloved Bengali indulgences. Sanjoy Da’s solution was to buy them from his local shop, squeeze out all the ras, pack the dehydrated gollas separately to carry carefully in his hand-baggage, and carry the ras in a checked in can. Once in Mumbai, he’d reunite the two. An awkward compromise — but it protected the sweetmeat from being battered, which was the primary atrocity committed on it, in his opinion.
This anecdote is by no means an invitation to replicate procedure, or teach life hacks. Please, as they say, do not try this at home. It should be clear from the aforementioned first memory of Sanjoy Da, that his ideas, like his roshogollas, are best squashed. The anecdote serves to illustrate an obsession peculiar to Bengalis. It is a food barely pre-dating the Revolt of 1857, but it has assumed grand proportions ever since. Perhaps this is even more so because of the argument that it is certainly not a mid-19th century creation, but a much older creation, and not even a Bengali one. This argument is proffered by the people of Odisha, who make a reasonable claim that it is an Oriya sweet. This debate, it must be mentioned, is the one debate that sparks dismissive derision rather than fierce fire in Bengalis. It is assumed to be beyond discussion by most. And yet — Puri, Pahala and Salepur in Odisha are undoubtedly historically celebrated homes for the sweet. The few that do argue seriously, resolve the debate by saying that the original Odisha varieties were different in colour, tended to spoil if not consumed hot, and were less syrupy, hence the modern roshogolla as the world knows it, is the famed Bengali confectioner Nobin Chandra Das’ creation, and the Odisha variety may be addressed by whatever name is preferred, but it isn’t the real thing.
Another beloved indulgence, a rare sight now, is the tradition of roshogolla-eating competitions at Bengali weddings. Older generations boast, quite believably, about the days when cousins would go head to head and average 20-25 roshogollas in close finishes. All eyes would be on the competitors, and no small gratitude was offered to the heavens by the wedded couple who found momentary respite from being the beaming centrepieces of attention. Though healthy eating dictates that this is not a regrettable demise of tradition, the competition does hold its own as a charming sport, especially in comparison to the grotesqueries that are beer-drinking competitions and la tomatina.
For all the noble rivalry to the king of sweets that other favourites like pantua, langcha, cham cham, and kheer kadam, the roshogolla is still the darling of hosts. Traditional hospitality abides by the compulsory offering of roshogollas and a glass of water for guests at most households.
Often, visitors to the city leave sweet-shopping as the last item on their task list, inevitably panic-calling local friends to ask where to get roshogollas en route to the airport. The nearest equivalent in Mumbai would be looking for delicious vada pav in large stores. As anyone will tell you, the gems lie in the neighbourhood street stalls, railway stations and some market stores. Thus in Kolkata, each neighbourhood has a hallowed haunt. I personally swear by mine — Jay Maa Kali Mistanna Bhandar, off Sarat Bose Road. At the rockstar level, Balaram Mullick is a treasure trove, and Gangurams on Elgin Road still maintains its standards.
The tragedy to sign off on all tragedies is that Girish Chandra Dey and Nakur Chandra Nandy of Ram Dulal Sarkar Street do not make roshogollas, nor any syrupy sweets. This is tragic because they are, without any doubt, the Mozart of Kolkata sweets; no shop can boast such artistry in sweet-making. If they were to ever introduce the Roshogolla, I have no doubt that they would make — and here comes the ultimate Bengali indulgence of bottom lines — Kolkata the only city in the world worth living in.
The writer is a regular actor, selective writer, passionate quizmaster and occasional stand-up.
RASGULLA RECIPE
♦ Boil milk in a heavy bottomed dish till it steams for 2-3 minutes.
♦ Add and stir lemon juice or dahi in ample quantity to curdle the milk.
♦ Make sure the milk gets curdled just enough and not fully. To prevent overcooking add cold water or ice cubes.
♦ Take a fine cotton or muslin cloth. Use it to filter the curdled milk mixture.
♦ This is Chenna. Once the additional milk and water has run out, knot the cloth and hang it from a height. All the additional water will drip out. Squeeze the cloth to make sure.
♦ After an hour or so knead the Chenna softly – like we knead flour. It should be soft and smooth.
♦ Make small balls – an inch in diameter. Make them small – as they usually swell up post cooking.
♦ Make sugar syrup separately in a pan. Take sugar and water – boil. Add cardamom powder for extra fragrance and flavour.
♦ Once the sugar syrup starts to boil, add the small chenna balls.
♦ Cover the pan and cook for ten minutes on slow heat.
♦ When the balls have swelled to double their original size , you know they are done.
BEST SERVE CHILLED
Bengali weddings once saw rosogolla-eating contests. Today, banned on flights and with its origin in doubt, the sweet is looking for Kolkata’s love.
Imet with an old acquaintance from my television days in Kolkata, Sanjoy Da (name unchanged, just as he’d love it), at an ad shoot in Mumbai where he was assisting production. I will forever remember that conversation for two reasons. The first was his assertion that Kapil Dev would have been the finest Prime Minister India could have had, a thought he asked me to seriously mull over rather than dismiss outright (I’m on it, Sanjoy Da, give me a few more months). The second was his revelation about how he’d solved the roshogolla flight problem.
A brief detour: the roshogolla flight problem is the restriction enforced by airports on carrying rosgollas as a part of hand baggage on domestic flights. Kolkata airport has a printed sign, which has assumed semi-cult proportions, announcing, “Liquids above 100 ml including roshogolla are not allowed”. I have admittedly fond memories of the faces of passengers in the period prior to the institution of this sign, who were informed on the other side of the X-ray check that they had to dispose of their pot of roshogollas. I remember, in no particular order — a near epileptic fit, an angry fling into the bin, a man, wife and mother gobbling up the sweets rather than wasting them - all infinitely preferable to trudging back and checking them in and having them tossed about and battered at high altitudes. One can now carry roshogolla in one’s hang baggage, if it is bought from Bishwa Bangla, Mamata Banerjee’s flagship buy-Bengali store. But this is relief only for those looking to carry sweets back for fuss-free friends and family elsewhere, often non-Bengalis. For the home team, though, there can be no compromise on buying from their go-to mishtanna bhandars and carrying them upright and pristine.
Indeed, that detour was hardly brief, but we’re only just getting started with beloved Bengali indulgences. Sanjoy Da’s solution was to buy them from his local shop, squeeze out all the ras, pack the dehydrated gollas separately to carry carefully in his hand-baggage, and carry the ras in a checked in can. Once in Mumbai, he’d reunite the two. An awkward compromise — but it protected the sweetmeat from being battered, which was the primary atrocity committed on it, in his opinion.
This anecdote is by no means an invitation to replicate procedure, or teach life hacks. Please, as they say, do not try this at home. It should be clear from the aforementioned first memory of Sanjoy Da, that his ideas, like his roshogollas, are best squashed. The anecdote serves to illustrate an obsession peculiar to Bengalis. It is a food barely pre-dating the Revolt of 1857, but it has assumed grand proportions ever since. Perhaps this is even more so because of the argument that it is certainly not a mid-19th century creation, but a much older creation, and not even a Bengali one. This argument is proffered by the people of Odisha, who make a reasonable claim that it is an Oriya sweet. This debate, it must be mentioned, is the one debate that sparks dismissive derision rather than fierce fire in Bengalis. It is assumed to be beyond discussion by most. And yet — Puri, Pahala and Salepur in Odisha are undoubtedly historically celebrated homes for the sweet. The few that do argue seriously, resolve the debate by saying that the original Odisha varieties were different in colour, tended to spoil if not consumed hot, and were less syrupy, hence the modern roshogolla as the world knows it, is the famed Bengali confectioner Nobin Chandra Das’ creation, and the Odisha variety may be addressed by whatever name is preferred, but it isn’t the real thing.
Another beloved indulgence, a rare sight now, is the tradition of roshogolla-eating competitions at Bengali weddings. Older generations boast, quite believably, about the days when cousins would go head to head and average 20-25 roshogollas in close finishes. All eyes would be on the competitors, and no small gratitude was offered to the heavens by the wedded couple who found momentary respite from being the beaming centrepieces of attention. Though healthy eating dictates that this is not a regrettable demise of tradition, the competition does hold its own as a charming sport, especially in comparison to the grotesqueries that are beer-drinking competitions and la tomatina.
For all the noble rivalry to the king of sweets that other favourites like pantua, langcha, cham cham, and kheer kadam, the roshogolla is still the darling of hosts. Traditional hospitality abides by the compulsory offering of roshogollas and a glass of water for guests at most households.
Often, visitors to the city leave sweet-shopping as the last item on their task list, inevitably panic-calling local friends to ask where to get roshogollas en route to the airport. The nearest equivalent in Mumbai would be looking for delicious vada pav in large stores. As anyone will tell you, the gems lie in the neighbourhood street stalls, railway stations and some market stores. Thus in Kolkata, each neighbourhood has a hallowed haunt. I personally swear by mine — Jay Maa Kali Mistanna Bhandar, off Sarat Bose Road. At the rockstar level, Balaram Mullick is a treasure trove, and Gangurams on Elgin Road still maintains its standards.
The tragedy to sign off on all tragedies is that Girish Chandra Dey and Nakur Chandra Nandy of Ram Dulal Sarkar Street do not make roshogollas, nor any syrupy sweets. This is tragic because they are, without any doubt, the Mozart of Kolkata sweets; no shop can boast such artistry in sweet-making. If they were to ever introduce the Roshogolla, I have no doubt that they would make — and here comes the ultimate Bengali indulgence of bottom lines — Kolkata the only city in the world worth living in.
The writer is a regular actor, selective writer, passionate quizmaster and occasional stand-up.
RASGULLA RECIPE
♦ Boil milk in a heavy bottomed dish till it steams for 2-3 minutes.
♦ Add and stir lemon juice or dahi in ample quantity to curdle the milk.
♦ Make sure the milk gets curdled just enough and not fully. To prevent overcooking add cold water or ice cubes.
♦ Take a fine cotton or muslin cloth. Use it to filter the curdled milk mixture.
♦ This is Chenna. Once the additional milk and water has run out, knot the cloth and hang it from a height. All the additional water will drip out. Squeeze the cloth to make sure.
♦ After an hour or so knead the Chenna softly – like we knead flour. It should be soft and smooth.
♦ Make small balls – an inch in diameter. Make them small – as they usually swell up post cooking.
♦ Make sugar syrup separately in a pan. Take sugar and water – boil. Add cardamom powder for extra fragrance and flavour.
♦ Once the sugar syrup starts to boil, add the small chenna balls.
♦ Cover the pan and cook for ten minutes on slow heat.
♦ When the balls have swelled to double their original size , you know they are done.
BEST SERVE CHILLED
