The name of the restaurant appeals almost as much as its food. The name is clever and sweet; the board simple and sweet. We’re lucky in Delhi to have access to the cuisine of most parts of India — over the last few years, food of a particular region has come out of the ‘ghettos’ and into mainstream areas of the city. I remember a time when the only regional food one could get was dosas , which even the corner halwai shop listed on its menu. A few years back a couple of restaurants serving the food of the North East popped up in my neighbourhood and not so far abroad some serving traditional fare of Kerala and other southern states, including meat and fish dishes. Bengali food was available first only in Chittaranjan Park and then in Oh! Calcutta. One had to travel out of Delhi to get the real thing from most states and now it’s here on our doorstep.
I saw reviews of Bong Appétit and hunted it down. The first time I went, it was in a grotty neighbourhood, difficult of access and with little parking space. But it was worth another try, and though parking is an issue everywhere in the city the new location is not only better but the space inside the restaurant is fresh and roomy. The automobile association has leased them the space and after a trek up several floors, one enters a large, bright room with informed, hospitable attention from the executive chef and CEO, Sambaran ‘Baron’ Mitra, a photographer and sensitive cook.
At the risk of boring regular readers — if any — I must say that Bengal seems to me to have the most evolved cuisine. Ingredients are chosen according to the time of year — both vegetables and fish are seasonal, and flavours vary across dishes. Cutting is specific to the ingredient and the dish for which it is intended. No ‘standard’ zeera - dhaniya powder-onion-garlic-ginger-tomato- garam masala . The tempering for each dal and vegetable is not only different, there are innumerable variations within. Standard ‘mixed’ vegetable curries like shukto, chachchari and paanchmishali comprise seasonal variations. The tempering is different from home to home but a restaurant is forced to choose a selection for the menu. The last time I ate there, ilish , hilsa , was in season. They no longer have it because they don’t buy and freeze produce in bulk. The vegetable I had that hot day was jheenge posto , ridged gourd, a cucurbit from the gourd family cooked in a paste of finely ground poppy seed but by the time I asked for a photograph, they made potol posto , parwal, another gourd, but firmer and greener.
Shukto. Photo: Sambaran Mitra
So this is what two of us ate that day, on my last, memorable visit to Bong Appétit.
I’ve learnt — I think — to eat in courses, starting with the more mildly flavoured dal and vegetables and progressing on to fish. First, the milder curry and then the more strongly flavoured steamed-in-banana leaf parcel baked with pungent mustard paste. I usually avoid the mutton and poori, kosha mangsho and luchchi , because the mutton is the boring kind you get anywhere. We started with bhaja moong dal , roasted moong dal, golden brown, small-grained, with emerald green jewel-like green peas simmered in it. It was mild, malty flavoured, with ghee and a tiny hint of sweetness. On the side there was the jheenge posto , in which the jheenge , ridged gourd, had been cut into batons that had possibly been fried before simmering in the poppy seed paste so that they retained crispness and some bite, and didn’t descend into a slough of mushiness. Posto is a favourite condiment of mine and I miss my mother’s rendition, which time and again I’ve failed to replicate: tinda (small gourd) stuffed with and then cooked in a buttery paste of poppy seed.
And we had two kinds of fish: bhetkipaturi , the fish fillets coated in a strong mustard paste, then wrapped and baked in banana leaf. It was very, very good but the fish that is engraved in my gustatory memory is the ilish tel jhol, hilsa poached in mustard oil, with no spices — just the oil for flavour, taste and texture; a gentle, viscous ‘gravy’ comprising green chilli flavoured oil. Mitra explained how the fish, loved and savoured by the fish cognoscenti, and notorious for a myriad fine bones, was deboned. They cut a large fillet at those points from which they can enter and surgically extract the bones. Then the fish is ‘poached’ in fragrant mustard oil. So I added spoonfuls of golden, honey-coloured oil to a bit of steamed white rice, asked for some salt, mashed it in and, with a bite of the green chilli, I was in heaven. Every other mouthful I would add a morsel of fish, which was buttery and tender, and it was such a perfectly, delicately balanced taste that eating anything after would have been immoral.
ILISH TEL JHOL
Serves 8
1 kg hilsa, sliced (about 10 pieces)
1/2 tsp turmeric
8-10 green chillies, slit
Salt
200 ml water
500 ml good quality mustard oil
Bring the fish gently to the boil in salted water. As soon as the water begins to boil, lower the heat to minimum and add the rest of the ingredients.
Simmer till the water has evaporated and just the oil remains. Turn off heat immediately. Finish with a generous drizzle of mustard oil.
Vasundhara Chauhan is a food writer based in Delhi.
vasundharachauhan9@gmail.com
