"Eggs Chakra" - Invention of a Recipe

Eggs Chakra - Tutorial  

                                      

    

In 2020, my Ministry decided to assign senior officers as mentors to young officers joining the Indian Foreign Service. I was asked to mentor three extremely bright officers, all engineers, Prithika, Himanshu and Nitin;  an experience I found to be both engaging and enjoyable.

Through our numerous sessions, I got to know them and to instil in them- in small doses- lessons that I imbibed myself in a quarter of a century of being a diplomat. The importance of camaraderie, building relationships, being open to other cultures and peoples, the need to develop a large variety of skills from reading, writing, travelling to cooking were discussed.

Entertaining people is a basic skill to acquire for diplomats, something I strongly emphasised to my mentees. To drive the point home, one day, I decided to cook dinner all by myself and asked them over.

 With false bravado, I decided to take on the challenge of preparing the entire meal. I invited not only my three mentees but to add to their fun (and my misery), I invited some of my other colleagues as well. In all, there were nine diners that night. 

The task at hand was to put on the table a decent evening meal for nine, all from scratch. Friday morning came and I drew up a menu for the evening of the following day. After work, I went shopping for all the ingredients needed to make the evening a success. As a good old Bengali, egg curry was at the top of the recipe. I then added Chicken Teen Piaza (my invention), Doodh Paneer (a recipe popular in Eastern UP), Dal Makhani, Tossed Salad, and Rice Pulao to the list. I kept out rotis and parathas as rolling and baking bread is an art I haven’t been able to master yet.

On Saturday morning, when I lazily drifted into the kitchen, the first thing I did was boil the eggs. Neatly, one task was done. I thought to myself that since I made egg curry the best, I will keep the eggs aside and make the curry at the end.

Then the enormous chore of preparing food for nine  persons single-handedly began. One by one I started cutting and chopping and putting things together. By the time the initial preparation was over, it was almost noon. I took a break but was soon back to business. Lunch time came and went and I didn’t seem to have made much progress. For lunch, I ate some of the leftovers in the fridge, cautious not to waste time making lunch for myself. Energised with carbs, I was back to the task with avengeance, and by around 5 p.m., I was done with all the preparations except the egg curry. I looked at the boiled eggs on the counter and said to myself that making egg curry is the easiest of things. Let me take a short nap and I will then come back refreshed and finish all remaining tasks. 

Exhausted, I drifted into a deep sleep. When I woke up, it was dark outside. I got up with a start as there were many things left to be done. I had to set the table and arrange the living room to receive the guests. As I set myself to doing the remaining chores, at the back of my mind, the unfinished task of making egg curry persisted. By the time I finished making the arrangements for the dinner and setting the table, it was well past 7 p.m. The guests were expected at 7:30 p.m.

I thought about skipping the idea of making egg curry as there was enough to eat. I went to the kitchen with this thought and looked at the forlorn eggs. However, after another look at the eggs, I immediately changed my mind. How could we have a Bengali dinner without egg or fish curry? Yet I did not have the stamina or the time to make the traditional curry, which requires making a base curry with onions, garlic, ginger, and tomatoes along with the ubiquitous potatoes and then adding the boiled eggs to them. This was a daunting task. But I had to make something with the eggs. But what?

I opened the fridge with an experimental mind and three things stared back at me: Mayonnaise, milk cream, and cheese spread. I took them out. I thought to myself, why not make a base curry with these continental ingredients? But these ingredients would make a white sauce, not a curry. So I thought of mixing in some masalas. On the shelf were three small pearl pet containers with haldi (turmeric), mirchi (chilli) and dhania (coriander) powders in them. I thought of using these three along with the three continental whites I found in the fridge. In diplomacy, we have heard of 2+2 dialogue; here I thought of implementing a 3+3 fusion.

From somewhere, an unseen hand guided me. I had no recipe and no idea even of the proportions of the ingredients or the final outcome. It just happened on the fly. I took a pan, poured some oil in it and as soon as the oil heated up, I added haldi, mirchi and dhanai powders to the oil and let them fry for about 30 seconds. The oil turned a rich golden-red. In this mix, I slowly rolled in the eggs. Wow! The eggs turned golden red. They looked nice. I reduced the flame and added the mayonnaise, cheese spread, and the cream in almost equal proportions and within seconds the whole thing looked golden-yellow and beautiful. I opened the shelf which contained our continental condiments and chanced upon the jar with oregano and another with sesame seeds. Without much thought, I added in some oregano and sprinkled the sesame seeds on top for additional seasoning.

The whole preparation time, excluding the time required for boiling the eggs, was about two minutes, almost like the time it takes to put together a bowl of masala Maggi. A simple, fusion recipe combining ingredients from places stretched far apart on the globe. Content with my invention, I promptly named it "Eggs Chakra", half after myself but more so as it is a hodgepodge of a recipe.

 Since its creation, the impact of the invention of "Eggs Chakra" has been strong and lasting. The dinner with my mentees and colleagues was a hit, more so as I spun a tale around the new recipe. Ever since, it has occupied a pride of place in all the meals that we have hosted, and, every time, the eggs have disappeared before all else on the table. Encouraged by the appeal, my daughter Ishani, who wants to build a career in the culinary arts, entered the recipe and the associated story in an Instagram contest– and she won. I suspect one of the reasons the recipe may have appealed to the jurors is the circumstances of the creation of “Eggs Chakra".

The 1&Only Recipes: Eggs Chakra  

Ingredients:

- 4 eggs

- 1 tbsp. coriander powder

- 1 tsp. turmeric powder

- 1 tsp. red chilli powder

- 2 tbsp. neutral oil

- ½ cup mayonnaise

- ¼ cup fresh cream

- ¼ cup grated mozzarella cheese or cheese spread

- 1 tbsp. oregano leaves

- Fresh coriander/parsley to garnish

Preparation:

1. Bring a large saucepan of water to boil over medium-high heat. Using a slotted spoon, lower the eggs into the water one at a time. Maintain a gentle boil and cook the eggs for 10 minutes. Transfer the eggs to a bowl of cold water. After the eggs have cooled down, gently crack and peel the eggs.

2. Heat oil in a skillet over medium heat. Add coriander, turmeric, and red chilli powder to the pan. Stir until the colour is uniform. Then add the eggs and coat them in the masala.

3. Add mayonnaise, cream, and cheese to the pan and mix well. Add oregano leaves and mix again.

4. Garnish with chopped coriander or parsley and serve.

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Da Vinci Da Dhaba, #HumorinDesiLife

  Da Vinci Da Dhaba

The late Shri Arun Jaitely was a connoisseur of the arts. He was also very knowledgeable and particular about food. He preferred purity in cuisines and from what I knew about him, detested fusion. Master chef Vikas Khanna once told me that his art took a turn from fusion towards authentic cuisine after discussion with Jaitley Sahib at a Buckingham Palace reception that Khanna had catered for. 

I’d had several opportunities to eat with him, and mostly agreed with his preferences—except for when he said that Amritsari fish fry was better than the Bengali fish curry in mustard. I resolved to change this (clearly flawed!) opinion by treating him to some authentic Bengali macher jhol but sadly, that day never came. 

In October 2015, Jaitley Sahib came to Lima, Peru for the World Bank/IMF Governors Meeting. I was then posted as ambassador to Peru and got to spend some time with him. For dinner, aware of his penchant for authentic food, our Bengali-Bihari combine decided to go in for Punjabi food—with butter chicken, palak paneer and baingan bharta as staple fare. Jaitleyji loved the baingan bharta and would reminisce about it several months later when he met me in New York. He opined he had had several preparations of the bharta, but somehow, the one he’d eaten in Lima lingered in his memory. It was food for thought for us, trying to recollect the exact recipe, but it gave us a clue about what to make for him at the next opportunity. 

In the autumn of 2017, as India’s finance minister, he travelled to New York, where I was then serving as the consul general. I was aware of his food preferences and tried my best to keep it simple and pure—no mixing of cuisines. 

From New York, we took the Acela Express to Boston for a day to meet with investors and for the minister's address at Harvard University. Some business persons from India were also accompanying him and suggested that we all go out for dinner together. I pointed out to them that if we couldn’t find an authentic place, it would be better to order room service at the Taj Boston, where we were staying. One senior industrialist and a president of one of India’s leading chambers told me that they had done a recce and found a genuine Italian restaurant by the name of Da Vinci. They said it would be nice if I could convince the minister to go to Da Vinci.

When I asked Jaitleyji if he would like to go out for dinner, he said: “Sandeep, we have had a long day, I'd rather stay back and order room service.” When I conveyed this to the proposers of the Da Vinci dinner, they insisted I convince the minister to reconsider. I asked them if it was worth the effort, fully aware of the potential risks of culinary disaster. They had asked around, they said, and insisted that the place was highly rated. I managed to convince the minister and we stepped out of the Taj Boston. The president of the chamber asked if he  could sit in the car with the minister, and I readily obliged. 

Da Vinci was an impressive restaurant—well appointed, on a prominent avenue with  classy furniture and decor. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling casting a mellow light on the tables covered with white tablecloths and gilt-edged maroon runners. On the tables were large wine goblets and flower arrangements, characteristic of fine dining. A long table had been laid out and everyone sat around the minister. 

The place gave me a good delicious feeling and I felt confident. I stood around for some time making sure all of us got a seat. As people settled down, the waiter went around asking for drink orders. Conversation around the table was crackling and luckily, there weren’t too many other diners that evening. Everything was good and I looked forward to a relaxing evening. 

Before I could sit down, I saw a big burly Punjabi with a funky, close-cropped hairstyle dash out of the kitchen’s swinging doors and come up to me. I was a bit startled by his sudden appearance from the inner bowels of the restaurant. He asked in chaste Punjabi- “Ai Jaitley Sahib haige, nahin?” (Isn’t he Mr Jaitley?). Growing up in the Punjabi-dominated neighbourhoods of Patel Nagar, Malviya Nagar and Vikaspuri in Delhi, I have a reasonably good understanding of spoken Punjabi, and replied in the affirmative. He followed up his question with a request. “Meri gal karwa do?”(Can you introduce us?). I agreed, and asked him “Tussi kaun?” (who are you?). He said he was the chef and went on to add: “Tussi Jaitley Sahib nu das do ki koi chinta di gal nahi. Assi unha vaste Indian style Italian banawange.” (Tell Mr Jaitley not to worry. For him I will make Indian style Italian food). The moment he said this I heard fire engine bells go off in my head. After some seconds of panic, I gathered my wits and told him that since Mr. Jaitley had come to Boston from India, he would prefer Boston food, and there was no need to make it taste “Indian”. He was undeterred and unshakeable. “Tussi chinta na karo. Assi butter chicken flavour da non veg, hor paneer butter masala flavour da vegetarian banwangey, ekdum desi style.” (Don’t worry I will make non-veg dishes with butter chicken flavour and vegetarian dishes with paneer butter masala flavour, totally in Indian style). Hearing this the acid in my stomach began to rise. This dinner was awaiting a buttery grave. 

In a desperate attempt to fix the situation, I asked him who the owner of Da Vinci was. He replied with elan: “Pai sahib main hi Da Vinci da malik hoon. Sada sarey Boston vich paanch-chey Italian restaurant hai, sabhi jagah Indian style Italian fusion milde hain, sarey bahut hit hain, tussi chinta na karo ji.” (Brother, I am the owner of Da Vinci. In the Boston area I have five-six Italian restaurants. In all of them, I serve Indian style Italian food— they are a big hit). My hopes crumbled like a crispy amaretti cookie.

Obviously fed up with me, he confidently strode towards the minister and greeted him in Punjabi. They both exchanged pleasantries in Punjabi and then Mr Da Vinci, dropped his masala spiced bomb. He repeated what he told me, that we were not to worry, his chefs make Italian food with masala which brings out the butter chicken flavour. The convivial atmosphere around the table suddenly changed and there was pin drop silence. Instead of opening up for the food, all the jaws dropped. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, so I went up to him and tried to discourage him from carrying out his plan. He took me aside and said “Koi nai, tussi chinta na karo.” (It’s okay, you need not worry). But my worries had just begun.  

We finally sat down to eat and the food started to come out of the kitchen—paneer topped pizzas, cannelloni and masala ravioli in tomato sauce (which tasted suspiciously like butter chicken gravy), and risotto that tasted like biryani. It was a mishmash of Italian dishes prepared with Indian condiments. We ate silently, with the only sounds being that of the cutlery against the crockery. It was one of the shortest meals ever. 

As we exited and walked towards our cars, I asked the president of the chamber to accompany the minister, as he had done on the onward journey. He snuck off, leaving me to accompany the minister on a ride that turned out to be largely silent. In my mind I was wretchedly recalling Da Vinci’s Last Supper. As we were crossing the Boston Common, Jaitleyji remarked “What an interesting character!” To my slightly shocked query about whom he was referring to, the minister smilingly replied: “This man, the owner of  Da Vinci da Dhaba!” I wanted to respond with an enthusiastic “Yes, minister!” but could only muster a weak nod as relief washed over me.

It was a marvellous lesson in wit, humour and compassion, and one for which I will always remember Shri Arun Jaitley with admiration.

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Case of the Missing Napkin

Case of the Missing Napkin

As Delhi's, winter sets in, out comes the woolens, stashed away out of sight in the lofts, bed boxes, under the beds and in suitcases. I think every family in India has to face this quandary of what to do with the woolens when summer sets in, where to keep them and how to protect them from mold and mites. As I took out my suits for dry cleaning, out came the napkins. Napkins? Yes, napkins!. I am not a kleptomaniac, but somehow I have this involuntary habit of putting napkins, both paper and cloth, in my pocket and bringing them home from buffet dinners, which are now the norm in India. More about buffet dinners later, but this napkin business is serious. I must have destroyed the napkin collection of many households by this unwitting habit of mine. 

While this year my purloined napkin collection has been put to good use only as dusters, other years have been more profitable. Sometimes, the napkins have been good to be recycled as hankies or even pocket squares. But I must concede those occasions have been rare, as mostly the napkins are of thick markin grey cloth or at best poplin kind of material material and have limited use, not even as napkins, as one cannot put up an assorted bunch of napkins on the table, even at buffet dinners. Yes buffet dinners, I do have something against them. 

   

Even as late as the 90s, although many Indians lived abroad, availability of Indian goods, shops and restaurants were few and far between. As a language trainee I tumbled along with my wife to Spain, sometime in August of 1998. Used to the hustle bustle of Delhi, an eerie Madrid greeted us. August is vacation time in Europe and more so in Spain, when almost everyone, who can afford, goes on vacation. The city and life in the city almost comes to a standstill. Shops are closed, offices are closed and only the penniless, aimless and the friendless stay back in the city. 

In those days the Indian population in Madrid was very small. There were no Indian stores and not even a Bangladeshi store. Indian dals and masalas were not readily available. There was a sizable Indian population in the Canary Islands and in Barcelona, but these were far away. So we had to make do with jugaad when we invited foreigners home.

For our own meals, Spanish cuisine was a revelation with amazing elaboration and range. The length of the street between our house at Concha Espina and the Embassy at Pio XII was dotted with numerous eating joints, bars and restaurants. So on the way back in the evening we would try one pub or restaurant after the other, sometimes getting our fill from eating only Tapas. 

So eating out was not a problem if one knew a smattering of Spanish. However, when we invited guests home, the expectation was to serve Indian food, whether one could make it properly or not. For many of us, new to the service and newly married, cooking was a chore, as one hadn’t been doing so till then. So while we were learning on the job in the Embassy during the day, we were learning how to cook in the kitchen in the evenings. Somehow, entertaining guests outside in restaurants was frowned upon as we were required to give foreigners the taste of Indian cuisine, even if it was unpalatable. So we struggled and learnt how to dish up a decent meal with an assortment of vegetarian and non vegetarian dishes, mixing dishes from all Indian geographies. We knew very well that there is no one Indian cuisine but several Indian cuisines, but we behaved as if what we put on the table were all national dishes and it was food that all Indians routinely ate. 

Although as a junior officer or language trainee I was not expected to entertain too much at home, we did get invited to the homes of others. Mostly these dinners were buffet dinners, most certainly an Indian invention, like the harmonium, invented abroad but perfected and used only in India. At such meals, the practice was to make mountains of food and invite hordes of guests, with hardly any room to sit. The guests then sprawl into all available spaces and even bedrooms. Of course, when so many are invited, there was no chance of all sitting down to eat a meal at the table, which I believe is not a very ambitious expectation in an urban setting outside India. But alas, it is never to be.

Plates are piled up sky high on the table with napkins tucked in between them. Then the cutlery would be arranged next to the planes in skydiver or fighter aircraft formations. Some enterprising hosts even put out knives, forks and spoons. With one hand holding the plate and sometimes a glass of wine, the other hand can hold only one instrument. How on earth can one use two instruments to dissect the food without managing to spill it and soil the sofa or clothes of other guests. While most of us have now become expert jugglers, our skills are found wanting when the meat is not boneless. All of us have witnessed missiles being launched from plates and landing on expensive Kanjivarams silks. The saree gets soiled but simultaneously the dirt migrates to the face and dirty looks are exchanged. The worry crosses the mind about how to clean the stain as it is well nigh impossible to get sarees dry cleaned in Europe or America, at least in those days.  

While we had our stock of dals, masalas and basmati rice brought to us by the container, the one thing that was missed was paneer, the essential component for any self respecting Indian vegetarian meal, particularly if North Indians are either hosts or guests. But no paneer was available in Madrid. Some said Greek feta cheese is as good as paneer. We tried it but it was either too salty or crumbled at the frenetic mixing that goes on in the kadhai on high flame in an Indian kitchen. Cooked Tofu was like eating rubber eraser with curry. Finally, the consensus amongst the Embassy and the Indian community was that it is best to make paneer at home.

To make paneer at home, one needed three ingredients- good wholesome full cream milk, lemon and a fine muslin cloth to strain out the water after the milk curdled. While there was plenty of milk and lemon in the supermarkets of Madrid, the perfect cloth to strain the paneer was hard to find.  

All kinds of solutions were attempted including dupattas, my handkerchiefs, pocket squares, a frayed shirt or even perhaps a saree, but none was effective. The water from the casein lump had to drain out drop by drop over a period of time and it must not allow the paneer to dry too much as well. All trials failed and we were in the quest of finding the right piece of cloth to make the best paneer. Every time there was dinner at home, this existential question perplexed us. Relegated to the bottom of our priority list was the need to learn the foreign language or its culture. A less than perfect paneer was a recipe for a culinary disaster. 

Then it was Bingo! One day as I was preparing to leave for office, I happened to put my hand in my pocket, out came a napkin. And what a napkin it was. Large, silken, muslin type cloth and it appeared to be goldilocks right for the paneer cloth, my home minister was yearning for. In place of going to the main door I rushed to my wife in the parlour and yelled in full fervour. Look! Look!, here is the perfect cloth that we have been looking for. Wife, who hardly ever agrees to any of my propositions, instantly agreed. A glee crossed her face and she jumped up in excitement spilling her cup of tea. The sofa was soiled, but that sorrow was easily drowned by the joy of finding this piece of cloth. 

  Thereafter it was a dream run as far as dinner parties were concerned. Our paneer was flawless, soft, creamy and could be neatly cut into cubes. It would last the fervent currying in the kadhai and shone like stars in the mutter paneer or butter paneer masala curries that we made. There was contentment in the Chakravorty household.

    While our paneer was exquisite, the same couldn’t be said about the state of the piece of cloth or the muslin napkin that we were using to make paneer. With frequent use, the white became off-colour and more alarmingly, the centre became like a bulge. A rather unsightly bulge. Clearly it had become a paneer cloth, much like the cloth we see being used by jalebi makers. It clearly couldn’t be put to any other use, but adorned a pride of place in our kitchen. 

After I finished my Spanish language training I was confirmed in service as a mighty Second Secretary. In a few months, as a colleague was transferred to another Embassy, I was asked to take over the charge of Head of Chancery. Although it sounds imperious, the Head of Chancery is a quintessential Babu, handling accounts and administration. However, in the scheme of things of the Embassy, it is an important post, as the HOC can, by denying routine privileges and facilities, cause grief to other colleagues.

In Madrid, our Head of Chancery lived in a rather big apartment, which had been with the Embassy for many years. It was located in a high rise building on a small hill on Arturo Soria with a good view of Chamartin Railway Station. We had been to the house for buffet dinners on many occasions and liked it. It had a big parlour and a dining room with a twelve seat dining table. At last we could host sit-down dinners. So as soon as the incumbent HOC left, we promptly moved into this apartment at Arturo Soria. 

After we settled in, it was time to entertain. Time to also show off that we could host sit-down dinners and not buffets. So the day of the dinner, one weekend, we started taking stock of the crockery, cutlery and napkins. Spanish homes are rented fully furnished and everything one needs is more or less available. When we moved into our first house in Concha Espina, upon arrival in Madrid, our landlady Antonia, had even provided us with a sewing kit and dental floss. Such is the attention to detail by house owners who rent out fully furnished houses.

As it was a 12 seater dining table and we had invited exactly twelve guests, we decided to take stock of the dining paraphernalia. We started counting the plates, bowls, the cutlery and the napkins. All were there to a dozen. 12 plates, 12 side plates, 12 forks, 12 knives, 12 spoons, 12 dessert spoons, 12 dessert plates and bowls, 11 napkins. Wait 11 napkins?. Where is the 12th napkin. We found it hanging with a bulge in the kitchen, all set for making of the paneer later in the day for the much awaited sit-down dinner. 

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