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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