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Magazine
GOURMET FILES
Delightful freshness
VASUNDHARA CHAUHAN
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There has been a slow change in our tastes, with vegetables getting more and more attractive.
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Photo: Vasundhara Chauhan
Delicious compromise: Ganth Gobhi Gosht.
A friend tells the story of her nephew in Lucknow who, when pressed to attend a family wedding, refused, saying it would be totally predictable and unbearably boring: “Wahi pulao aur korma, wahi kabab aur biryani. Hinduon ki shaadi mein ja ke dekho: tarah tarah ki sabziyan.” (Though it suffers in translation: “It’ll be the same old pulao and korma, the same old kabab and biryani. But look at a Hindu wedding; they’ll have a million different vegetables.”) When I first heard the story I couldn’t understand what was wrong with the boy — most of us would kill for the korma-biryani feast. But increasingly there’s a change creeping into our tastes — vegetables are getting more and more attractive. Partly it must be the subconscious assimilation of all the literature and media reporting on the virtues of veggies versus meat. But — and I say this at the risk of being labelled an aging bore by my “young” 50-year-old friends — the appeal is genuine and comes from the freshness of vegetables themselves.
Seduction time
It takes one short visit to the vegetable shop to seduce the most diehard meat eater. Our local Shuklaji gets his consignment from the sabzi mandi at the crack of dawn every morning. A small truck arrives with his two Chhotus hanging out the back, and, before the truck is parked, Chhotu 1 and 2 leap out and start to fling out baskets of vegetables covered with wet gunny sacks. Within 10 minutes Shuklaji and the Chhotus spread out their wares. At that time it’s too early for the beat constable to enforce non-encroachment, so the pavement is covered with piles of red carrots, deep green spinach, shiny green parwals, deep purple aubergines which look as if they’ve been massaged with oil. There’s the olive green of mustard leaves, smooth white radishes with their crowns of crisp green leaves as yet not wrenched off, red, red tomatoes. Yellow peppers, pale green gourds, green-black karelas and, visually as well as practically, a base to set it all off: the creamy beige of new potatoes. I can see I’m mixing up the seasons — you can’t possibly have karelas and mustard leaves or new potatoes at the same time in the North, but you get the picture: a palette for an artist.
Contrast this with a visit to a meat/chicken/fish shop. The colours: red, red and pink. The smell: the less said, the better. The noise: bang-bang, chop-chop, grind-grind. The hygiene: don’t lean on anything, watch out for flying shrapnel and mind the puddle. There’s always the option of sending a minion to shop but then you don’t get cuts you want and trimming is less than satisfactory.
It’s different on the plate
But the fact that one can wax lyrical about vegetables and squeamish about meat doesn’t mean that those born carnivorous actually go off their preferred form of protein. My daughter, then a sweet (faced) eight-year-old, once accompanied me to the butcher’s. There she put me into a moral dilemma with innumerable questions. “Is that a lamb?” Ouch. “Is that its arm?” Ouch. “Is its mama looking for it?” OUCH! So that night when some mutton thing was served to her I fully expected tears and mutiny... She asked for seconds. Most non-vegetarians suffer occasional pangs — I think — about what they eat. And there’s an increasing appreciation for the green stuff. Sometimes, after a week of having to dine out, I long for not just homemade food but sabzi.
A delightful compromise is meat cooked with a vegetable. The serious meat-eaters can have their way, those on the fringe can have a bit of both, and kids actually start to tolerate — or even like — veggies they wouldn’t otherwise spit at. There are standard combinations in every omnivorous home. In Punjab, menus are seasonal; matar keema, methi, shalgam or palak gosht in winter. Karela stuffed with keema, tinda or bhindi cooked with keema, tori or ghiya (lauki) gosht in summer. And alu gosht round the year. For some reason meat-veggie combinations aren’t served to guests, it’s more a family-only thing. This one is a big family favourite.
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Ganth Gobhi Gosht Mutton Curry with Knol-Khol
Serves 4
500g mutton pieces from dasti (foreleg)
2 cups dahi
Salt
2 tsp coriander (dhania) powder
Quarter tsp turmeric (haldi)
2 tbsp mustard oil
4 cloves
4 green cardamoms
2-inch piece cinnamon
1 bay leaf
4-5 peppercorns
2 tbsp tomato purée
Pinch of asafoetida (hing)
1-2 tsp red Kashmiri chilli powder
Half tsp saunf powder
Quarter tsp sonth powder
300g ganth gobhi (knol-khol), with leaves
2 tsp mustard oil
Wash and dry mutton pieces. Beat dahi with salt, dhania powder and haldi till smooth. Mix with mutton pieces and keep aside for an hour or two. Heat oil in a heavy bottomed pan and add cloves, cardamom, cinnamon, bay leaf and peppercorns. After 1-2 minutes, add tomato purée. Stir in hing and red chilli powder. When oil separates, add mutton along with dahi marinade, all at once. Cook uncovered, on high heat. The mutton will start sticking to the bottom of the pan, so stir frequently and scrape if needed. When the mutton is a nice reddish-brown, add a cup of water into which saunf and sonth powders have been mixed. Cook, covered, until mutton is almost tender. Meanwhile, peel, halve and slice ganth gobhi into quarter inch slices. Wash and roughly chop tender leaves. Blanch in boiling water for a minute, then sauté in hot mustard oil for a minute or so. Add to simmering mutton curry, with a little water if necessary. Cook till meat and ganth gobhi are tender. Gravy should be smooth and thinnish but not watery.
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