Who moved my plate?

Raul Dias chronicles his intimate and downright passionate relationship with the greatest love of his life – food!

"Why don't you write a piece that speaks of this apparent obsession of yours with food?" suggested the eternally gorgeous Sathya Saran one sunny winter afternoon, as she watched me attack the buffet counter with manic gusto. We were at a brunch at the Mecca of all things foodie (to me at least!) – Colaba's iconic haute cuisine destination, Indigo.
So, while I tried to put my by-now-defunct geometry skills to good use and divide up my circular plate into sections so that all the major food groups had their own designated zones (God forbid if the saffron-infused paella merged with the grilled rawas in a lemon and parsley sauce, thus causing a gloopy mess!), I sat down to some serious thinking… all this while eating of course.
When and how did this intense love affair develop so fervently, that till today it remains the greatest and dare-I-say most fulfilling dalliance of my life? And how is it that even while I write this I can't think beyond my next meal? I guess the answer lies with my mother, who claims that throughout the nine month period when I was a tenant of her womb, all she craved for was pork spare ribs smothered in a sweetly-spiced char siu sauce. Till date, I salivate copiously every time I come close to even so much as staring at a picture of pork spare ribs!
When I was 11 months old, my parents were crestfallen when I ditched the expected "Mamma-Papa" prattle and chose "dal" – that monosyllabic comfort food -- as my first word. The sound of tomatoes, chillies and curry leaves angrily hissing away in desi ghee, waiting to confront the sunburst yellow colour of simmering dal is the best sound to my 'hungry' ears anytime of the day or night.
In kindergarten I was the only child whose rendition of the Roman alphabet was a constant source of consternation to my teachers. My A for apple was fine, but the remaining 25 were like the oral version of the glossary section of a Tarla Dalal cookbook! Read: B for banana, C for chocolate and D for dum aloo and you'll get the drift.
Come wedding season and I was the happiest kid on the block. Not because I could shake my booty to the strains of the live bands that were de rigeur at Catholic weddings in the early 90s. It was the post revelry feast that enticed the budding gourmand in me no end. I mean, where else can you find a mile long (ok, I might be exaggerating the mile long bit!!) table groaning under the weight of edible masterpieces like sorpotel, chicken cafreal, mutton xacuti and the sweet cousin of the idli – the sanna? In fact, I would even choose to (or not to) attend a wedding solely on the basis of the caterer hired. "Mum, Dad why don't you carry on without me. The last time XYZ catered at ABC's wedding, the roast suckling didn't quite make the muster," I would haughtily declare.
In my teen years, I quickly reached third base with my love for anything edible as 80 per cent of my pocket money was depleted in my quest for scoping out the perfect steak burger. Everywhere I went, I would order burgers with extra fries, thus earning myself the moniker 'Burger King' (now, only if I had copyrighted that name…) that was bestowed upon me by my bemused friends.
Leftovers no longer became an issue at home and we were spared the whole "there are children starving in Somalia!" bit by my father. No need of making space in the fridge for that half-eaten quiche, "just let Raul have a go at it" was the mantra and poof! it disappeared down that bottomless pit I have for a stomach. How I stayed thin amidst all that obesity-defying consumption is a mystery that befuddles me to this very day!
The 'greedster' in me got further deliverance when I started writing part-time for the food and travel section of a local daily in Liverpool, UK, where I was studying law. I couldn't believe it that I was actually getting paid to eat! Talk about having your cake and eating it too… literally. So, there I was chronicling the plus points of Sayers' steak and kidney pie vis-à-vis Mrs Guthrie's sorry excuse of a chicken tikka masala, while earning more dosh so that I could indulgently pamper my fastidious taste buds.
It's been close to four years now that I'm back home in amchi Mumbai, discovering and unearthing culinary gems like that luscious Gujarati wonder – undhiyu and Kashmiri lotus stem stew among other taste bud tinglers. And yet I draw the same analogy comparing food to a new lover, where everyday throws up something new to unravel like a delicious little secret waiting to be savoured and yes… shared!

(First published in DNA Me)