(This article first appeared in the 14th July 2024 issue of Deccan Herald newspaper's Sunday Herald section on page 14 https://www.deccanherald.com/amp/story/lifestyle/food-and-drink/when-maputo-meets-mapusa-3103088)
Showing posts with label GOAN CUISINE. Show all posts
Showing posts with label GOAN CUISINE. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 17, 2024
Thursday, February 22, 2024
Goan Street Food and Drink
(This article first appeared online on 21st February 2024 on Live Mint, India https://lifestyle.livemint.com/food/discover/goa-street-food-guide-111708479964448.html)
Wednesday, October 4, 2023
Food of the Konkan
Saturday, July 15, 2023
Goa's Monsoon Porridge Party
Saturday, June 17, 2023
Feijoada: The Stew For Family & Friends
Wednesday, May 17, 2023
6 Unique Thalis of India!
Wednesday, April 26, 2023
Mangalorean Christian Cuisine
(This article first appeared online on 26th April 2023 in Mint Lounge, India https://lifestyle.livemint.com/food/discover/the-edible-secrets-of-mangaluru-s-christian-community-111682477016549.html)
Sunday, April 23, 2023
Goa's Vintage Cookbooks
(This article first appeared online and in print on 22nd April 2023 in Mint Lounge, India https://lifestyle.livemint.com/food/discover/the-best-cookbooks-on-food-from-goa-111682206278295.html)
Monday, December 12, 2022
The Goa-Brazil Christmas Food Connection
(This article first appeared online on 12th November 2022 in Mint Lounge, India https://lifestyle.livemint.com/food/discover/how-goa-and-brazil-are-united-by-christmas-recipes-111670815157415.html)
Wednesday, September 21, 2022
Kismur: Goa's delicious monsoon must have
(This article first appeared online on 21st September 2022 in Mint Lounge, India https://lifestyle.livemint.com/food/discover/kismur-is-a-flavour-bomb-from-the-goan-pantry-111663745637616.html)
Sunday, July 31, 2022
Noshtalgia: Kalchi Kodi
(This column first appeared in the 31st July 2022 issue of The Hindu newspaper's Sunday Magazine section on page 8
https://www.thehindu.com/life-and-style/food/goan-monsoon-dish-of-kalchi-kodi-trumps-the-states-pork-fest-ofsorpotelassadoroast-andvindaloo/article65369633.ece)
Sunday, May 15, 2022
Rise & Shine
(This article first appeared in the 15th May 2022 issue of Deccan Herald newspaper's Sunday Herald section on page 17 https://www.deccanherald.com/sunday-herald/sh-top-stories/rise-shine-1108632.html)
Tuesday, September 7, 2021
Around the World in Savoury Cakes
(This article first appeared in the 7th September 2021 issue of Business Line newspaper's BLink section online https://www.thehindubusinessline.com/blink/takeaway/savoury-cake-connection/article36331869.ece)
Thursday, August 5, 2021
Sunday, December 6, 2020
Bloody Good, I say!
While it might not be for the faint-heated, animal blood is an important ingredient in dishes across the world and one that has played a crucial role in the culinary ‘coming of age’ of a budding gourmand.
By Raul Dias
If you were to talk to those who knew me while I was growing up, chances are that their recollections of me would be peppered with adjectives like ‘annoyingly smarmy’, ‘insufferable little know-it-all’, and other not-so-flattering sobriquets. And they would not be off the mark! More often than not, my “over smart attitude”—as my father loved to call it—would get me into a serious spot of bother. But every now and then, it also took me down a serendipitous path of delicious discoveries.
The summer of my 10th year, spent vacationing around South East Asia was one such time. Insisting on ordering a ‘sundae’ for myself at a Korean restaurant in Singapore and paying absolutely no heed to the flustered server’s suggestion that I order something else, I gluttonously waited for my frozen treat to materialise onto the table. In its stead, the now-sniggering server plonked down a plate upon which was placed a blistered, coiled link of a dark brown, almost blackish sausage that he proclaimed with a flourish as “sundae!”. That is how I was introduced to the wonders of the delicious Korean pig’s blood grilled sausage also known as sundae.
United by Blood
Over the years, wherever I would travel, I would make it my mission to scope out dishes that—pardon the morbidity—satiated my ‘blood cravings’. And I really had extraordinarily little trouble in that quest. From imparting that unmistakable iron-y flavour to an Asian stir fry to some much-needed heft to a thin gravy or simply bestowing that rich, haemoglobic, scarlet depth of colour on to a stew, animal blood holds sway the world over. For you see, the concept of animal blood as an ingredient and dare-I-say a delicacy is firmly etched into the culinary lexicon of most countries’ food cultures for centuries.
On a college graduation gift of a safari to Kenya in the mid-2000s, I partook in the age-old Masaai tribal custom of knocking back a cocktail of bull’s blood and milk. Freshly siphoned off the beast’s jugular vein, the blood is quickly mixed with cow’s milk to avoid curdling and served warm out of a hollowed bull’s horn.
While studying for my post-graduation degree in the UK, I fell in love with the crumbly, oat-y taste of a generous slab of pig’s blood sausage called black pudding under fried eggs for my quotidien breakfast served in the cafeteria of my halls of residence. Weekend trips to next door France introduced me to their iteration of the adored pig’s blood sausage called boudin noir that is best paired with sautéed apples.
On a two-week exchange trip to Guangzhou, I saw my Chinese host family speak reverentially of what they know as congealed pig or duck’s blood tofu called xie dòufu that is the main ingredient of the hallowed, fiery stew aptly called hot pot. My blood quest would get further intensified in places like Laos and in northeast Thailand where a surprisingly fresh-tasting mountain salad called laap sees raw minced pork mixed with spices and copious amounts of pig’s blood.
On a recent, pre-pandemic work trip to Scandinavia, I gourmandised my way through the wonderfully flavoursome pig’s blood pancake called blodplättar in Sweden and veriohukainen in Finland.
India, too?
But if you were beginning to think of the use of blood as a ‘foreign’ thing, India’s vast culinary repertoire of blood-enriched dishes will bring you back to our very own desi kitchens! As long as I live, I will never forget the mixture of emotions of seeing a freshly slaughtered pig for the first time in Goa. Rushing to collect the blood spewing forth from the animal’s jugular into a hollowed coconut shell, my aunts quickly stirred the red liquid to prevent it from coagulating, they declared.
The blood would later be used in Portuguese-influenced, festive pork dish of sorpotel. As if the Kashmiri chilli’s crimson hue wasn’t enough, the pig’s blood is added towards the end of the dish’s cook to impart a bright red blush to this thick, unctuous stew that is made up of tiny bits of fatty pork and pig’s liver swimming in a vinegar-spiked gravy served with crusty brun pao.
Though it uses chicken as the main protein, another blood-based, Portuguese-influenced Goan dish is cabidela de galinha. Made very differently from sorpotel, this dish is a sort of mild stew-meets-risotto thanks to the generous amount of basmati rice in its preparation.
As my travels and work stints took me a little southeast in the Indian peninsula, I soon discovered that both the Madurai and Kongu Nadu regions of Tamil Nadu share another blood-centric dish—aattu ratha poriyal. This stir fry uses the congealed blood of a goat that is first steamed and cut into small bits. The pieces are added to spices like turmeric, ginger, garlic, chilli powder, mustard and stir fried in oil with onions and fresh coconut scrapings with plenty of curry leaves thrown in.
North by Northeast!
Interestingly, I learned that quite a few of the blood-enhanced dishes of India’s northeast are festive ones made with great pomp and ceremony, take the sacred dish of amin for instance. This one is made by the Galo tribal people of Arunachal Pradesh from the blood of a sacrificial mithun (bor frontalis) on the fourth (and last) day of the Mopin Festival of Fertility, celebrated in April ever year.
Similarly, India’s indigenous Nepalese community who mainly live in Assam, Manipur, Meghalaya, Sikkim and Darjeeling, too have a ritualistic spicy goat blood dish called rakti that is had during the Hindu festival of Dashain (Dussehra) and cooked in mustard oil over a slow fire.
Still in the northeast, the Khasis from the Cherrapunjee area of Meghalaya also known as Sohra, make a pork pulao called ja-doh that uses pig and sometimes chicken’s blood. The dish is typically eaten at breakfast during traditional Khasi festivals like Christmas and Easter.
Once again serendipity comes to the fore as I discover, while researching this piece, a dessert of all things, made with blood. Apparently, in Italy, sanguinaccio dolce is a pudding made with pig’s blood, chocolate, sugar, pine nuts, raisins and milk. I know where I will be heading to next!
SUNDAY RECIPE
Cabidela de Galinha
INGREDIENTS:
2 chicken legs (cut in quarters)
1 cup basmati rice
1 cup chicken stock
1 cup water
1 cup fresh pig’s blood
½ cup dark Goan vinegar (sur)
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 large onion, peeled and chopped
4 cloves garlic, peeled and minced
2 bay leaves
1 small bunch fresh coriander leaves
salt and pepper to taste
METHOD:
1. Mix the vinegar with the pig’s blood and set aside.
2. In a large pan heat oil and fry the minced onion and garlic.
3. Add the chicken pieces and let them braise for about 15 minutes or until golden brown.
4. Add the chicken broth, bay leaves, salt and pepper. Cover and let cook 30 minutes over medium heat.
5. When the broth has reduced a little, add water to the pan and then the rice. Cover and let simmer until the rice is just about done.
6. Add the blood and vinegar mixture to the pan, stir, cover again and let cook for an additional 2-5 minutes.
7. Remove from the pan and serve with a little sprinkle of coriander leaves.
(This column first appeared in the 6th December 2020 issue of The Hindu newspaper's Sunday Magazine section on page 8 https://www.thehindu.com/life-and-style/food/animal-blood-is-an-important-ingredient-in-dishes-across-the-world/article33247845.ece)
Saturday, August 15, 2020
Today’s ‘Wrap’ Star
Every 15th of August, Goa celebrates both the nation’s Independence Day as well as the Catholic feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary by indulging in the patoleo—a medicinal, festive treat that is so much more than a mere sweet
By Raul Dias
Like most Indian micro communities, we, the inhabitants of the tiny state of Goa have our very own set of peculiarities. Chief among these is our all-consuming fixation with hypochondria, where running to the doctor at the slightest hint of a malady is almost a state pastime. A close second is our unbridled love for feasts of all kind. This could take the form of village feasts, religious feasts or agriculture-based ones that pivot around sowing/harvesting seasons.
Interestingly, this truism is augmented by the fact that in Goa, every feast day and almost every ailment has its own ‘patron’ sweet treat. One that helps celebrate, and the other that helps cure, or so is the belief. The humble patoleo has the distinction of holding sway over both ‘portfolios’…and then, some more!
Leafing Through
Loathe as we are to call it a mere ‘steamed dumpling’—even though the patoleo is made with just three main ingredients viz. red, parboiled local Goan rice called ukda tandul, dark palm jaggery called madachem god in Konkani, and fresh coconut scrapings—it is anything but simple to us Goenkars. Even its full name is a tongue-twisting haldikolyanche patoleo, with the first part referring to the all-important haldi or turmeric leaf that the sweet is ensconced in before steaming. For it is this crucial catalyst that gives the patoleo its gingery, almost floral fragrance and taste when steamed in a traditional copper vessel with an airtight lid. Known either as a komfro or chondro, depending on which part of Goa—Bardez up north or Salcete in the south—one comes from.
But what brings the patoleo into focus is the fact that it is today, the 15th of August, that we Catholics observes the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. A big feast day celebrated all over Goa, usually with street processions and dances, and always with plates overflowing with the hallowed patoleo. This is also the time of the year when churches across Goa celebrate the harvest festival—again with patoleo—that is multifariously known as the Festa de Novidades, Novem or the Konnsachem Fest, symbolising the holy day of thanksgiving and gratitude to God.
Now, coming to the medicinal properties of patoleo, it is said to be a great antidote to whooping cough among children thanks to the antiseptic, Ayurvedic properties imbued in the turmeric leaves. With early August, in particular, seeing a profusion of turmeric plants shoot up all over Goa and India’s other western coastal regions, there truly is no better time of the year than now to celebrate the patoleo.
Community Spread
But it would be very remiss of me to shamelessly co-opt the patoleo into being a Catholic Goan sweet only. For, in Goa, it is also prepared by the Hindu Goan community to celebrate the festivals of Naag Panchmi and Ganesh Chathurti. In fact, the Hindus celebrate the aforementioned harvest festival on the second day of the Ganesh Chathurti festival. In neighbouring Karnataka, a salt-bereft version of the patoleo that is called haldi panna pathali is even offered to Goddess Parvati, who, according to legend, used to crave the preparation during her pregnancy.
While researching her book—The Culinary Odyssey of Goa—that she’s currently working on, author and Goan food historian, Odette Mascarenhas dug up some interesting patoleo factoids. The most surprising of all being the possible origin of the sweet in far Bengal. “The patoleo is quite similar to the preparation called pitha in Bengal which is also a rice batter and coconut-jaggery stuffed steamed dumpling made in January for the seasonal harvest of rice there. I believe that migration—particularly after the 1009-1026 AD invasions of Bengal by Mahmud of Gazni, when families fled to the Konkan coast—brought it to Goa,” she opines.
This is probably true, for the patoleo can even be found among Mumbai’s East Indian Catholic community where it is called pan mori and patoley by the Mangalurean Catholics.
Different Strokes
While the ground rice and salt paste smeared onto the turmeric leaf is the base for all patoleo, each family makes a few minor tweaks to their recipe, mainly in the coconut-jaggery filling called chun that sits in the center of the leaf. “The inherent diversity of each household in Goa brings uniqueness to the precision with which the dessert is prepared, as a curative snack or as a prized festive dessert. Every home has its own unique patoleo recipe,” says Jerson Fernandes, executive chef at the Novotel Goa Dona Sylvia Resort Hotel, who has researched the sweet and come up with versions that use everything from ghee-fried charoli or chironji seeds (buchanania lanzan) to cardamom flvaoured chun iterations. He claims to have even come across a highly non-traditional patoleo version that is steamed in a cup-like parcel fashioned out of jackfruit leaves.
And speaking of interpretations, the Mumbai-based modern Goan restaurant O Pedro recently took things more than a few step further when their pastry chef Heena Punwani sent out her jazzed up version of the warm patoleo. She teamed it with a light palm jaggery caramel, poha granola and a vanilla bean ice-cream on the side.
Deliciously blasphemous enough to send any patoleo-loving, hypochondriac Goenkar scurrying to the nearest doctor, I would say!
------
(recipe)
Patoleo
INGREDIENTS:
1 cup parboiled Goan red rice (ukda tandul)
¼ tsp salt
1 cup fresh coconut (scraped)
100 gm dark jaggery (madachem god)
10-12 turmeric leaves
METHOD:
1. Soak the rice in water overnight.
2. The next day, after draining the rice, grind it in a food processor along with the salt till the mixture resembles a smooth, but thick slurry. Use a little water, if needed. Let the mixture sit for 1-2 hours.
3. For the filling, melt the jaggery in a pan and add the fresh, scraped coconut, mixing well. Turn off heat and allow to cool down to room temperature.
4. Clean and wipe the turmeric leaves with a damp cloth.
5. With wet fingers, gently spread the rice paste along the surface of the leaf, making sure to not tear the leaf and to leave a little space along the edges of the leaf.
6. In the center of the leaf, place a tablespoon of the coconut filling, spreading it outwards (make sure to not overstuff the leaf as the filling will ooze out when steaming).
7. Fold each leaf in half lengthwise, pressing gently with the palm of your hand to seal the edges.
8. Without overcrowding (you can make them in batches), steam the patoleo for 15-20 in a covered, pre-heated, water-based steamer till the leaves turn a dark green.
9. Serve warm.
(An edited version of this article first appeared in the 15th August 2020 issue of The Hindu Business Line newspaper's BLink section on page 22 https://www.thehindubusinessline.com/blink/cover/a-goan-sweet-for-august-15/article32350189.ece)
Saturday, July 4, 2020
Goa’s Monsoon Feast!
Catholic Goan cuisine has an entire scrumptious arsenal of fermented, vinegar-preserved dishes and accompaniments that come to the fore during the long, four-month monsoon season.
By Raul Dias
To say that the average goenkar is obsessed with food would be putting it way too mildly. Coming from a large, multi-generational Catholic Goan family where food has always been that all-important axis around which most of our quotidian life pivots, I have seen it all. From intensely heated debates around the dinner table as to the ‘correct’ recipe for the beloved pork sorpotel (blood in or blood out!?) to a family wedding being famously postponed—all because the top caterer in Margao was not free to display her legendary culinary prowess on the previously finalised date—celebrating food trumps all. Go to any village in Goa and to this day you will be greeted not with a “hello” but with the often-rhetorical question of “have you eaten?” Never mind the time of the day…or night!
Mango Mania
However, there are a few weeks of the year—if one were to discount lead-ups to major festivals like Christmas, Easter and the hallowed village feast day—when the food mania gets ready to hit the proverbial roof. Just before the southwest monsoon makes its boisterous presence felt in Goa, at the end of the torrid summer from mid-May to the first week of June, homes across the state witness a frenzy like no other. Pantry inventories are taken at a militant level to ensure the steady supply of grain, spices, cold-pressed coconut oil and of course, that chief preservative agent aka. coconut palm vinegar called sur, to the kitchen. For the next four months or so, the ‘liquid gold’ will find itself in an astounding number of preserved dishes and accompaniments.
Mango trees of indigenous Goan varietals like musrad and mankurad would have been divested of their prized fruit. The juicy, ripe ones either eaten straight off the tree or pulped and preserved in the form the sugary mangaad—a jam-meets-thick paste-like preparation that can be eaten on its own, blended with milk for a shake or slathered atop freshly baked poi bread made from wheat flour and bran that the poder (baker) just dropped off.
The tinier, unripe specimens on the other hand would be washed, cleaned, quartered and salted before being submerged in a vat full of vinegar and sugar to be preserved as the famous Goan water pickle called tora shiro. This will most likely be eaten with a bowl of tepid rice water gruel called pez on a rainy afternoon.
In a pickle
Speaking of pickles, Catholic Goan cuisine has a wide repertoire of spicy pickles—mainly of the dried seafood kind—that show up during the rains. This is because we Goans have a rather strange habit of not consuming fresh seafood in months that do not have the letter ‘R’ in them, which incidentally are most of the monsoon months, June to August!
And so, well-planned shopping excursions will be organised to the large wholesale produce market in Mapusa to procure a mammoth number of food goods. Dried, salted mackerels called sukke bangde festooned upon choir ropes will be purchased in dozens, to be made into the spicy-n-sour Portuguese-influenced parra pickle that will jazz up the orange-hued, seafood-bereft sorak curry eaten with a mountain of fat, red ukde rice.
Prawn balchão, another equally famous seafood pickle will first see tiny, dehydrated prawns with translucent bodies called javla bought along with tonnes of angry red Kashmiri chillies for the year’s supply of the yet again Portuguese-influenced preparation. Both these main ingredients soon to be laid out on straw mats strewn about the home’s garden, under the desiccating heat of the blazing summer sun.
Interestingly, and rather confusingly, there is another version of prawn balchão that is eaten by us Goans during the rest of the year. Using fresh, saltwater prawns in its preparation, this iteration of balchão is enjoyed more as a thick gravy dish than as a pickle as it is less intense and vinegary than its monsoon counterpart.
Porcine Paradise
Just like balchão and parra were introduced and fit well into the monsoon staples of the indigenous Goan Catholic cuisine by the Portuguese during colonisation, a whole host of preserved pork-based dishes too were the result of the westernmost European country’s seafaring culture. One of the most famous pork dishes that has now breached its Goan shores to take long strides the world over—and particularly in Britain—is vindaloo.
It actually originated from a preserved Portuguese dish called carne de vinha d’alhos which simply meant meat marinated with garlic and wine. This was a dish that sailors took with them on long voyages thanks to its long shelf life, aided by the garlic and wine. However, the Goan vindaloo as we know and love today came about when said sailors, once ashore, localised the dish by adding spices and chillies and substituting the hard to procure red wine with coconut vinegar.
Called chauricão and available at most markets in Goa, the tiny beads of fat saturated Goan pork sausages have their origins in the traditional Portuguese smoked sausages called choriso. Another monsoon staple, chauricão are preserved by smoking strings of them over coconut husks causing them to dry up a bit. Only to be reconstituted when made into a spicy stew with water, sliced onions and cubed potatoes. Best had with slab of hot pão bread.
Colonial Cousins
What colonisation also did for the monsoon cuisine repertoire of Goa is introduce it to a few preserved dishes from other Portuguese colonies. Chief among these is the dark, rich pork stew called sorpotel. Known as sarpotel in north-eastern Brazil, the dish is a mishmash of offal like liver, lungs and heart that is mixed with meat and fat. Though contentious, many families in Goa are known to add a bit of pig’s blood to give the dish that special edge.
On the other hand, chicken cafreal which is a dark green, vinegar-heavy roast chicken dish is known to have been brought by the Portuguese from their east African colony of Mozambique where it is known as piri-piri chicken.
Portuguese, Brazilian, Mozambican, but now wholly Indian, Catholic Goan cuisine has evolved into a delicious genre unto itself. And one that shines in its spicy brilliance even on the rainiest of days!
RECIPE
Chicken Cafreal
(recipe courtesy Ann Dias)
INGREDIENTS:
1kg skinless chicken pieces (legs and thighs)
2” piece ginger
8 cloves garlic
5 green chillies
½ tsp pepper corns
5 cloves
½ tbsp cumin seeds
½ tbsp poppy seeds (khus khus) soaked with a little water
1 cup fresh coriander leaves
1 tsp turmeric powder
30 ml coconut vinegar
½ tbsp sugar
1 tsp salt
Juice of two limes
50 ml vegetable oil
2 medium potatoes cut in rounds and deep fried.
METHOD:
1. In a food processor, grind the ginger, garlic, green chillies, pepper corns, cloves, cumin seeds, poppy seeds and coriander leaves with a few drops of water to a fine paste.
2. Make slits on chicken pieces and marinate with turmeric, salt, lime juice and the spice paste for two hours.
3. In a large frying pan heat oil on medium flame and lightly fry the chicken pieces for 1-2 minutes on each side. Take the chicken pieces out of the pan and keep aside.
4. Pour any residual marinade into the pan along with a little water, vinegar and sugar. Bring to a boil.
5. Add the semi-cooked chicken pieces back to the pan, mix well and cook for another 8-10 minutes with the lid on till all the liquid has almost dried up. Check that the chicken is fully cooked.
6. Serve the chicken pieces hot, surrounded by deep fried potato rounds.
By Raul Dias
To say that the average goenkar is obsessed with food would be putting it way too mildly. Coming from a large, multi-generational Catholic Goan family where food has always been that all-important axis around which most of our quotidian life pivots, I have seen it all. From intensely heated debates around the dinner table as to the ‘correct’ recipe for the beloved pork sorpotel (blood in or blood out!?) to a family wedding being famously postponed—all because the top caterer in Margao was not free to display her legendary culinary prowess on the previously finalised date—celebrating food trumps all. Go to any village in Goa and to this day you will be greeted not with a “hello” but with the often-rhetorical question of “have you eaten?” Never mind the time of the day…or night!
Mango Mania
However, there are a few weeks of the year—if one were to discount lead-ups to major festivals like Christmas, Easter and the hallowed village feast day—when the food mania gets ready to hit the proverbial roof. Just before the southwest monsoon makes its boisterous presence felt in Goa, at the end of the torrid summer from mid-May to the first week of June, homes across the state witness a frenzy like no other. Pantry inventories are taken at a militant level to ensure the steady supply of grain, spices, cold-pressed coconut oil and of course, that chief preservative agent aka. coconut palm vinegar called sur, to the kitchen. For the next four months or so, the ‘liquid gold’ will find itself in an astounding number of preserved dishes and accompaniments.
Mango trees of indigenous Goan varietals like musrad and mankurad would have been divested of their prized fruit. The juicy, ripe ones either eaten straight off the tree or pulped and preserved in the form the sugary mangaad—a jam-meets-thick paste-like preparation that can be eaten on its own, blended with milk for a shake or slathered atop freshly baked poi bread made from wheat flour and bran that the poder (baker) just dropped off.
The tinier, unripe specimens on the other hand would be washed, cleaned, quartered and salted before being submerged in a vat full of vinegar and sugar to be preserved as the famous Goan water pickle called tora shiro. This will most likely be eaten with a bowl of tepid rice water gruel called pez on a rainy afternoon.
In a pickle
Speaking of pickles, Catholic Goan cuisine has a wide repertoire of spicy pickles—mainly of the dried seafood kind—that show up during the rains. This is because we Goans have a rather strange habit of not consuming fresh seafood in months that do not have the letter ‘R’ in them, which incidentally are most of the monsoon months, June to August!
And so, well-planned shopping excursions will be organised to the large wholesale produce market in Mapusa to procure a mammoth number of food goods. Dried, salted mackerels called sukke bangde festooned upon choir ropes will be purchased in dozens, to be made into the spicy-n-sour Portuguese-influenced parra pickle that will jazz up the orange-hued, seafood-bereft sorak curry eaten with a mountain of fat, red ukde rice.
Prawn balchão, another equally famous seafood pickle will first see tiny, dehydrated prawns with translucent bodies called javla bought along with tonnes of angry red Kashmiri chillies for the year’s supply of the yet again Portuguese-influenced preparation. Both these main ingredients soon to be laid out on straw mats strewn about the home’s garden, under the desiccating heat of the blazing summer sun.
Interestingly, and rather confusingly, there is another version of prawn balchão that is eaten by us Goans during the rest of the year. Using fresh, saltwater prawns in its preparation, this iteration of balchão is enjoyed more as a thick gravy dish than as a pickle as it is less intense and vinegary than its monsoon counterpart.
Porcine Paradise
Just like balchão and parra were introduced and fit well into the monsoon staples of the indigenous Goan Catholic cuisine by the Portuguese during colonisation, a whole host of preserved pork-based dishes too were the result of the westernmost European country’s seafaring culture. One of the most famous pork dishes that has now breached its Goan shores to take long strides the world over—and particularly in Britain—is vindaloo.
It actually originated from a preserved Portuguese dish called carne de vinha d’alhos which simply meant meat marinated with garlic and wine. This was a dish that sailors took with them on long voyages thanks to its long shelf life, aided by the garlic and wine. However, the Goan vindaloo as we know and love today came about when said sailors, once ashore, localised the dish by adding spices and chillies and substituting the hard to procure red wine with coconut vinegar.
Called chauricão and available at most markets in Goa, the tiny beads of fat saturated Goan pork sausages have their origins in the traditional Portuguese smoked sausages called choriso. Another monsoon staple, chauricão are preserved by smoking strings of them over coconut husks causing them to dry up a bit. Only to be reconstituted when made into a spicy stew with water, sliced onions and cubed potatoes. Best had with slab of hot pão bread.
Colonial Cousins
What colonisation also did for the monsoon cuisine repertoire of Goa is introduce it to a few preserved dishes from other Portuguese colonies. Chief among these is the dark, rich pork stew called sorpotel. Known as sarpotel in north-eastern Brazil, the dish is a mishmash of offal like liver, lungs and heart that is mixed with meat and fat. Though contentious, many families in Goa are known to add a bit of pig’s blood to give the dish that special edge.
On the other hand, chicken cafreal which is a dark green, vinegar-heavy roast chicken dish is known to have been brought by the Portuguese from their east African colony of Mozambique where it is known as piri-piri chicken.
Portuguese, Brazilian, Mozambican, but now wholly Indian, Catholic Goan cuisine has evolved into a delicious genre unto itself. And one that shines in its spicy brilliance even on the rainiest of days!
RECIPE
Chicken Cafreal
(recipe courtesy Ann Dias)
INGREDIENTS:
1kg skinless chicken pieces (legs and thighs)
2” piece ginger
8 cloves garlic
5 green chillies
½ tsp pepper corns
5 cloves
½ tbsp cumin seeds
½ tbsp poppy seeds (khus khus) soaked with a little water
1 cup fresh coriander leaves
1 tsp turmeric powder
30 ml coconut vinegar
½ tbsp sugar
1 tsp salt
Juice of two limes
50 ml vegetable oil
2 medium potatoes cut in rounds and deep fried.
METHOD:
1. In a food processor, grind the ginger, garlic, green chillies, pepper corns, cloves, cumin seeds, poppy seeds and coriander leaves with a few drops of water to a fine paste.
2. Make slits on chicken pieces and marinate with turmeric, salt, lime juice and the spice paste for two hours.
3. In a large frying pan heat oil on medium flame and lightly fry the chicken pieces for 1-2 minutes on each side. Take the chicken pieces out of the pan and keep aside.
4. Pour any residual marinade into the pan along with a little water, vinegar and sugar. Bring to a boil.
5. Add the semi-cooked chicken pieces back to the pan, mix well and cook for another 8-10 minutes with the lid on till all the liquid has almost dried up. Check that the chicken is fully cooked.
6. Serve the chicken pieces hot, surrounded by deep fried potato rounds.
(An edited version of this article first appeared in the 4th July 2020 issue of The Hindu Business Line newspaper's BLink section on page 18 https://www.thehindubusinessline.com/blink/cover/monsoon-food-in-goa/article31979340.ece)
Sunday, April 5, 2020
Sanna—The idli’s fairer cousin!
A savoury-sweet Goan and Mangalorean rice cake and idli-lookalike, the sanna is delicious duality at its best, evoking fond childhood memories of Lent.
By Raul Dias
One of the greatest joys of being a child is that intoxicating cocktail wherein a dash of hope is blended with a healthy dose of anticipation of almost anything! Two very pertinent emotions that all of us are grappling with in these dark days of extended social distancing, self-isolation and Sunday masses that stream online.
Will all be well before Easter Sunday, exactly a week from today? Will our dining tables literally groan under the weight of all those perennial Easter goodies like always? Sadly, the answer this year has never been a more resounding “NO”. But where’s the harm in a bit of vicarious feasting, right?
Growing up in a devoutly Catholic household, hope and anticipation of the edible kind were in ample supply for us kids, all through this ongoing 40-day period of Lent. Beginning with ‘Fat Tuesday’ where we gorged ourselves silly on white crêpe-like pancakes made of flour and eggs, their portly bellies stuffed with a lurid pink sweet coconut filling. Little did we know then that the white pancake signified the body of Christ and the pink stuffing, his blood. But morbidity aside, it was always the food, pre-, during and post-Lent that was much anticipated.
And one such Lenten delicacy always found sitting higgledy-piggledy atop each other on our dining table was the sweet-savoury steamed rice cake called sanna. With Mum not very well-versed in the art of making sannas, we’d always (and still do) rely on the skills of Rosy Aunty here at home in Mumbai for our almost quotidien Lenten supply.
Also known as ‘idli wali Aunty’ by her rather clueless Maharashtrian neighbours for whom an idli and a sanna are “same-same”, the octogenarian Rosy Britto has been making sannas for as long as she can remember. Her bifocal spectacle lenses perpetually fogged up by the plume of steam issuing forth from her faithful copper sanna steamer called a chondro in Goa and tondor in Mangalore.
Not same, just different
Often mistaken for an idli, a sanna is a Goan-Mangalorean festive delicacy made from a fermented mixture of fat-grained parboiled rice, coconut, sugar, salt and that all-important leavening agent of the sap of the coconut palm that is colloquially known as ‘toddy’ or sur in Konkani. Though many these days prefer to substitute the hard-to-procure toddy with dry yeast granules. This, much to the chagrin of any true-blue Goan or Mangalorean foodie like yours truly who craves that slightly fermented, sweet-musty taste brought on only by coconut toddy.
This use of toddy is also one of the main differences of a sanna vis-à-vis an idli, where urad dal (black gram) is used in the latter’s fermentation. Though, I do believe that there are versions of the sanna, both in Goa and Mangalore, that are known to use white urad dal. Forsaking an idli steamer for a funnel-topped chondro steamer, a sanna is always spooned into small, steel vatis (bowls) also called gindlaan in Mangalore which give it its round, cake-like shape as opposed to an idli’s convex contours.
Texturally speaking, a sanna is much spongier, with a glossy white countenance as opposed to an idli’s granular crumb. Though often the red Goan parboiled rice we call ukda tandul in Konkani imparts a few tiny red flecks onto a sanna’s surface. Its accompaniments too are very different from those of an idli. No chutneys or sambar here!
With or without?
Like a few others I know, I have always liked to eat a sanna by itself, sans any savoury or sweet accompaniment. But I must admit to several rather unsuccessful pairing attempts over the years with everything from Nutella to BBQ sauce. As a child, I’ve even once convinced our cook to deep fry a few bits of stale sannas to disastrous results, with the porous rice cake retaining oil like the Hoover Dam does water!
But for most, the duo of sanna ani dukramaas (pork meat) is what is considered the ultimate way to relish this rice cake. While a rich, fiery red pork stew called sorpotel is the de facto plate fellow in Goa, in Mangalore the preferred accompaniment is a robustly spiced pork bafat, with the curry’s spiciness often tempered down with the addition of a little roce (thin coconut milk).
For sweet lovers like me, there is even a dedicated sweet iteration of the sanna called godachi sanna that is made with jaggery and best enjoyed at tea time. Interestingly, just like the steamed rice and milk dish called kiri-bhat in Sri Lanka and Kerala’s bamboo-steamed coconut and rice cake puttu, sannas crushed with a little milk, sugar and ghee are often fed to infants as their first solid meal.
As I put my finishing touches to this piece, a little ray of hope beams its way down to me in the form of a reply to a panic-tinged text message I had sent out to someone important a few hours ago. “Yes, you’ll get your dozen sannas this year, too!” Rosy Aunty reassures me, as I smile to myself in relief, hope and anticipation of that one constant.
SUNDAY RECIPE
Sanna
INGREDIENTS:
Parboiled Goan red rice (ukda tandul) 1 cup
Fresh coconut (scraped) ½ cup
Coconut toddy 1.5 cups
Granulated sugar 4 tbsp
Salt 1 tsp
METHOD:
1. Soak the rice in water overnight
2. The next day, after draining the rice, grind it along with half a cup of toddy for a few seconds. Add another half cup of toddy along with sugar and salt and grind till the mixture resembles a coarse slurry.
3. Now add in the grated coconut and the remaining half cup of toddy. Grind for a few seconds more. Adjust sugar and salt, if needed.
4. Transfer to a non-metallic container and cover with a damp muslin cloth. Allow to stand in a cool, dark place for a few hours till the batter doubles up in volume.
5. Spoon the batter into 12-14 lightly oiled small steel vatis (bowls), making sure to not fill to the top as the batter will rise again while steaming.
6. Place the vatis in a steamer. Cover and steam for around 20 minutes or until a skewer poked in the center of the vati comes out clean.
7. Unmould the sannas immediately and place them in a serving dish lined with a damp muslin cloth or oiled banana leaves.
8. Serve sannas piping hot, either on their own or with curry.
By Raul Dias
One of the greatest joys of being a child is that intoxicating cocktail wherein a dash of hope is blended with a healthy dose of anticipation of almost anything! Two very pertinent emotions that all of us are grappling with in these dark days of extended social distancing, self-isolation and Sunday masses that stream online.
Will all be well before Easter Sunday, exactly a week from today? Will our dining tables literally groan under the weight of all those perennial Easter goodies like always? Sadly, the answer this year has never been a more resounding “NO”. But where’s the harm in a bit of vicarious feasting, right?
Growing up in a devoutly Catholic household, hope and anticipation of the edible kind were in ample supply for us kids, all through this ongoing 40-day period of Lent. Beginning with ‘Fat Tuesday’ where we gorged ourselves silly on white crêpe-like pancakes made of flour and eggs, their portly bellies stuffed with a lurid pink sweet coconut filling. Little did we know then that the white pancake signified the body of Christ and the pink stuffing, his blood. But morbidity aside, it was always the food, pre-, during and post-Lent that was much anticipated.
And one such Lenten delicacy always found sitting higgledy-piggledy atop each other on our dining table was the sweet-savoury steamed rice cake called sanna. With Mum not very well-versed in the art of making sannas, we’d always (and still do) rely on the skills of Rosy Aunty here at home in Mumbai for our almost quotidien Lenten supply.
Also known as ‘idli wali Aunty’ by her rather clueless Maharashtrian neighbours for whom an idli and a sanna are “same-same”, the octogenarian Rosy Britto has been making sannas for as long as she can remember. Her bifocal spectacle lenses perpetually fogged up by the plume of steam issuing forth from her faithful copper sanna steamer called a chondro in Goa and tondor in Mangalore.
Not same, just different
Often mistaken for an idli, a sanna is a Goan-Mangalorean festive delicacy made from a fermented mixture of fat-grained parboiled rice, coconut, sugar, salt and that all-important leavening agent of the sap of the coconut palm that is colloquially known as ‘toddy’ or sur in Konkani. Though many these days prefer to substitute the hard-to-procure toddy with dry yeast granules. This, much to the chagrin of any true-blue Goan or Mangalorean foodie like yours truly who craves that slightly fermented, sweet-musty taste brought on only by coconut toddy.
This use of toddy is also one of the main differences of a sanna vis-à-vis an idli, where urad dal (black gram) is used in the latter’s fermentation. Though, I do believe that there are versions of the sanna, both in Goa and Mangalore, that are known to use white urad dal. Forsaking an idli steamer for a funnel-topped chondro steamer, a sanna is always spooned into small, steel vatis (bowls) also called gindlaan in Mangalore which give it its round, cake-like shape as opposed to an idli’s convex contours.
Texturally speaking, a sanna is much spongier, with a glossy white countenance as opposed to an idli’s granular crumb. Though often the red Goan parboiled rice we call ukda tandul in Konkani imparts a few tiny red flecks onto a sanna’s surface. Its accompaniments too are very different from those of an idli. No chutneys or sambar here!
With or without?
Like a few others I know, I have always liked to eat a sanna by itself, sans any savoury or sweet accompaniment. But I must admit to several rather unsuccessful pairing attempts over the years with everything from Nutella to BBQ sauce. As a child, I’ve even once convinced our cook to deep fry a few bits of stale sannas to disastrous results, with the porous rice cake retaining oil like the Hoover Dam does water!
But for most, the duo of sanna ani dukramaas (pork meat) is what is considered the ultimate way to relish this rice cake. While a rich, fiery red pork stew called sorpotel is the de facto plate fellow in Goa, in Mangalore the preferred accompaniment is a robustly spiced pork bafat, with the curry’s spiciness often tempered down with the addition of a little roce (thin coconut milk).
For sweet lovers like me, there is even a dedicated sweet iteration of the sanna called godachi sanna that is made with jaggery and best enjoyed at tea time. Interestingly, just like the steamed rice and milk dish called kiri-bhat in Sri Lanka and Kerala’s bamboo-steamed coconut and rice cake puttu, sannas crushed with a little milk, sugar and ghee are often fed to infants as their first solid meal.
As I put my finishing touches to this piece, a little ray of hope beams its way down to me in the form of a reply to a panic-tinged text message I had sent out to someone important a few hours ago. “Yes, you’ll get your dozen sannas this year, too!” Rosy Aunty reassures me, as I smile to myself in relief, hope and anticipation of that one constant.
SUNDAY RECIPE
Sanna
INGREDIENTS:
Parboiled Goan red rice (ukda tandul) 1 cup
Fresh coconut (scraped) ½ cup
Coconut toddy 1.5 cups
Granulated sugar 4 tbsp
Salt 1 tsp
METHOD:
1. Soak the rice in water overnight
2. The next day, after draining the rice, grind it along with half a cup of toddy for a few seconds. Add another half cup of toddy along with sugar and salt and grind till the mixture resembles a coarse slurry.
3. Now add in the grated coconut and the remaining half cup of toddy. Grind for a few seconds more. Adjust sugar and salt, if needed.
4. Transfer to a non-metallic container and cover with a damp muslin cloth. Allow to stand in a cool, dark place for a few hours till the batter doubles up in volume.
5. Spoon the batter into 12-14 lightly oiled small steel vatis (bowls), making sure to not fill to the top as the batter will rise again while steaming.
6. Place the vatis in a steamer. Cover and steam for around 20 minutes or until a skewer poked in the center of the vati comes out clean.
7. Unmould the sannas immediately and place them in a serving dish lined with a damp muslin cloth or oiled banana leaves.
8. Serve sannas piping hot, either on their own or with curry.
(An edited version of this article first appeared in the 5th April 2020 issue of The Hindu newspaper's Sunday Magazine section on page 8 https://www.thehindu.com/life-and-style/food/sanna-idlis-festive-cousin/article31247135.ece)
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
Re(past) Perfect!
With a tasteful mix of modern European fare and a few Goan dishes thrown in, the menu at this all-new Andheri restaurant is as eclectic as its stylish setting is, making it the perfect spot for an early dinner.
By Raul Dias
Over the years, we’ve learnt something the hard way. And that is, that an early dinner is the best solution to most of the lifestyle-related issues brought on by the ‘conspicuous consumption’ of copious amounts of food that we’ve been eating as part of the job. Sadly, not many Mumbai restaurants have cottoned onto the early dinner concept, with merely a handful of kitchens firing off before 7.30 pm.
Thankfully, the brand-new, dinner-only Um Doiss Tres—the name of which is the Portuguese equivalent of “one, two, three”—gets the drift and is happy to serve you dinner as early as 5pm, if you so wish. However, for our weekday dinner, we chose a more reasonable 7pm to check out what this 90-cover restaurant had to offer us.
Housed in the same Lokhandwala, Andheri location where the erstwhile Italian eatery Su Casa once stood, the dining space is one of refined elegance, with modern décor and a soothing colour scheme. We were particularly charmed by the Spanish hacienda-style arches that separate the various sections of the restaurant and the blue and white Portuguese-Goan azulejo tiles that line its walls.
And this Latino-meets-Portuguese-meets-Goan leitmotif is carried forward to the food menu that is peppered with plenty of eclectic small plates. Designed by Chef Xavier Fernandes, the menu features dishes that exhibit a distinct flavour and texture. Like the refreshingly tasty sumac tossed fried chickpeas (Rs 185), where crispy-yet-soft centred chickpeas and cubed potatoes were all jazzed up with the tart, almost lemon-like Middle Eastern sumac berry powder. Our order of the Spanish classic bravas potatoes (Rs 250) proved to be another winner with a platter of a dozen, tiny potato cups piped with alternating layers of garlic aioli and romesco sauce wowing us silent.
Not too impressed with the rather pedestrian and innovation-lacking cocktail menu (boring-sounding mojitos, sangrias, margaritas and their ilk!) we stuck to good old aqua, that would prove to be the perfect foil to the next dish we called for. Bringing in some Goan flavour to the table, the simple, yet robustly spiced pork chorizo and string bean stew (Rs 325) was something we happily mopped up with a selection of breads from the complimentary bread basket that our very attentive server insisted on replenishing.
Perfectly crumb coated, the quintet of fried brie cheese (Rs 410) wedges anointed with a very interesting guava gastrique and served atop a bed of green apple slaw struck culinary gold. Equally impressive was the pulled duck pizza (Rs 510), served on a thin crust base along with fried kale chips and water chestnuts providing more crisp and crunch to the pie. Taking us back to those susegaad post-dinner evenings spent lounging on our Goa house’s balcao was the very authentically turned out serra dura (Rs 250). Meaning “saw dust”, this Portuguese-Goan dessert was all the good things a grand finale should be—memorable and more-ish. With the cooling, orange-scented milk custard melding with the fine biscuit dust and the assertive punch of the dark chocolate swirls rounding it all off deliciously.
AT: Um Doiss Tres, 101 Samartha Aishwarya, Above Nature’s Basket, Andheri Lokhandwala Road, Andheri West.
TIME: 5 pm to 1.30 am
CALL: 8452833040
By Raul Dias
Over the years, we’ve learnt something the hard way. And that is, that an early dinner is the best solution to most of the lifestyle-related issues brought on by the ‘conspicuous consumption’ of copious amounts of food that we’ve been eating as part of the job. Sadly, not many Mumbai restaurants have cottoned onto the early dinner concept, with merely a handful of kitchens firing off before 7.30 pm.
Thankfully, the brand-new, dinner-only Um Doiss Tres—the name of which is the Portuguese equivalent of “one, two, three”—gets the drift and is happy to serve you dinner as early as 5pm, if you so wish. However, for our weekday dinner, we chose a more reasonable 7pm to check out what this 90-cover restaurant had to offer us.
Housed in the same Lokhandwala, Andheri location where the erstwhile Italian eatery Su Casa once stood, the dining space is one of refined elegance, with modern décor and a soothing colour scheme. We were particularly charmed by the Spanish hacienda-style arches that separate the various sections of the restaurant and the blue and white Portuguese-Goan azulejo tiles that line its walls.
And this Latino-meets-Portuguese-meets-Goan leitmotif is carried forward to the food menu that is peppered with plenty of eclectic small plates. Designed by Chef Xavier Fernandes, the menu features dishes that exhibit a distinct flavour and texture. Like the refreshingly tasty sumac tossed fried chickpeas (Rs 185), where crispy-yet-soft centred chickpeas and cubed potatoes were all jazzed up with the tart, almost lemon-like Middle Eastern sumac berry powder. Our order of the Spanish classic bravas potatoes (Rs 250) proved to be another winner with a platter of a dozen, tiny potato cups piped with alternating layers of garlic aioli and romesco sauce wowing us silent.
Not too impressed with the rather pedestrian and innovation-lacking cocktail menu (boring-sounding mojitos, sangrias, margaritas and their ilk!) we stuck to good old aqua, that would prove to be the perfect foil to the next dish we called for. Bringing in some Goan flavour to the table, the simple, yet robustly spiced pork chorizo and string bean stew (Rs 325) was something we happily mopped up with a selection of breads from the complimentary bread basket that our very attentive server insisted on replenishing.
Perfectly crumb coated, the quintet of fried brie cheese (Rs 410) wedges anointed with a very interesting guava gastrique and served atop a bed of green apple slaw struck culinary gold. Equally impressive was the pulled duck pizza (Rs 510), served on a thin crust base along with fried kale chips and water chestnuts providing more crisp and crunch to the pie. Taking us back to those susegaad post-dinner evenings spent lounging on our Goa house’s balcao was the very authentically turned out serra dura (Rs 250). Meaning “saw dust”, this Portuguese-Goan dessert was all the good things a grand finale should be—memorable and more-ish. With the cooling, orange-scented milk custard melding with the fine biscuit dust and the assertive punch of the dark chocolate swirls rounding it all off deliciously.
AT: Um Doiss Tres, 101 Samartha Aishwarya, Above Nature’s Basket, Andheri Lokhandwala Road, Andheri West.
TIME: 5 pm to 1.30 am
CALL: 8452833040
(An edited version of this review appeared in the 15th May 2019 issue of the Mid-Day newspaper, India on page 20 https://m.mid-day.com/articles/early-dining-in-lokhandwala/20942165)
Sunday, April 14, 2019
Goan ‘tar’ for Easter’s kuswar!
Edging
out cutesy chocolate bunnies and marzipan eggs from our Goan Easter table is
always dodol—the true kuswar star
By Raul Dias
Growing up in a bi-cultural Goan-Anglo Indian home in
the early 90s, almost everything, culturally speaking, was neatly divvied up
between the two vastly different Christian communities. While Christmas was
always spent in frosty Jaipur with my mum’s family, tucking into Nan’s
brandy-spiked plum pudding and gossamer-light, deep-fried rose cookies, Easter in
Goa was a whole other affair.
The night before Maundy Thursday, my father would pile us all into his trusted old Amby, as mum would neatly pack chicken sandwiches, a mighty quiche Lorraine and a giant thermos flask of iced nimbu paani in the picnic hamper. All this as sustenance for the then 14-hour-long, overnight tryst with the Western Ghats, en route to four days of Easter feasting in our tiny village of Cavelossim that hugs the River Sal in South Goa’s Salcette region.
The night before Maundy Thursday, my father would pile us all into his trusted old Amby, as mum would neatly pack chicken sandwiches, a mighty quiche Lorraine and a giant thermos flask of iced nimbu paani in the picnic hamper. All this as sustenance for the then 14-hour-long, overnight tryst with the Western Ghats, en route to four days of Easter feasting in our tiny village of Cavelossim that hugs the River Sal in South Goa’s Salcette region.
Loving
Indulgence
While our large family home did have a fully functioning ‘western-style’ kitchen, it was the coconut husk-fired outdoor stove that my late grand aunt Flory and matriarch of the house, preferred cooking over. Here, she would toil for hours on end over the cinder-spewing flame, churning out one edible masterpiece after the other. Never once complaining about the soot as it coated her spectacle’s bifocal lenses with a thin layer of grey soot. Nor did she mind my grubby little hands reaching into a thali of cooling ‘tar’ for a cheeky taste test.
Now, among the vast pantheon of Goa’s hallowed Easter kuswar (sweets) platter, ‘tar’ was always my favourite, thanks to its gooey, messy texture and earthy taste. Not to mention its oil-slick, jet black hue. It was also Tia Flory’s most demanded treat to us all. Never a fan of those luridly coloured marzipan Easter eggs with thick splodges of royal icing covering them or those waxy-tasting chocolate renditions of bunnies, my preferences were more local Goan sweets. Much to Tia Flory’s delight. And so indulge me, she did!
While our large family home did have a fully functioning ‘western-style’ kitchen, it was the coconut husk-fired outdoor stove that my late grand aunt Flory and matriarch of the house, preferred cooking over. Here, she would toil for hours on end over the cinder-spewing flame, churning out one edible masterpiece after the other. Never once complaining about the soot as it coated her spectacle’s bifocal lenses with a thin layer of grey soot. Nor did she mind my grubby little hands reaching into a thali of cooling ‘tar’ for a cheeky taste test.
Now, among the vast pantheon of Goa’s hallowed Easter kuswar (sweets) platter, ‘tar’ was always my favourite, thanks to its gooey, messy texture and earthy taste. Not to mention its oil-slick, jet black hue. It was also Tia Flory’s most demanded treat to us all. Never a fan of those luridly coloured marzipan Easter eggs with thick splodges of royal icing covering them or those waxy-tasting chocolate renditions of bunnies, my preferences were more local Goan sweets. Much to Tia Flory’s delight. And so indulge me, she did!
Onomatopoeia
on a Thali
Even though it has a perfectly onomatopoeic name, the kind that rolls off one’s tongue just as smoothly as its silken texture does, dodol has always been ‘tar’ for me. It is also known to be referred to as black halwa by my posse of pals who seem to magically apparate into my dining room whenever mum sends over a thali of dodol, after carefully replicating Tia Flory’s original (and much guarded!) recipe.
Brought over to Goa from West Java by the Portuguese, it’s not surprising that I’ve encountered several iterations of dodol on my travels around South East Asia. But particularly in Indonesia. Commonly served during Eid, it is called jenang in the Javanese language, with even a local durian dodol available that is popular in the city of Medan. Closer home in Sri Lanka, it can be found in two versions: kalu dodol that’s made with kithul palm (caryota urens) jaggery and kiri dodol made with milk and cinnamon.
Even though it has a perfectly onomatopoeic name, the kind that rolls off one’s tongue just as smoothly as its silken texture does, dodol has always been ‘tar’ for me. It is also known to be referred to as black halwa by my posse of pals who seem to magically apparate into my dining room whenever mum sends over a thali of dodol, after carefully replicating Tia Flory’s original (and much guarded!) recipe.
Brought over to Goa from West Java by the Portuguese, it’s not surprising that I’ve encountered several iterations of dodol on my travels around South East Asia. But particularly in Indonesia. Commonly served during Eid, it is called jenang in the Javanese language, with even a local durian dodol available that is popular in the city of Medan. Closer home in Sri Lanka, it can be found in two versions: kalu dodol that’s made with kithul palm (caryota urens) jaggery and kiri dodol made with milk and cinnamon.
Bubble,
Bubble Toil and Trouble!
But my earliest memories of dodol will always lie in those humid pre-Easter, March-April days in the Goa of my childhood. Carefully scraping a coconut on the kantonem to ensure that its milky white flesh bore no flecks of brown, Tia Flory would then introduce the scrapings to a fistful of soaked rice. Both soon to be ground to a thick pulp on the typically Goan rough granite mortar and pestle called a fator, which literally means stone.
The secret to its inky black colour, I’d soon learn, was thanks to the black jaggery. The kind that’s sold in the shape of tiny pyramids in Goa’s food markets. Made from the sap of the coconut palm, this madachem god jaggery was the de facto sweetener-cum-colourant of dodol, though Tia Flory did throw in a wad of the regular yellow jaggery for a bit of additional heft.
But the real action always began with the onset of the laborious hour-long stirring process. It was only when the lubricating ghee was added to the mixture that the real alchemy unfolded. Akin to a smouldering volcano, the by-now deep brown viscous liquid would bubble up. Every now and then its surface erupting with blisters of molten yumminess.
However, only when it had cooled down hours later, did it take on a shiny black colouring. Loathe to ruin its appearance with a garnish of any kind—despite protestations from other aunts who demanded cashew nut garnishes and other frivolities—Tia Flory would leave it as it was. Letting it revel in its firm, yet jellified countenance and sensual taste that bore hints of a molasse-y depth, coupled with top notes of toffee-like sweetness and that all-important additive—love!
But my earliest memories of dodol will always lie in those humid pre-Easter, March-April days in the Goa of my childhood. Carefully scraping a coconut on the kantonem to ensure that its milky white flesh bore no flecks of brown, Tia Flory would then introduce the scrapings to a fistful of soaked rice. Both soon to be ground to a thick pulp on the typically Goan rough granite mortar and pestle called a fator, which literally means stone.
The secret to its inky black colour, I’d soon learn, was thanks to the black jaggery. The kind that’s sold in the shape of tiny pyramids in Goa’s food markets. Made from the sap of the coconut palm, this madachem god jaggery was the de facto sweetener-cum-colourant of dodol, though Tia Flory did throw in a wad of the regular yellow jaggery for a bit of additional heft.
But the real action always began with the onset of the laborious hour-long stirring process. It was only when the lubricating ghee was added to the mixture that the real alchemy unfolded. Akin to a smouldering volcano, the by-now deep brown viscous liquid would bubble up. Every now and then its surface erupting with blisters of molten yumminess.
However, only when it had cooled down hours later, did it take on a shiny black colouring. Loathe to ruin its appearance with a garnish of any kind—despite protestations from other aunts who demanded cashew nut garnishes and other frivolities—Tia Flory would leave it as it was. Letting it revel in its firm, yet jellified countenance and sensual taste that bore hints of a molasse-y depth, coupled with top notes of toffee-like sweetness and that all-important additive—love!
SUNDAY RECIPE
Goa Dodol
(Recipe courtesy, Ann Dias)
Goa Dodol
(Recipe courtesy, Ann Dias)
INGREDIENTS:
Coconut (scraped)1
Black Goa jaggery 250 gms
Regular yellow jaggery 50 gms
Ghee 2 tbsp
Rice (soaked) 4 tbsp
Chopped cashew nuts 10 gms (optional)
Coconut (scraped)1
Black Goa jaggery 250 gms
Regular yellow jaggery 50 gms
Ghee 2 tbsp
Rice (soaked) 4 tbsp
Chopped cashew nuts 10 gms (optional)
METHOD:
1. In a mixer, grind the scraped coconut and soaked rice together with a splash of water.
2. Reserve both the thick and thin extracts of the coconut-rice mixture and set aside separately.
3. In a heavy bottom kadhai, combine the thin extract and the two kinds of jaggery and cook on a medium to high flame, stirring continuously.
4. Once the mixture solidifies a bit, add the thick extract and the ghee. Keep stirring till the mixture turns a dark brown, almost black shade and till it leaves the sides of the kadhai.
5. Pour the mixture onto a greased thali and top with chopped cashew nuts, if desired.
6. Once cooled to room temperature, cut into squares or diamond shapes with a greased knife.
1. In a mixer, grind the scraped coconut and soaked rice together with a splash of water.
2. Reserve both the thick and thin extracts of the coconut-rice mixture and set aside separately.
3. In a heavy bottom kadhai, combine the thin extract and the two kinds of jaggery and cook on a medium to high flame, stirring continuously.
4. Once the mixture solidifies a bit, add the thick extract and the ghee. Keep stirring till the mixture turns a dark brown, almost black shade and till it leaves the sides of the kadhai.
5. Pour the mixture onto a greased thali and top with chopped cashew nuts, if desired.
6. Once cooled to room temperature, cut into squares or diamond shapes with a greased knife.
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