Eating Out

I have been reading back issues of The New Yorker of late. One issue, from September '07, was dedicated to food and included several essays entitled "Family Dinner". It made me think of some experiences I have had in the culinary realm, particularly those with my favorite cuisine, Indian food.
For two years, back in the 1970's, I lived in India, teaching at an International School in a small town in the mountains called Kodaikanal. It is what in India is known as a 'hill station', what we would call a resort town, a place where wealthier (and luckier) inhabitants of the sub-continent can go to escape the infernal heat on the plains in the hot season. Kodaikanal has the distinction of being the only hill station in the whole country that was actually established by Americans, not by the British. It is located in the Nilgiri Hills, a mountain range that runs parallel to the west coast of South India. At 7,200 feet in elevation it is the equivalent of a quarter of the way up Mount Everest. The altitude takes some getting used to. But because it is located only five degrees north of the equator, the enviornment is quite unique. It has been described as a 'high altitude jungle'. It is the most exotic place I have ever lived in. The Nilgiri Hills are eternally green, a fertile garden in which all kinds of spectacularly blooming trees and bushes abound. Pointsettias grew naturally outside the door of the staff lounge of Kodai School and they bloomed every October. The main attraction of the town is a man-made lake surrounded by eucalyptus forests (see photo). Even today, so many years later, the scent of eucy oil can send me back to South India.
But getting back to food...During 'the season', when Kodai was overrun with visitors, various Westerners and Indians would rent cottages in the area. Some people (the Indians being a very enterprising lot) even managed to make their stay pay for itself . Every year, in 'season', a certain gentleman (he was from Gujerat, I believe) would rent a small cottage further up the hill where he would run a kind of private restaurant. You would have to pre-arrange the date with him and he would cook a grand meal for you. It was said to be an exceptional experience. Three of us from the Kodai staff signed on. This rent-a-chef was known simply as Kaka, which supposedly means 'father' in Gujerati. The cottage he worked in was really a tiny, one-room shack, with no kitchen. But somehow he managed to prepare an elaborate meal (vegetarian, of course), with rice, several curries, chutneys and roasted bread that was delicious beyond description. He cooked his local cuisine which, as I remember, had a slight hint of sweetness in the curries. (North Indian cuisine, with its influence from the Mughals, is far more varied than that of South India, which tends to be somewhat limited and monotonous -- but hotter, if that is possible.) But there was one really weird thing about that experience (and in India there is always something a bit weird in every experience): Kaka, a rather large man, sat cross-legged on a neighboring table in his ample dhoti and watched us eat the entire time. Can you imagine eating a meal with someone staring at you THE WHOLE BLOODY TIME? Apparently, he wanted to be certain that we enjoyed his culinary efforts. In India it is not considered rude to stare at other people. Like the altitude, it took a little getting used to.
And speaking of the habit of staring...That reminds me of another memorable repast in India, one on a train. I returned to India some twenty-two years later for a visit. After a stay in gorgeous Kerala, the state that lies between the Nilgiri Hills and the Arabian Sea, I took a train through the mountains to neighboring Tamil Nadu. I have always loved traveling on the trains in India, and usually did so in second or third class; it was much more interesting that way. The route made a tortuous ascent into the mountains, traversing a high-altitude pass which cut through ragged peaks. There were palm trees in the valleys. The landscape was enchanting, something like Palm Beach on the moon; I had never seen anything remotely like it. It was a long ride and when lunch time rolled around I threw caution to the wind and ordered a meal. Eating out in India can be a risky business as one can never be assured of the cleanliness of the preparation. Cholera, dysentary, intestinal amoebas, etc. can result and, believe me, they are no fun. On any long-distance Indian train there is an established system whereby one can place an order for a meal (veg or non-veg are the options). The orders are then phoned ahead to an upcoming station where your meal is delivered to you. I was ravenously hungry. The packet I received was wrapped in discarded newspaper and tied with string. Inside was a large banana leaf (the ubiquitous dinnerware of South Asia) which offered a generous portion of rice, several veg curries, a simple chutney and a small plastic bag (also tied with a string) with fresh curd. I knew I was really being incautious by partaking of that last item but, what the hell. As I was the only Anglo on the train, the other passengers were very curious to see if the burra sahib (me) knew how to handle the niceties of eating an Indian meal -- and that means eating with your fingers. A small mob took up positions around my area, unashamedly staring at me. I felt like an animal in a zoo exhibit (talk about unnerving!), but the best policy was to simply ignore them. When they observed that I was a pro in culinary etiquette they quickly lost interest and let me be. The meal was delicious. And I didn't get sick from it.
And where did I learn my impeccable manners in eating from a banana leaf? Not from Emily Post, I assure you. I remember my very first encounter with eating Indian fashion. After several weeks of living up in Kodaikanal after I first arrived, a weekend trip was planned to the ancient city of Madurai, a place famous for its spectacular Sri Meenakshi temple. I joined a small party of colleagues and was very excited about finally getting to explore the real India. One of my companions, Karsten (originally from Wisconsin), had been in India for many years already and knew the ropes. He suggested a nice little place for lunch, one with great food. He said it was frequented by local businessmen. One could have conjured up a vision of Mom's Diner, only with curry on the menu. We arrived at the eatery, a veritable hole in the wall, and were shown seats. One bearer (server) came by and plunked banana leaves in front of us. A series of bearers then laddled rice and various curries out of large pots, followed by the other savory particulars that make an Indian meal so interesting. There was no cutlery, of course. I had never faced the prospect of eating with my fingers and didn't have a clue as to how it was properly done. It didn't occur to Karsten, old India hand that he was, that I was uninitiated in the art of eating rice and curry off a banana leaf. So, it was a matter of careful observation and following suit. There is a whole etiquette to it. First, you only touch your food with your right hand, NEVER with the left (there is an established system amongst the Hindus of clean and unclean body parts); you mix the rice and curries lustily, create a manageable ball of food with your fingers and funnel it into your mouth with the thumb. It's okay to slurp and grunt, by the way -- it shows that you're enjoying your meal. Try that at the next time you're dining at the Hotel Four Seasons!