 "Kundan's chhole and kesar's dal")
Within five minutes of ordering three deluxe thalis at the large and bustling Bharawan da Dhaba in Amritsar, a waiter brings us round steel trays filled with our Rs 180-lunch. There are a half-dozen bowls on each, which included spicy chickpeas with a hint of pomegranate powder, the black lentils known as daal and the Punjabi comfort food equivalents of macaroni and cheese - the creamy mustard greens called sarso ka saag and kadhi, a yellow chickpea flour and yogurt curry swimming with fried onion fritters. Lachedar parantha, whole wheat butter-layered bread, fresh from the tandoor clay oven, is our accompaniment.
These are the same dishes that Bharawan, first served when it opened in 1912 as a covered tent restaurant, and they are what keep the crowds coming back more than a hundred years later.
Amritsar in the state of Punjab is a city for pilgrimages: there are those who come to visit the Golden Temple, the Sikh house of worship built in the 16th century, and then there are the presumably less pious who make the trip for the dhabas.
On our mid-December visit, my mother-in-law, Bharati, my sister, Aditi, and I come to pay homage to the latter, and over the course of three days, eat our way through the most notable ones in town.
Many dhabas originated along the highways in Punjab in the mid-20th century to serve hungry truck drivers and eventually started opening in cities throughout the area. The ones in Amritsar, however, were always deemed to be far superior to the rest. As a Punjabi growing up in New Delhi, I heard constant stories from my family over the hearty, and often heart-clogging, meals characteristic of our sect about the dhaba feasts to be had in Amritsar, and I recently decided to take a trip to taste the supposedly supreme versions of the dishes that are an integral part of my roots.
Although each dhaba has its own specialties, there are similarities: most of them have been around for a half-century or more and are family-run - actually, make that male-run, often with two or three generations of fathers and sons working together. And they have cultish followings because the dishes are authentic, using so much ghee (clarified butter) that even the most traditional French cook would blush.
My primary concern about my tour is whether my stomach will hold up given the American standards of hygiene I have become accustomed to, having lived in the United States for more than 25 years. But Rashmi Uday Singh, the Mumbai-based food writer who is a judge on the Indian series The Foodie Show, and who filmed an episode about Amritsar dhabas, eases my fears. "The thing about dhabas is that they usually have no fridges and buy only enough ingredients every morning that they will use in a day so everything is very fresh," she said.
It is nostalgia that leads me to our first stop: the nearly half-century old Kundan for its legendary chhole poori breakfast. Located near the railway station, the small and strictly vegetarian spot has plastic chairs and tables and dim lighting, but we aren't there for the ambience. This morning meal of round, deep-fried puffy bread with spicy chickpeas was a beloved weekend tradition at my grandmother's New Delhi house when I was a child.
A cook standing outside over a large black vat of bubbling oil flattens the dough for our pooris and fries them to a golden finish. Our stainless steel tray holds four of them, a generous bowl of chickpeas, another one of cooling yogurt and a side of spicy mango pickle. Before long, nearly everything on our Rs 40 platters rest in our happy stomachs.
With the craving for one classic meal satisfied, it is time to try the most popular Punjabi dish of daal makhani. Apart from chicken tikka masala, these spicy black lentils might be the item most associated with Indian food. For this, we head to Kesar da Dhaba, which we reach by walking through a series of narrow streets in the city centre where rickshaws and bicycles are the only vehicles around.
When we arrive, we find the owner, Ajay Kumar, 49, chopping cauliflower in the front open kitchen. Behind him are more than a dozen men furiously mincing large bunches of vegetables and cilantro in preparation for the day.
Kumar's great-grandfather, Lala Kesar Mul, started Kesar, also a vegetarian restaurant, in 1916. Back then, daal makhani was the prized dish, and nearly a hundred years later, it's still the reason more than 700 people come here daily.
"We go through 220 pounds of daal a day, and it's sold out by the evening," says Kumar.
Making a batch in the massive steel caldron is a nine-hour endeavour that begins at 4 am, when one of Kumar's cooks washes and boils lentils until they are soft. Adding salt and red chilli powder is next, and a mixture that includes onion, ghee, turmeric and the pungent sweet spice asafoetida goes in just before serving. The word makhani means "with butter" in Hindi, and the hot and thick brown daal isn't complete until it's scooped into shallow steel bowls and topped with at least a half-stick that gradually melts in and makes for the creamiest rendition ever.
By the evening, my sister and I are hankering for a meat fix (my mother-in-law is a vegetarian), which we wisely decide to fulfill with the goat leg curry - a dish we both try for the first time - at the 50-year-old Pal. The five green tables with cracks running through them and rickety benches in a small room made for a suspect setting, but as we take in the aroma of the curry simmering in a round cast-iron pot in the tiny open kitchen, we forget about our surroundings.
Jasbir Singh, 40, who runs Pal with his father, Jashpal, says there is a secret to the curry's deep flavour: roasting and grinding the spices such as garam masala, cumin, coriander and red pepper daily. The chewy and rich goat legs in the soupy gravy beg for naan to scoop it up, but instead of the standard plain variety, Singh, who does all the cooking at Pal himself, presents us with a version filled with minced mutton. "We are not a place for those who don't eat meat," he says.
Because most dhabas are vegetarian, Pal stands out, but rarer still are the ones that sell fish. Fried catfish that is well known in India by different names, including singara, was a household staple for us in Delhi so I am happy to find that it's the star at two of the most respected dhabas in town, which happen to have a connection. The story began with Makhan Fish & Chicken Corner, which two brothers, Sucha and Sarder Surjit Singh, opened as a stand near the railway station with their father almost 50 years ago. At the time, fish was unheard-of in Amritsar, but they sold fried singara fillets crusted in chickpea flour, caraway seeds and red chilli powder.
The brothers eventually split, and Sucha kept the Makhan name and opened a two-story dhaba that his son Harjit, 29, now runs and where the original recipe is the reason to dine. The first floor is a place for men to bring in alcohol to enjoy with their heaping platters while families and women with children are relegated to the second floor, an alcohol-free zone. His cousin Amarjit Singh, 33, oversees Surjit Food Plaza, which, with its glass tables, clean white walls and wooden chairs is the most upscale of the dhabas that we visit. Although the same crisp fish is on the menu, Amarjit Singh has distinguished himself with new inventions like the incredibly tender spinach-coated fish kebabs baked in the tandoor. There's also his homemade paneer, which my mother-in-law declares is the softest she has ever tried.
Part of the charm of dhabas is that they function much as they did when they first opened, although they can be savvy about modern marketing. A handful of dhabas, including Surjit, Kesar and Bharawan, have either a Facebook page or a website. Last year, Bharawan's owner, Subash Vij, 49, even opened an outpost at the food court in the city's Alpha One mall. "Even in such an old and successful business, change is the law of nature," he said.
He sits with us while we eat our thalis and sees that we need more bread to help finish our mustard greens and curry. An oversize leavened flatbread called a kulcha appears, tempting us with its gentle steam and glistening ghee.
We one another. Who would have the first bite? Without any discussion, all three of us tear off a piece at once.
These are the same dishes that Bharawan, first served when it opened in 1912 as a covered tent restaurant, and they are what keep the crowds coming back more than a hundred years later.
Amritsar in the state of Punjab is a city for pilgrimages: there are those who come to visit the Golden Temple, the Sikh house of worship built in the 16th century, and then there are the presumably less pious who make the trip for the dhabas.
On our mid-December visit, my mother-in-law, Bharati, my sister, Aditi, and I come to pay homage to the latter, and over the course of three days, eat our way through the most notable ones in town.
Many dhabas originated along the highways in Punjab in the mid-20th century to serve hungry truck drivers and eventually started opening in cities throughout the area. The ones in Amritsar, however, were always deemed to be far superior to the rest. As a Punjabi growing up in New Delhi, I heard constant stories from my family over the hearty, and often heart-clogging, meals characteristic of our sect about the dhaba feasts to be had in Amritsar, and I recently decided to take a trip to taste the supposedly supreme versions of the dishes that are an integral part of my roots.
Although each dhaba has its own specialties, there are similarities: most of them have been around for a half-century or more and are family-run - actually, make that male-run, often with two or three generations of fathers and sons working together. And they have cultish followings because the dishes are authentic, using so much ghee (clarified butter) that even the most traditional French cook would blush.
My primary concern about my tour is whether my stomach will hold up given the American standards of hygiene I have become accustomed to, having lived in the United States for more than 25 years. But Rashmi Uday Singh, the Mumbai-based food writer who is a judge on the Indian series The Foodie Show, and who filmed an episode about Amritsar dhabas, eases my fears. "The thing about dhabas is that they usually have no fridges and buy only enough ingredients every morning that they will use in a day so everything is very fresh," she said.
It is nostalgia that leads me to our first stop: the nearly half-century old Kundan for its legendary chhole poori breakfast. Located near the railway station, the small and strictly vegetarian spot has plastic chairs and tables and dim lighting, but we aren't there for the ambience. This morning meal of round, deep-fried puffy bread with spicy chickpeas was a beloved weekend tradition at my grandmother's New Delhi house when I was a child.
A cook standing outside over a large black vat of bubbling oil flattens the dough for our pooris and fries them to a golden finish. Our stainless steel tray holds four of them, a generous bowl of chickpeas, another one of cooling yogurt and a side of spicy mango pickle. Before long, nearly everything on our Rs 40 platters rest in our happy stomachs.
With the craving for one classic meal satisfied, it is time to try the most popular Punjabi dish of daal makhani. Apart from chicken tikka masala, these spicy black lentils might be the item most associated with Indian food. For this, we head to Kesar da Dhaba, which we reach by walking through a series of narrow streets in the city centre where rickshaws and bicycles are the only vehicles around.
When we arrive, we find the owner, Ajay Kumar, 49, chopping cauliflower in the front open kitchen. Behind him are more than a dozen men furiously mincing large bunches of vegetables and cilantro in preparation for the day.
Kumar's great-grandfather, Lala Kesar Mul, started Kesar, also a vegetarian restaurant, in 1916. Back then, daal makhani was the prized dish, and nearly a hundred years later, it's still the reason more than 700 people come here daily.
"We go through 220 pounds of daal a day, and it's sold out by the evening," says Kumar.
Making a batch in the massive steel caldron is a nine-hour endeavour that begins at 4 am, when one of Kumar's cooks washes and boils lentils until they are soft. Adding salt and red chilli powder is next, and a mixture that includes onion, ghee, turmeric and the pungent sweet spice asafoetida goes in just before serving. The word makhani means "with butter" in Hindi, and the hot and thick brown daal isn't complete until it's scooped into shallow steel bowls and topped with at least a half-stick that gradually melts in and makes for the creamiest rendition ever.
By the evening, my sister and I are hankering for a meat fix (my mother-in-law is a vegetarian), which we wisely decide to fulfill with the goat leg curry - a dish we both try for the first time - at the 50-year-old Pal. The five green tables with cracks running through them and rickety benches in a small room made for a suspect setting, but as we take in the aroma of the curry simmering in a round cast-iron pot in the tiny open kitchen, we forget about our surroundings.
Jasbir Singh, 40, who runs Pal with his father, Jashpal, says there is a secret to the curry's deep flavour: roasting and grinding the spices such as garam masala, cumin, coriander and red pepper daily. The chewy and rich goat legs in the soupy gravy beg for naan to scoop it up, but instead of the standard plain variety, Singh, who does all the cooking at Pal himself, presents us with a version filled with minced mutton. "We are not a place for those who don't eat meat," he says.
Because most dhabas are vegetarian, Pal stands out, but rarer still are the ones that sell fish. Fried catfish that is well known in India by different names, including singara, was a household staple for us in Delhi so I am happy to find that it's the star at two of the most respected dhabas in town, which happen to have a connection. The story began with Makhan Fish & Chicken Corner, which two brothers, Sucha and Sarder Surjit Singh, opened as a stand near the railway station with their father almost 50 years ago. At the time, fish was unheard-of in Amritsar, but they sold fried singara fillets crusted in chickpea flour, caraway seeds and red chilli powder.
The brothers eventually split, and Sucha kept the Makhan name and opened a two-story dhaba that his son Harjit, 29, now runs and where the original recipe is the reason to dine. The first floor is a place for men to bring in alcohol to enjoy with their heaping platters while families and women with children are relegated to the second floor, an alcohol-free zone. His cousin Amarjit Singh, 33, oversees Surjit Food Plaza, which, with its glass tables, clean white walls and wooden chairs is the most upscale of the dhabas that we visit. Although the same crisp fish is on the menu, Amarjit Singh has distinguished himself with new inventions like the incredibly tender spinach-coated fish kebabs baked in the tandoor. There's also his homemade paneer, which my mother-in-law declares is the softest she has ever tried.
Part of the charm of dhabas is that they function much as they did when they first opened, although they can be savvy about modern marketing. A handful of dhabas, including Surjit, Kesar and Bharawan, have either a Facebook page or a website. Last year, Bharawan's owner, Subash Vij, 49, even opened an outpost at the food court in the city's Alpha One mall. "Even in such an old and successful business, change is the law of nature," he said.
He sits with us while we eat our thalis and sees that we need more bread to help finish our mustard greens and curry. An oversize leavened flatbread called a kulcha appears, tempting us with its gentle steam and glistening ghee.
We one another. Who would have the first bite? Without any discussion, all three of us tear off a piece at once.
©2014 The New York Times