Eating in India was culinary ecstacy. I knew the food was going to be good, but I never guessed that every meal would be a celebration of savory goodness.
Eating in India is a revered part of the day, and people don't eat to stuff themselves, they eat to nourish, replenish and enjoy the ritual of eating. Prior to arriving, I knew that eating would be far from Western practice. Eating with your hands is not considered primitive, it is customary and part of the culture. One eats with their right hand, as the left is assigned to more "unsavory" responsibilities that involve being an alternative to toilet paper. So it is ok to pass the salt with the left hand, but it should never go near the mouth. You also eat on the floor, cross legged, rarely at the table.
I'm a righty, so eating with my right hand wasn't too difficult. There is an art in doing it- basmati rice, a frequent accompaniment to all Indian dishes is formed into small balls, mixed in with whatever the other dish is on your plate whether it is curry chicken, mutton, dal, lentils, etc. One takes the rice and mixes it all together with the right hand, scooping the food into the arc of the four fingers, using knuckles and thumb to push it into the scoop of the fingers and then placing the food into the mouth by using your thumb to give it the velocity to make it onto the tongue.
For a Westerner in India, this was an exotic experience for me, a naked exploration into the pleasure of eating. For most of us, eating with our hands is an erotic experience, aside from eating buffalo wings that is, like feeding one another with strawberries or grapes ...it's a sexy way to eat. But in India, its the only way, and the fork and knife are only there for the comfort of not-so-open Westerners who ,with frustration, remain within their own customs, and use the lonely utensils that usually are left untouched by the locals.
I was delighted and humbled by my first home cooked meal in India at Manzoor's house, where we stopped off for dinner before departing the next day to Kashmir. His servant greeted us at the door with steaming sweet cups of chai tea. The house smelled of grilled onions in fragrant cardamon oil and I knew meat was on the menu from the scent of seasoning in the air.
We were served yogurt, rice, grilled sweet onions and mutton curry, all on a long platter. I looked at Manzoor, not sure what to do with the array of items before me, so I sat quietly and watched him before diving in. What looked famished to me, was simply the hearty pleasure of eating for Manzoor. Following the ceremony of his culture, he took the mutton and onions with his right hand, his left hand resting steadily at his side. He mixed it all together, blending the deep red curry with the basmati white taking no dainty measures it making sure it was well mixed. He then scooped up the plain yogurt and also mixed that in. Well combined and ready to eat, he quickly scooped it up into a loose ball and placed it into his mouth. Like the mimic of a 4 year old, I did the same. I would have never considered mixing the yogurt into everything as he did, but the combination was heavenly. It was absolutely divine. I ate ravenously, not out of hunger but out of absolute pleasure.
Manzoor's cousin was there, who had eaten earlier. He was watching me carefully the whole time.
"You know how to eat with your hands?" He asked skeptically, not blinking.
"Yes" I answered, somewhat defensive. He watched me for a minute, as I continued to eat as the Indians do. He says, "Almost"... referring to my technique. Now I was quite defensive, but not upset. "Do YOU know how to eat with chopsticks?" I ask, placing more rice into my mouth.
"No..." he replies.
"Alright then."
But after he called out my technique, I did watch to see what I was doing wrong. I wasn't using my knuckes to pile the food into small hills on the plate nor was I using my thumb as a reverse shovel to get the food into my mouth. I was doing more of a tip my head back thing to get the food in my mouth. I quickly corrected myself, being the perfectionist I can sometimes be. He smiled, realizing my self-correction. I finished everything on my plate and washed it down with chai.
"That was delicious" I said to the cook. He took away our plates and Manzoor and I laid on our backs, bellies high and satisfied.
Eating in India is a revered part of the day, and people don't eat to stuff themselves, they eat to nourish, replenish and enjoy the ritual of eating. Prior to arriving, I knew that eating would be far from Western practice. Eating with your hands is not considered primitive, it is customary and part of the culture. One eats with their right hand, as the left is assigned to more "unsavory" responsibilities that involve being an alternative to toilet paper. So it is ok to pass the salt with the left hand, but it should never go near the mouth. You also eat on the floor, cross legged, rarely at the table.
I'm a righty, so eating with my right hand wasn't too difficult. There is an art in doing it- basmati rice, a frequent accompaniment to all Indian dishes is formed into small balls, mixed in with whatever the other dish is on your plate whether it is curry chicken, mutton, dal, lentils, etc. One takes the rice and mixes it all together with the right hand, scooping the food into the arc of the four fingers, using knuckles and thumb to push it into the scoop of the fingers and then placing the food into the mouth by using your thumb to give it the velocity to make it onto the tongue.
For a Westerner in India, this was an exotic experience for me, a naked exploration into the pleasure of eating. For most of us, eating with our hands is an erotic experience, aside from eating buffalo wings that is, like feeding one another with strawberries or grapes ...it's a sexy way to eat. But in India, its the only way, and the fork and knife are only there for the comfort of not-so-open Westerners who ,with frustration, remain within their own customs, and use the lonely utensils that usually are left untouched by the locals.
I was delighted and humbled by my first home cooked meal in India at Manzoor's house, where we stopped off for dinner before departing the next day to Kashmir. His servant greeted us at the door with steaming sweet cups of chai tea. The house smelled of grilled onions in fragrant cardamon oil and I knew meat was on the menu from the scent of seasoning in the air.
We were served yogurt, rice, grilled sweet onions and mutton curry, all on a long platter. I looked at Manzoor, not sure what to do with the array of items before me, so I sat quietly and watched him before diving in. What looked famished to me, was simply the hearty pleasure of eating for Manzoor. Following the ceremony of his culture, he took the mutton and onions with his right hand, his left hand resting steadily at his side. He mixed it all together, blending the deep red curry with the basmati white taking no dainty measures it making sure it was well mixed. He then scooped up the plain yogurt and also mixed that in. Well combined and ready to eat, he quickly scooped it up into a loose ball and placed it into his mouth. Like the mimic of a 4 year old, I did the same. I would have never considered mixing the yogurt into everything as he did, but the combination was heavenly. It was absolutely divine. I ate ravenously, not out of hunger but out of absolute pleasure.
Manzoor's cousin was there, who had eaten earlier. He was watching me carefully the whole time.
"You know how to eat with your hands?" He asked skeptically, not blinking.
"Yes" I answered, somewhat defensive. He watched me for a minute, as I continued to eat as the Indians do. He says, "Almost"... referring to my technique. Now I was quite defensive, but not upset. "Do YOU know how to eat with chopsticks?" I ask, placing more rice into my mouth.
"No..." he replies.
"Alright then."
But after he called out my technique, I did watch to see what I was doing wrong. I wasn't using my knuckes to pile the food into small hills on the plate nor was I using my thumb as a reverse shovel to get the food into my mouth. I was doing more of a tip my head back thing to get the food in my mouth. I quickly corrected myself, being the perfectionist I can sometimes be. He smiled, realizing my self-correction. I finished everything on my plate and washed it down with chai.
"That was delicious" I said to the cook. He took away our plates and Manzoor and I laid on our backs, bellies high and satisfied.
