A taste of friendship

In my limited experience of the world, I have lived in four countries and seven cities, have made innumerable friends and can boast of a friend in every continent of the world, several of whom remain in touch and some are lost in time. These friendships were made under all sorts of strange and humdrum situations and my friends range from senior citizens to people I met in kindergarten. On a lazy Sunday, as I sat thinking of some of these people after a particularly long phone-chat with a middle school friend, I realized that a lot of my memories have an intermingling with great meals shared with pals – the memories forever laced with a unique flavour that bring together the sense of delicious tastes and warm conversation. Some stand out and remind me time and again of the people who shared those times and of course the wonderful meals.

When my parents took us to Amber in Calcutta and I tasted my first kababs and naans, Baba always insisted that we leave a last crusty piece of naan for the end as it would clean the palate after all the curries. I seem to follow that instruction till date.

Sharat was my first friend in Germany and a saviour of sorts while I struggled to settle in. We shared a lot of meals together but I remember him most for showing me the German pfannkuchen – a combination of a crepe and a thin-crust pizza with various toppings – in Mannheim.

I met Melia on the train from Mannheim to Enschede in Holland and hit it off instantly. The French girl had impeccable taste in fashion and introduced me to some great food while in Germany. I tasted my first Quiche Lorraine in a café in Heidelberg with her. Later I spent many great evenings in her flat, sharing super home-cooked food made by her and her Italian friend Adele. Jointly they introduced me to crunchy Salade Nicoise, Paul Klee’s art and Buddy Guy’s blues guitar.

Herr Stegmeier, my landlord, made his own kirsche schnapps with cherries from his garden. Shots of those and his wife’s kasekuchen (cheesecake) were excellent accompaniments while we stood in their kitchen, as they quizzed me about Indian monsoons and I took pointers from them on tipping the hairdresser.

In Mannheim I was invited to join the old Bengali boy’s club which consisted of three 50+ gentlemen who had migrated in their twenties and stayed on in Germany. They met once a week over beer and talked Bengali. When I joined them as the latest entrant, despite being 24, I was treated as a child – Orangina instead of beer and news from India which jogged their memories. When I left Germany, they took me out in a red sports car for a farewell dinner to an Argentinian steak house. The old Bengali boys had style!

With Pranay I have shared innumerable great meals but some beat the rest. The freshly grilled snapper at a shack on Sanur beach in Bali as the afternoon sun glinted off the lagoon tasted impeccable, as Wayang Suaba, our local guide and friend smiled benevolently in the background, the hibiscus behind his ear gently fluttering in the sea-breeze.

The only truly authentic Tom Yum soup was the one we had in the kitchen of a cafe off Karon beach in Phuket. The lady cooked and her brother served. Ten years later, Phuket had developed a boardwalk, a Starbucks and the café-shack had closed down.

Bulbuldi, my cousin and her Belgian husband Andre have hosted me several times in Brussels. Raking leaves in their garden, buying rotisserie chicken from the farmer’s market nearby and moules and frites (mussels and fries) with them in Antwerp opened up continental life to me. But the outstanding taste was that of the first Boursin cheese “avec poivre” – with pepper, on a fresh baguette on their dining table. Unbeatable!

When Pranay and I met for lunch on work days in Singapore we ate an eclectic menu. But the one we really planned for, along with the rest of his office was the brown-paper wrapped “chicken brani” from Kamal’s who made a local version of the biryani – a flavorful yellow rice with large pieces of crispy chicken that was wonderfully spicy. The unanimous demand for extra crumbs of the coating was odd, but the flavour of the garlicky coating was so delicious that it became a dish on its own merit.

Holland was not exactly a foodie’s paradise but I had some delightful food here in the homes of friends. One I remember with a lot of fondness is a dinner hosted by my Norwegian friend Marianne, when she treated us to poached cod accompanied by buttered new potatoes – a traditional Norwegian meal. The fish had been flown in from Norway by her boyfriend. It was one of the simplest meals in terms of preparation yet the taste still lingers on my tongue. I guess it was the authentic combination, the freshness of the fish, the friendly banter all around and some wonderful wine that did it.

All these memories instantly stimulate all my senses as I remember the taste of good food, and can almost hear and see those amazing old friends and places all of whom added to my journey.