Suvir Saran

??

I would love the recipe. Coming from you, it will be one I will certainly enjoy and love.

Can one grind ones own almond flour or is it much better made with store bought almond flour?

I end up buying at least two dozens of these when I am in Chelsea (le Bergamot). And even before an hour is over, they are all gone. I would love to learn how to bake them. I did read about them in Larousse... But wondering if anyone has a working, tested recipe to share. Also what jellies should one use? Would it be ok to use home made jams?

Thanks Suzanne F! So how many professional chefs and their staff actually would still use this "raft" method? Just wondering.

"...............Lamb kali mirch ($17.50) was our best overall dish. The deboned lamb itself was not particularly flavorful, but at least the flesh was moist. Kali mirch is a dark brown curry with ground black pepper in the starring role....... By the time it’s too hot, you’re way out in the middle of the dish, with no choice but to press on. When my friend who’d ordered the kali mirch got to that point, he jokingly asked our busboy to douse it with his pitcher of ice water. The young man soon returned with a bowl of Tamarind’s homemade yogurt. It was richly herbal, exquisitely cooling. It allowed us to merge with the busy kali merch sauce anew. And unlike our equally necessary plate of rice ($4.50), it was free.........." Adam Heimlich does the diner service by pointing out this great flaw. Tamarind opened wanting to take Indian restaurants to their logical new step. The idea Raji envisioned with the help of Hemant Mathur (champion of individual portions) was to give Indian food a new face. Dishes would come plated, as they would be found in non-Indian restaurants. But when one orders entrees in fine restaurants the plate has all necessary garnishes and condiments that would make the dish complete and more enjoyable for the diner. But no, at Tamarind, they have chosen to ignore that basic necessity and add to their check by indulging in this highway robbery. It would not take a clever chef much time or effort to come up with garnishes that work, keep food cost in check and maintain the vision that Hemant and Raji first had. It seems to have somehow been lost.

"..........Raj kachori ($5.75) was a delicious cold chickpea salad with tamarind sauce. The flavorful beans came in a puffed fried bread, a sort of poori. Oddly, Tamarind’s menu describes the dish as "Chickpea-filled flour patties," mentioning neither poori nor coldness. But our kachori was so good we only shrugged at the misinformation.........." Adam Heimlich exposed what had been bothering me from day one. The name of this chaat is deceiving. It is not what it implies the dish to be. Most Indians that go there laugh it off and think the owner is doing such only for "Americans" would never care to understand the difference. But Heimlich proves that the contrary is true and that people do care about knowing the real stuff and not being fooled.

Wow! This was the passage that had me totally charmed by the writing skill of this man. It was perfect in so many ways.

This writer’s clear and fascinating understanding of Indian food genuinely impressed me. Only two writers in America have impressed me with their knowledge and familiarity with the very fine and delicate nuances of Indian cooking, Gael Greene and Eric Asimov. He comes close to the brilliance these two bring to their reviews of Indian restaurants. His break down of dishes, where the menu fails and where it works were so perfect to what I have taken from my experiences t hat I would be wrong to not compliment this writer. His ability to criticize while still informing the reader of what should and could have saved a dish is amazing. So many writers either do not know better or hold such information in their own minds. The reader is left without gaining much. He shared all he got from his experience. Such reviews could change how ethnic restaurants think of themselves in the larger world of this countries restaurant-scape. Maybe such brutally honest and well researched writing can make ethnic restaurants realize that sooner or later, a market that really does have people wanting to experience t he real thing will see through falsities and games. But till then, reviewers and owners are doing each other disservice. I agree that his past history with the restaurant could color his experience. But I also respect the fact that he came out clean with it. He could have never shared this with anyone. Not even his editor. That he chose to bring it all out leaves it to the reader to discredit him if they so choose. Biases exist in so many levels. Not all are as clear... some will never be revealed and yet do far more damage without every being understood and noticed. I think he really did make an effort and a grand one. He went from item to item and even as he critiqued them for good or bad, he also shared their subtleties, as one would have to know them to experience them in their perfect form. His knowledge about Indian food totally won me over. I was not expecting such amazing understanding of the very fine nuances of Indian cooking that add to the utter complexity of its repertoire.

Aah... so you like Uthappam I see. It is a Southern Indian pancake. Wait till you try it at Hampton Chutney. Ask the chef to make it with hot chiles... it is the best you can find in NYC... or even Pongal would be great for these. It is hard to go wrong with Uthappams. But certainly a sour batter and the perfect toppings can make all the difference.

You are thinking of the same dish... The Indian guy that served you may have been worried of hygiene... Maybe next time, ask them to be a true street food vendor... What else did this Indian vendor share with you? What other street foods did you eat.. or you remember... Does anything come to mind when thinking of Dimple and Chaat? What makes it different for you.... Did you enjoy the Falooda? That drink they serve at many of the Chaat places.

Steven, I believe you have had Pani Puri... Any thing to say about this strange dish???

Does anyone add egg shells any more? Is it really worth the effort to make a stock that clear? I know Ed makes his Chinese stock quiet clear... but certainly not by adding too many extra steps like egg shells... he says the key to a good Chinest Sweet Corn Soup is a clear stock... That is what got me thinking... He left the stock simmering overnight... Is that common???

That is what our friend Ed Schoenfeld does. I did not see him add Star Anise though.

Did anyone read the review? Does Adam Heimlich do all the reviews for NY Press? An employee of Tamarind told me about the review. They also mentioned that the restaurant is wanting to sue the writer... Can that happen? I read the review and found the writer to have really done a great job of understanding the subtleties of Indian cooking.

I was thinking of how to plan a friends itinerary in India when I remembered a friend now long gone, but the memories just as alive today as when he was alive and hosting us in Haridwar and Rishikesh in Uttar Pradesh, a Northern Indian state. Rajan our friend was a racecar driver that had won the Himalayan Car Rally and several others. He was that risk-taking, living on the edge guy that people from the world over in the know wanted to meet. Rajan and his brother were friends of the family and he had become an elder brother to my siblings and I. When he came to Delhi, which was at least a couple of times a month, he would stay in our home. Rajan Randhawa and Manmohan Randhawa were brothers that lived in Haridwar. A very holy Indian city. It is the first place on the Indian plain where the holy river Ganga first hits the plains. A vegetarian city, Haridwar is normally associated with all things pious and sacred. While the elder Manmohan would partake in the rituals that encompass spiritual life in India, Rajan would have complete respect for these and still maintain a life that was at once contemporary and modern as one could find in any large city of the world. He had the latest cars, every gadget that any rich person around the world could boast of. The best designers and architects designed their home. In a city where one could find millions of close to naked holy men, in their home one would find every amenity that the modern world affords those that have money. In their home, I first met Gyaneshwar. Retired chef of Indira Gandhi that they had been able to hire as their families chef. Since Gyaneshwar would not be challenged by their home cooking alone, they had organized for him to be the executive chef at BHEL (Bharat Heavy Electrical Limited) a utility giant in most of Northern India. So between these two jobs, Gyaneshwar would cook heavenly food, in this blessed land for mere mortals. The setting was brilliant. Here we were, mortals in a city steeped in lore, myth, aura and power and flooded often with the largest congregation of humanity anywhere in the world. During Kumbh Mela, more millions collect here than in any one place at any given time in the world. People travel even thousands of miles to come take a dip in the holy water of the Ganges. And we came here only to be with Manmohan Uncle and Rajan and later his wife and kids. As a kid I was always excited about visiting them for I got to see the serene yet largely hyperactive hustle and bustle of a city as holy as this. While our police escorted, flag ridden car (since my father often had to make official trips here) we would be able to zip through most traffic jams. The news of our visit would reach Rajan and Manmohan Uncle through the walkie-talkie communication between the traffic police, their headquarters and then to the Randhawa residence. Everyone knew that my father the bureaucrat that would never stay in private homes during official travels would make only one exception, and it was for these visits to Haridwar. He would forgo on staying at the local Guest House but agree to break his rule and stay in his dear friend Manmohan and his brothers’ home. So, even before our car had come near their home, Gyaneshwar would be preparing snacks to be served at our arrival. The car would pull into the drive way and the next thing we knew, bearers with large trays would come out within a couple of minutes with our favorite drinks, chaats and munchies. All of this was timed perfectly through the help of the traffic police and their respect for these brothers that gave Haridwar a unique presence. One not known to those that go there for religious pilgrimage. Gol Gappas (also called Pani Puri, check thread on Dimple chat in the India board), Chaat papri, Dhoklas, Khandvi, Ragda, Aloo Tikki, Khasta Kachori, Dahi Bhalle and Bhel Puri would all be prepared. The gol gappas (deep fried wheat balls) the papri (wheat crisps), the sev (very fine chickpea flour noodles) and the bhallas had all been prepared just minutes before our arrival. Such freshness is common but service so of the minute is rare even in the most decadent of all Indian homes. But Gyaneshwar would never have it any other way. He knew no other way. So in the heart of this ancient, holy and other-world Indian city, we were sitting in a mansion as grand as any, in a garden as beautifully landscaped as what the gardens around the Taj Mahal may have been in their prime. Sitting in the garden, amongst the sounds of bells, chanting and all sorts of prayer related noises, we were in a cocoon, which was nested in this cities heart and yet so far removed. While almost every person in that city was partaking in the very austere and yet vibrant energy of this grand city, we were partaking in the grandeur of food prepared by a grand master for a family that loved to entertain and host and spoil rotten any and all that came into this home of theirs. We would always arrive at their home around 6 PM… the ritual snack time would end by 7:30… we would all retire to our own rooms in this palatial home. Shower, get massaged, indulge ourselves with a bath in a hot tub, a visit to one of the many saunas in this home or the professional gymnasium that was part of the families home. By 10PM Gyaneshwar would have dinner served at the stately dining room. The dining table alone could be the prized collection of any museum the world over, but it was one of the simplest and most obscure pieces of this room. Chairs, tables, trays, lamps, sofas, love seats and china cabinets were all made with walnut wood from Kashmir and accented with details from the many hunts the brothers had taken people to. While the meal at the Hunting Lodge in Madhya Pradesh seemed perfect for a visiting Dignitary, this setting was too decadent and too surreal for anyone to ever think even in their wildest dreams. It was also in many ways ghastly and sad. No more than a dozen people being lavished in a manner that in sheer expense of its happening would have fed and given homes to thousands of homeless. But the brothers did employ the local folk to make these feasts happen. They also ran shelters for the poor, elderly and the homeless. They ran the Indian version of soup kitchens and all of this done in memory of their parents. Amongst heads of lions, tigers, Himalayan goat, boar, antlers, elephant tusks, and dozens of ivory inlaid pieces of furniture, dinner would be served as Mrs. Gandhi would have been accustomed to providing visiting heads of states in the Prime Ministers residence in New Delhi. Gyaneshwar with a blank check to pull no stops would create meals he claims are far more elaborate than even Mrs. Gandhi ever saw. No meal had less than 56 entrees. Chutneys and pickles and relishes of ever and all kinds from around India. Dinner could not be enjoyed without lingering for a couple of hours… Everybody stopped, ate slow, and took several small portions. Such was the norm and understood ritual. Time was of essence and yet time seemed eternal. No one worried that it was past midnight and dinner was still being enjoyed without any rush. Dessert would be a feast by itself. Gyaneshwar, who had studied in France for years, would hire a Halwai (Indian sweet maker-pastry chef) and use his training as a classic French pastry chef to create the most exciting assortment of desserts. Being the youngest in our group, my famous sweet tooth would never be ignored. For my sake and to encourage my growing interest in food, its history and traditions, Uncle Manmohan would make sure that Gyaneshwar and his chefs would have created desserts from many different parts of India and the world. It was only around 2 AM in the morning that we would leave our dessert plates. In between eating our desserts, we also sang old classic film songs and of course my father could not end any visit to Haridwar without my having to recite the 12th chapter of the Gita in Sanskrit. Since I had done that for the radio and won several national Sanskrit recitation competitions, I think it was his way of showing off that his son not only studied this ancient language like most all school kids, but that his son could sing in it and also was considered one of the handful of people that could speak it and read news in it. After my recitation of the Gita, we would all go to our rooms to dress up for the hunt. At this late hour of the night (early morning) we would all (except Uncle Manmohan, who would sleep as he woke up at 4:30 every morning to walk up a hill to go to a shrine of the Mata-mother goddess) get into a large jeep with Rajan driving and one of his old hands carrying a flash light. We would get into the dense woods in the base of the Himalayas. The Doon valley is famous for tigers and Jim Corbett wrote extensively about this area and its wildlife. In days past tigers had been hunted but for these excursions, it was only about being one with the wilderness. If at all any animal was hunted, it would be wild boar. Nothing else. Gyaneshwar made the best-pickled wild boar I have ever eaten. He would marinate the boar in a spice rub for days before seasoning it with spices and oils and then cooking in the sun. The hunt was my favorite part of these trips. Rajan had a way with spotting animals. Even as he drove, he would suddenly bring the jeep to a halt and point towards a certain direction and to all our surprise, he would have spotted a tiger or a mountain goat, or a tusker. It was not uncommon for us to find ourselves frightening close to a tiger in an open jeep. In fact once we were driving (Rajan was actually reversing) and the car came to a halt after having hit something. Rajan drove ahead some, had the light bearer flash the light at the back and we had hit the kill that the Tiger was eating and protecting. The tiger was shocked at what had happened, at least I was frightened seeing the Tiger so close, no more than 3 feet away. And angry about being disturbed. Rajan asked for all of us to be quiet. He drove away.. And we all lived. The hunt could not be complete without a ritual stop in a tree house which houses a holy man who had come to this forest to find a place to meditate. Rajans family owned most of this forestland privately. It was land, which was theirs on condition that it not be made into farmland. Only a small percentage of this land they could use for Basmati farming. For this reason, as a young kid, Rajan had taken up hunting. Often old and wounded tigers would kill a farmer. This would then have to be remedied with a hunt for the aging tiger and finally catching it to send to a zoo or killing it. The old holy man would tell Rajan about what had been happening in the Jungle.. Tell him about where he had spotted tigers and tuskers and what nuisance if any they had been creating. The holy man always was smoking pot. I was always surprised that my parents completely ignored that part. As Uncle Manmohan would be getting ready to go to his morning hike up the cliff to the shrine of the Mother Goddess, we would be coming in to go to bed. The kitchen staff would take the boar and get it cleaned and prepared for Gyaneshwar to work his magic. The evening would come to an end. The next day would be more food and more fun. But this was the ritual of the first evening. When I had taken Chuck to Haridwar his first time, everything happened as above, but the next day, Rajan had organized a visit to the home of Samir Thapar. The Thapars are a very big business family of India. They have a hunting lodge in Rishikesh. The lodge is more like a medieval fortress on the banks of the Ganges. Every detail of the house is carved by hand and in wood or stone. Living in it is like living in an Indian temple of an era before Christ. While we had known the Thapars and enjoyed the company of Samir many times at the Randhawa house, this time around, Chuck was being taken to this famous home. The next morning, all 10 of us were boarded onto a vessel that was the same one that took Sir Edmund Hillary upstream on the Ganges. A beautiful vessel, it was a perfect thing for Chuck as the mariner in him could not have been more intrigued, impressed and more spoiled. It was a mariners dream. Here we were in an ancient city, in a vessel that was historic and significant, with people that were fun and special and going upstream on a river that is fierce and rapid. It seemed easy for us to not be scared for this was the vessel that carried Sir Hillary to his destination. We were all in awe of the Ganges and mankind. Here we were going upstream taking risks one would not find easily plausible unless watching a movie. Wave after wave hit the glass that had been a part of the board since yesteryears. The waves would blind our vision as they hit the glass. If the glass were not there, we would have never made it to Rishikesh. We took our time going up… since for Chucks benefit, the gentleman steering the wheel decided to go slow and also highlight the beautiful white sand beaches that have been formed over the years alongside the Ganga. In fact today a beautiful 5 Star Boutique hotel is set in these same beaches. The Glass House on the Ganges was open then… but we decided to only see it from the outside as we were going for lunch and an overnight stay at The House in this entire region. After an hour or so of being in this vessel, we were close to the foot of the hill that housed the Thapar residence. Those of us that were nervous about this upstream adventure seemed relieved that we had made it up. We still had 60 to 100 feet to go when a wave crashed the glass into shards…. We were all wet… and most of us had red all over our clothes. None of us were bleeding and it seemed like something other than blood had colored our bodies and clothing. Well, the kind man steering us had been badly hurt and the shards had gone into him all over. He was pretending to not be hurt, got us all to the point where the vessel would be docked and we could get onto the pier and make it to the Thapar home for lunch. Even as he was all hurt, he had radioed ahead and asked for them to be ready for him and his wounds. A car was ready to take him to the hospital as we docked and later, I saw him, all bandaged but fortunately not too severely hurt. We were all worried his eyes could have been affected. But fortunately the wounds were all over but the shards escaped the eyes. We made it up the hill and onto the gardens of this house on the edge of the Ganga in Rishikesh. The palace of fine Indian art was everything we could have imagined and more. A helipad and a mini golf course were part of the property. And a beautiful white sand private beach alongside the Ganges just for the family. We all showered, got into clothes that did not bear any stains. My father made sure the kind man steering us had been received at the hospital and that all was being done to ensure his good health. The hosts began with the intricacies involving a banquet at a setting as heavenly as this. In fact, for many Indians, this could well be heaven… for the carvings in the home, the crystal clear water of the Ganges, the continuous echo of chants and temple bells, the smell of fragrant flowers intoxicating the mind into a trance that elevated even the most stressed spirits, all seemed like that heaven one would expect heaven to be. The hosts had organized traditional Punjabi food. There were all kinds of vegetables, chicken and goat preparations. Brilliant parathas, naans and chapattis. Raitas and salads made in so many ways I would be unable to remember them all. Sam’s wife had told me the menu to make sure the food and dishes would be fine for my family and Chuck. I was embarrassed at the sheer assortment of dishes and was speechless. I think she understood. Somehow word got to them that Chuck had been missing the wonderful seafood he had eaten in Bombay. Well, a chopper was sent out to find fresh fish and the next thing we knew, a few hours later, Pomfret and crab from Bombay, was added to the menu. Gyaneshwar had been invited by them to make desserts for that lunch and dinner in their home. Like the night before, we were speechless, alas fattened and spoiled. The next morning for breakfast, he had made no less than 2-dozen breakfast foods (Indian and Continental). We left the next day… My parents to Delhi and Chuck and I to Mussoorie. We spent another day with Rajan and Uncle Manmohan on our way back to Delhi. We came to NYC and soon after, we got a call from my mother about Uncle Manmohan passing away from a sudden and unexpected heart attack and months after, Rajan was killed under suspicious and tragic circumstances. While these two men are not there to recreate the magic they had shared with their family and friends, their magic and lore have continued to live as vibrantly as when they entertained when in their human form. I feel guilty that I could not have done something to save these two very generous people. I feel even more guilty that I was one of a very few that ever would live that grandeur they shared so effortlessly. I feel guilty that a world they gave so much to could not protect them. And I feel guilty that I could not have written this while they could have still read it in their mortal person. But I do feel, as is understood by Rajans family and kids that Rajan and Uncle Manmohan will live in the hearts of many for generations to come as men who created in India of the 21st century, an India that one can only dream of and maybe see in movies made about its colorful mythology.

Tamarind Adam Heimlich NY Press ....................Part of Tamarind’s mission is to elevate the typical solicitousness of Indian restaurants to the point where it feels genuinely aristocratic. That explains why the owner is always in the dining room, scanning the crowd, smiling at diners and taking special care of whoever might require it. His grand display of manners is so classic it’s practically a novelty act. To eat at Tamarind without taking a moment to be charmed by Mr. Walia practically constitutes ordering against the restaurant’s strengths. Our gratis fritters were luckhnow ki bhajia ($5.75), which are spinach, banana and homemade cheese, battered and fried. The sauce was tomato-based, a marinara with Indian spices. The light coatings were golden and crisp. Still, these were common bar snacks and they didn’t exactly cast a spell. ..........................

How would you prepare stocks for soups. A friend said to me that they have two recipes. One for a Chinese style stock and the other for Non-Chinese recipes. Is that what the norm is? Anyone have recipes that I should try?? What makes a good stock good? Should one worry about making a perfectly clear stock?

My favorite Dosa in NYC... I wish the Chutneys were good. When the Sambhaar is available, it too is the best I have eaten in the US... But the Dosas are SUPERB! Hampton Chutney Well, even in the Hamptons, I find myself craving these Dosas... one would imagine I would be up for trying something new... but knowing that I can go to Hampton Chutney, I find myself quickly at their store front... and eating Dosa in the grass outside. So, for those that commute between NYC and the Hamptons, nothing is lost.... The best Dosas are available in both places. Hampton Chutney makes the best Dosas... the classic recipe is great. The others are wonderful. The filling in the classic recipe is quite authentic. In fact more so than most South Indian restaurants today. The chefs simply do not care to make the filling authentic. The few I have spoken with blame it on their Bangladeshi crew and how they do not care to follow the exact recipe. I have always told the chefs its their name being maligned. I wish someday some of these great chefs will understand how the dishes carry their stamp.. and in the end, no matter who really cooked the dish, the chef carries the burden... good or bad.

A good neighborhood place... not a destination. When in the hood and craving a Dosa and too lazy to get to Hampton Chutney or Pongal... this should do... Guru

And what a bad Dosa can do..... Bad Dosas at Tamarind I was told yesterday in confidence that the thread above was responsible for getting the South Indian Platter with Dosas and Idli removed from Tamarinds lunch menu. I will call the restaurant after 1 PM and check about this fact. I was also told that the Idlis and the sambhaar were prepared at least a week in advance. And how I was correct in assuming that the Idlis were frozen and then microwaved. They most often only refrigerate them, but when they are getting too old to be left in the refrigerator, they were frozen. Hopefully now it is a non issue. But this is one of the many reasons that I have found few if any good Dosas or Idlis in the US. There are certainly some good places serving good Dosas... but I have yet to find any that come even close to the quality and consistency one finds at Sagar and Woodlands and Dasaprakash in Delhi.

And then this one... (thanks Jason for the great pics ) Getting to know Indian food... (And Dosas)

Another link Dosa and Pongal

Below is link to a related thread.. Where to go for Dosa?

I have recently made trips to a Dosa spot that has been praised quite a lot around this site and elsewhere. I was terribly dissapointed. Dosas are one of my favorite foods. It is a pity that Indian restaurants in NYC have really not shared the magic that can come with each bite of a Dosa. Some friends of mine that have traveled to India and had loved Dosas even before making that trip, came back never wanting to eat American Indian Dosas again. There is such a marked difference. Why is that so? What makes them so different? Where do you find your favorite Dosa? What are you looking for in a good Dosa? What do you think the perfect Dosa should be like? What should the Sambhaar have in it? What consistency should it be? What should the chutney be like? What chutneys would you like to eat it with? What do you think are the authentic companions to a Dosa?