After more than a decade in Goa, the catalysts that make your
race for food a life and death exercise should surely determine whether you
belong here. After being out of the land and country for close to three weeks,
the immediate concerns for normal mortals would be a short shower and long
sleep. But when you decide to hit Café Bhosle in Panjim and attempt to reach
there within an hour of getting your arrival stamped at immigration at the airport,
something is seriously wrong. Or seriously right.
The mountains of Norwegian Salmon, T Bone steaks (Beef yes.
Is a confession or reporting to the nearest police station needed?) and the
holy trinity of parmesan, prosciutto and pasta, in Parma, had to simply hold it
as the unadulterated joy of breathing in the Goan dawn air, hugging the Zuari
at Sancoale and rushing to Panjim as tea stalls were opening on the highway
(including my beloved Jogesh tea stall at Cortalim), consumed this hungry returnee
on his way home. As home can ever be. A quick pit stop at the residence and it
was time for the last mile, to Cafe Bhonsle, with Milind as always reading the papers
and the regulars settling in. All it took was the first morsel of the puri and
the mixed bhaji and the cup of tea to sink in. I had now arrived.
Now that we’ve got the priorities in perspective, a few admissions.
Yes there are places in the world which do some food better than Goa. When it
comes to ham and other kinds of pork, leave it to the Italians, with the Kiwis having
every right to claim that position too. And if there is one place in the world
which takes it food seriously to even declare daily independence from the land
of Italy it is Parma. This gorgeous region of divinity, with Tuscany to the
South and Lombardy to the North is God’s creation and this is where the holy
trinity – parmesan, prosciutto, and pasta live. And since the place is
synonymous with ham, the locals are pretty much sorted. After all life’s basic
contentment is found in its farms and its shops which stock produce which come straight
from the farms and the diaries.
Parma is this. And all of this — parmesan cheese, prosciutto,
and handmade pastas including the little ones you can fill. But it is, and
always will be the land of ham. Leading from the front is the cured boneless
one made from the hind leg salted just to perfection, enough to keep the meat
fresh but not too much to take away its natural taste.
In Parma everything is done with a twist. For instance there’s
bacon and there’s pancetta from Parma, with its aroma of red wine and garlic.
Away from Italy to the cold North of Norway, Lillihammer, is
a picture postcard little village two hours from Oslo. The winter snows were
yet to arrive but in homes skis were being taken out and cleaned or fresh ones
bought. As Norway prepares for its long winter, its Viking spirit always
endures that there is enough Salmon to survive. That’s an easy feeling to
empathise with. What modso, chonak and mackerel are to us, salmons is to the
Norwegians. In the four days in Lillihammer, there was salmon on the breakfast
table, the suishi bar, for lunch, as tapas with olives and then for dinner. And
the country’s biggest asset, (after oil perhaps) has now been warmly adopted by
the Japs as their national food. After all, what’s sushi without salmon?
From the mountain slopes of Norway to the plains of Italy
and then down to Eastern Europe, food and drink is part of life and its rests
easy on culture, with absolute ease and no baggage. It defines places and
people and journeys are as much, (or in this case the only about) food. It
makes the land more splendid, much more human and of course beautiful. The
combination of cobbled streets, music in the air, medieval towns with their street
cafes, bars and restaurants add gusto the spirit. Here, life is toasted with
omnipresent aromas of food and effervescence.
But is our Goa any different. The sheer pangs of getting to
your bhaji puri on arrival, is final evidence that after all that I’ve said,
home is ultimately where the bhaji is.
