BackWhy I cut a fish instead of a cake
Samar Halarnkar brings in his 50th birthday with a jar of chicken pickle from his mother
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Last week I turned 50. It left me cold. I did not feel any different, and I did not particularly want to do anything—as they say—memorable. I hoped the day would arrive and, like any other birthday, pass quietly and joyfully. I said as much to my wife, who smiled sweetly and said nothing. This should have been a warning—the day marking my half-century of life would not be allowed to pass into that good night.
As you might guess, I am not big on big-bang birthdays, and, as you might further guess, it ended as the biggest bang of a birthday I have ever experienced.
It all began when I started making the requisite noises to preclude a hoo-ha among family and friends:
* Don’t get me ridiculously extravagant presents—actually, I would really like it if you got me nothing at all.
* Don’t bother me with the question: What would you like for your 50th?
* Don’t expect me to stay up all night. In fact, don’t even expect me to bring in my birthday by staying awake till midnight.
* Don’t...well, I can’t remember all the noises I made, but I made a few.
In the event, no one appears to have listened.
I got extravagant presents, including—as readers of this column will doubtless appreciate—an air fryer, a table-top grill and a top-of-the-line carbon-steel knife made by a famed Japanese knife-maker, Tsukiji Masamoto.
Normally, these would be inappropriate gifts for me. I have never been good with shiny, new kitchen things. I tend to use the same, weathered equipment for years—blunt knives, rattling pan-handles and possibly toxic non-stick pans.
I got only a few tentative questions asking what I wanted because friends and family know such enquiries make me crotchety. If you must give me a present, let it be a surprise, as long as it isn’t a surprise party, which I disdain (or at least that’s what I thought). I know I have my quirks, but after a half-century of life, surely I am entitled to them. So it was my wife who was bombarded with questions. I saw her whispering mysteriously in corners and express irritation whenever I came near her phone.
The not-staying-awake resolve crumbled because a dear friend, a self-professed night owl, flew down from Delhi especially for my 50th. Even by my curmudgeonly standards, I could not possibly refuse her the pleasure of gossiping late into the night—meaning midnight.
The 50th dawned quietly. I made tea, pottered around, made breakfast for everyone and settled down to read the papers. And then the dam broke. The phone calls started to flow in, and my phone pinged ceaselessly. I didn’t know this many people, did I? Thanks to Facebook, apparently I did.
I’ve never had—as readers of this column might recall—a birthday cake, and that tradition continued. My mother baked me a pomfret in green masala, and that is what I cut. It sounds strange, but my birthdays have been cakeless for the last 45 years. On my fifth birthday, my mother realized I did not appreciate cakes. My usual birthday repast has been a pile of marrow bones, but this year, given recent health issues, the meat was substituted by fish.
Before the lunch, my mother handed me a simple packet. It was my birthday gift. There were two glass bottles, tied with blue bows. One contained her traditional ginger-flaked pork pickle, the other her chicken pickle. It is the pork pickle jar that has seen me through decades, cities and lives, enlivening more than half my life’s meals. If you want that recipe, write to me.
The day was to end quietly, with a dinner at an expensive, iconic Bengaluru restaurant, Karavalli, famed for its interpretation of home recipes from the Coromandel Coast, Kodagu and Chettinad. As I stepped up to the restaurant entrance, my father stepped forward.
“Hello, I’m Halarnkar," he said, in his best formal tone, offering me his hand.
I was taken aback. I could only think he was joking—unlikely, since he rarely jokes—or he was, finally, losing it on my 50th. He soon recognized me and protested that a streetlight was shading my face. As I walked, the chef, an amiable man called Naren Thimmaiah, materialized and walked along. This was strange. I was no VIP. “Table for how many?" We have a table, I replied. “Would you like to sit inside or out?" Er, we have a table. I pushed the door open. It was dark, and before I could be confused, a bunch of people sprang from the darkness.
So, there it was, my first surprise party ever. The wife did a magnificent job, corralling family and the few friends we had into this cosy room and arranging the menu with Thimmaiah. Her vegetarian ways did not interfere with the menu: kane (lady fish), jumbo prawns, squid, seer fish curry and lamb. It was a dry day, so we contented ourselves with hot rasam, animated conversation and the whoops of excited children.
For me, this was an OTT birthday, but the party continued over the next two days, with more family flying in from Mumbai. A party for my family means food, mostly food we cook ourselves. Our kitchens hummed, our tables groaned, our sinks piled up, and happy chaos reigned. As we ate one meal, we discussed the next. As you can tell, my family’s ties survive on food, and so my 50th will be forever remembered—as a series of meals, food-related gifts and conversation about food. I may have been cold to the idea of a grand 50th celebration, but it left me feeling rather warm—and rather full.
Mum’s chicken pickle
Ingredients
1kg boneless chicken cut into small pieces, washed and pat- dried with a kitchen towel
8 tbsp vegetable oil
For the masala
1 and half tbsp chilli powder
2-4 garlic cloves
2-inch piece of ginger, cut into thin strips
1 tbsp cumin seeds
1 tbsp mustard seeds
325ml white vinegar
For the seasoning
Half tsp mustard seeds
3-4 garlic cloves
2-inch piece of ginger cut into thin strips
10-12 green chillies, slit lengthwise
Method
Fry the chicken pieces in batches until almost cooked (don’t brown). Add salt and remove from oil. Grind the masala ingredients into a fine paste with 4 tbsp vinegar. Ensure your mixie is fully dry. Heat the vegetable oil left in the pan after frying the chicken and add the seasoning ingredients. Add the ground masala and fry until brown. Add the remaining vinegar and the chicken pieces. Simmer until the chicken is fully cooked. Add more vinegar if the chicken looks too dry. Cool and bottle in a dry jar. This can be stored for around three months.
This is a column on easy, inventive cooking from a male perspective. Samar Halarnkar also writes the fortnightly science column Frontier Mail for Mint and is the author of the book The Married Man’s Guide To Creative Cooking—And Other Dubious Adventures. He tweets at @samar11.
Also Read Samar’s previous Lounge columns
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