BackHappy Holidaze
A meal that leaves you hungry for more, where you least expect it, in the most impossible, prohibitively cut-off locations
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It was a Murakami morning. As I peeked out of my little window, in the Swiss hamlet of Lucerne, I could see the cloudy haze and snowdrops pouring like cotton wisps. A rogue wind was picking up momentum. I got ready for the day and headed down for some warm breakfast. I surveyed the café at the quaint B&B I was staying in. My eyes zoned in on all the colourful eggs (all painted for Easter: it was April) and almost as a reflex action, I dreamt of digging into a hot plate of cheesy omelette.
I saw an old caretaker, went up to ask her if she could (please) whip up an omelette for me. She turned from cuddly grandma to green-eyed goblin and told me off in German-accented English that they only served “cold breakfast".
I told her that I would pay if she could ask the chef to make me some basic hot eggs. It was snowing outside. The idea of consuming cold food when it was sub-zero outside seemed absurd.
Nicht möglich. No, no no, she said.
It may be a small thing, and maybe I’m a touchy traveller, but the whole thing left a sour taste in my mouth. Isn’t this what travel is about? Memories of taste, flavour and smell—of food, people, places. It is to me at least. Everything else is, of course, important, but not at the forefront.
To me, a happy holidaze is when I am well-fed. That’s my scene, really. Interestingly enough, some of the best meals I have ever had are while travelling to the remotest, outrageously aloof corners of India—to spots where you are lost to the world, and the world is lost to you, where phones will never find the bars to have connectivity and the nearest village is a day’s drive away. I have been to these places to get away from myself, expecting nothing, but have returned with a tongue that has gone a little loopy. Isn’t that the essence of luxury—to have a dynamite of a meal that leaves you hungry for more, where you least expect it, in the most impossible, prohibitively cut-off locations?
A few years ago, when a childhood friend and I got heartsick in Delhi, we zeroed in on Shakti 360° Leti, a haven on a magical mountain top that offers a 360-degree view of the Nanda Devi range. Located deep in the heart of Kumaon in Uttarakhand, Leti is situated 158km away from Almora, at an altitude of 8,000ft. The journey is long (it takes two days to navigate the valleys, unmapped villages and waterfalls) and tiring. Yet Shakti, the specialist travel company that owns and operates 360° Leti, made sure that during the journey—some of it on foot, and some by car—we had scrumptious farm-fresh meals and rhododendron juice for energy: I remember hating the taste but loving the sensation!
There is no electricity, phone or Internet at 360° Leti; only solar lanterns that are charged by the stored energy that also powers the kitchen. We proceeded for dinner, assuming it was going to be momos in the moonlight. But when we made our way to a candle-lit room made of glass and limestone, we saw a lavish three-course meal, a divine mix of Indian and international cuisine paired perfectly with French wines. Foodgasm at such an unthinkably in-the-sticks location—it’s a bit insane, come to think of it.
The next morning we woke up to hot tea and scones, and a breakfast of freshly-baked Banoffee pie and carrot cake among other amuse-bouche to keep us going—until lunch, of course. The hours passed by at a delectably slow pace. The world around me slowly began to disappear.
Six years after this journey, as I’m writing this, I’m still going a little giddy at the memory of the spicy garlic pickle, the hot-off-the-oven focaccia bread, aubergine salad, frothy milky chai (tea), the packed lunch of hummus and fresh pita, olives and rolls. If that isn’t a sign of a soul vacation, then I don’t know what is.
Each meal—in our rooms and in the common area—was a decadent smorgasbord of deep-fried love and wholesome, baked delicacies that could put a sumptuous wedding buffet to shame. It was only when Rashid personally dropped us to the closest rail head (a few hours on a pitch-dark highway), mapping the way under lost stars, punctuated by a rotting carcass and lit by the glowing eyeballs of civets purring away, that we realized how far removed we were from civilization. We left Satpura with the sweet taste of uncompromising Indian hospitality (and masala omelette and marble cake).
The elaborate service we received in these places looked effortless. All the hot cross buns and scones, the buttered vegetables and pot roasts and preserves and what have you—we never guessed how difficult it must have been to procure the ingredients to make them.
My friend mentioned in passing that she would like to have the traditional Rajasthani kachori and lassi from Jaipur. And voila! Before we knew it, the head chef had personally scooted off to the city to get us a fresh batch to fatten us up. He didn’t need to do it, but he did it without flinching.
On our last night at the property, the staff had prepared an elaborate four-course meal. We could choose from bocconcini salads, a mille-feuille of potato pancakes, Rajasthani lal maas, mushroom cappuccino—the works. Every item seemed more wonderful than the other, but nothing seemed attractive to my rather unrefined palate. I handed the menu back to him and asked if I could get a simple khichdi with vegetables instead.
The chef didn’t wince once. He smiled ever so graciously.
Of course, anything is possible, madam.
Welcome to India.
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