Sandip Roy: When food influencers declare neighborhood staples as 'hidden gems'

I learned all that thanks to an enthusiastic Instagrammer.

Radhu Babu’s teashop in south Kolkata is old but not quite 100. I did not think of it as hidden since its tea was so famous that film stars like Raj Kapoor and Uttam Kumar are known to have come there for it. The story goes that Raj Kapoor would even take its prepped fish fries and cutlets back to Mumbai where his chef would fry them for him.

Also for a “hidden" gem, it was hiding in plain sight, as it were. Our neighbour would stand on her balcony and try to peer into its kitchen to see if she could decipher what went into their famous chicken korma. Every morning clusters of people gathered in front of it on the street to order its tea and toast. Many of them used to sit on the stoop of our house, drinking their tea and reading the newspaper (and cheerfully blocking our doorway). In the evening the menu expanded to fish cutlets, vegetable chops or croquettes and mutton stew (still available by the quarter plate). All of it was equally popular. A menu on a billboard hangs in front of the restaurant with its name clearly emblazoned on top. The influencer stood in front of that same menu as he breathlessly declared it was such a “hidden gem" it did not even have its name on a signboard.

In the world of clickbait social media, everything is a hidden gem. The other day I came across a listicle generated by a reputed national media house. It listed five hidden gems of Kolkata. The last item was Victoria Memorial, perhaps the city’s most iconic landmark. It’s such a standout landmark that the white marble edifice had to be covered with cow-dung to hide it during Japanese air raids in World War II. Now it has been re-christened a “hidden gem".

As has the pice hotel around the corner which is actually over 100 years old. When the pice hotel, known for its cheap homely meals, suddenly started popping up all over my feed, I asked my mother why we had never eaten there. She was puzzled. She could not understand why would we go to have a homestyle fish-dal-and-rice meal at a pice hotel when we ate that at home every day. She had a point.

Growing up in Kolkata eating out had to be all about what we could not cook at home. It meant chimney soup, American chop suey, tandoori chicken, paper dosa, “Beckty" meunière and prawn cocktails. We never looked for hidden gems. We were resolutely loyal to the tried and tested restaurants. We had to be. Eating out was expensive—a rare treat that was saved for special occasions like New Year’s Day or exceptionally good examination results. No one wanted to risk a “hidden gem". We went to the old favourites. More often than not we ordered the old favourites at the old favourites.

Every now and then when an aunt or uncle visited from abroad, we got to go to a restaurant at a five-star hotel. The power of the NRI dollar or pound sterling made it feel like less of a criminal extravagance. Then we sometimes dared to try out items that sounded like exotic fairy-tale creatures, dishes with names like Lobster Thermidor and Baked Alaska.

Now restaurants and cafes open every other day and every new kid on the block needs to make its mark. On Instagram. Sometimes the menu feels an afterthought to the decor—the usual mishmash of per-peri fries, fish fingers and molten lava chocolate pastries. It comes liberally sprinkled with words from a globetrotter’s menu: eggs Benedict, bibimbap, quesadilla. They do not really taste like any of the items they claim to be, the names just a sprinkle of worldly sophistication to the menu. A little extra zing. Much like the ubiquitous peri-peri seasoning.

In this brave new world of cafes and restaurants, we are promiscuous consumers. I am happy to try the new cafe on the block and never go back to it. Not because it was terrible but because there’s always something newer opening around the corner. Brand loyalty means little to me anymore. The old favourites, famous for devilled crab and chelo kebabs are reserved for nostalgia trips when childhood friends and expat cousins come into town and want to relive their childhoods. Then we go to those restaurants, complain we cannot find any crab in the pool of mayo that passes as devilled crab but we forgive the trespasses for old times’ sake.

In this landscape, the food content creator has discovered the “hidden gem". It’s a social media magic trick to package old wine in new bottles. It might defy logic to call something that’s been a neighbourhood favourite for 75 years a hidden gem. But then again, it’s surely hidden for somebody out there.

Of course, some of the hidden gems themselves are bemused. Our pice hotel has gotten a facelift and put up newspaper clippings about its new-found fame on the wall but a friend complains the quality does not always keep up with demand these days. He is worried they might gentrify and stop serving on banana leaves. Or worse, use them as a fashion statement. Meanwhile, the phlegmatic owner is amused that people now come from across town, sometimes from a different town altogether, to eat what is basically ghar ka khana.

The proprietor of Radhu Babu across the street, used to the likes of Raj Kapoor, is nonchalant about all the social media attention. A few “heritage" awards have come their way. The little shop, which barely has space for a couple of benches, does not bother displaying the awards and certificates. There is no room anyway. Most of their clientele sit on plastic chairs on the sidewalk and someone dodges traffic, crosses the street and delivers their tea and snacks to them.

What is precious about true hidden gems has always been that connection to the neighbourhood, the familiarity of the teashop that knows your name and does not ask for your mobile number. The real value doesn’t come from influencers “discovering" them much like Columbus discovered America. Neither is the real value some secret ingredient in their batter. I love Radhu Babu’s fish fries but I cannot say there isn’t another hole-in-the-wall shop across city that doesn’t make excellent fish fries as well. The korma was a treat but our real treat was to boil an egg for the leftover gravy and make an egg curry the next day. And they always gave us extra gravy. The real value comes from that connection to a place, to the frenetic beat of its kitchen where the big tea kettle hisses and the lazy rhythms of the clientele sitting on the streets enjoying their tea and adda. That connection cannot be captured in a reel.

I read about a young man who would come to the shop in the 1970s as a student. One day he didn’t have enough money on him and got ₹10 credit which he never had a chance to pay back. Decades later, as an NRI in London he made a trip back to Kolkata and revisited the teashop. Of course no one was around who remembered that long-ago debt. He tried to pay it back (with interest) but the proprietor refused his money. In the end he donated it to the staff, a gem of a story that was never captured on an Instagram reel.

These days when I stumble upon a true hidden gem, a sweetshop perhaps that sells the lightest whitest mishti doi, I selfishly keep it close to my heart.

Sometimes the only way to safeguard hidden gems is to keep them hidden.

Cult Friction is a fortnightly column on issues we keep rubbing up against.

Sandip Roy is a writer, journalist and radio host. He posts @sandipr