Baingan Dal (Charred Eggplant with Lentils)

I will not talk about isolation. I will not talk about isolation. I will not talk about isolation. I will not talk about isolation. I will not talk about isolation.

Dang it, I did. 

And it's all because of them lentils. Other people hoard toilet paper. Apparently, I hoard lentils. It's the Indian in me. If everything else fails, there is always rice and dal. So it is a good thing that the family likes dal, because lately it's been dal with everything. 

I never really had dal when I was growing up, per se. We tended to have the much lighter version of lentils, a soupy concoction called 'saar', which was a much tangier, watery version of the thick lentil dal that was usual in the North of India. It was either saar or rasam, which was a much spicier and brothier version that was traditional to Tamil Nadu and the South Eastern coast of India. 

My taste for thick, creamy masala dal developed from my university days in Delhi, where a version was served with every meal in the hostel mess, as well as from my dad, who preferred this version from his army days. He described those days with a hint of nostalgia - the terribly cold nights when they staggered into camps at the very end (dad was an electrician in the army), carrying their heavy packs, huddled under thin blankets that barely kept out the biting mountain cold, the hard, snowy ground  under which they made camp, the tents that did nothing to shield them from the cutting wind, the army days were not a good memory for my father - but he did describe the dal, straight from steaming cauldrons, eaten with rotis, a taste my dad has kept to this day.

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Trains, Planes and Pedhas - Vikram Vij and His Family Chicken Curry

Photo used with thanks to Sean Neild

Chef Vikram Vij, patron of Vancouver's famous Vij's Restaurant, Rangoli and Railway Express, and I share a fascination with Indian railways and their ubiquitous blue and red trains. Mine was honed through years of travelling around India with my family, and my own adventures on the trains from Delhi to South India. Vikram's, on the other hand, was all about the food.

"Were the pedhas worth it?" I asked him, after he recounts a particularly hilarious train story. "Yeah" he says, laughing, "but if I had missed that train, I would have lost everything, so maybe I need to rethink that answer". Vikram was travelling from Mathura to Bombay, and decided, underestimating the stop times on the train, to head to a nearby pedha shop. Pedhas, for the uninitiated, are deliciously milky, soft, fudgey Indian sweets that melt in your mouth. He got his pedhas, but as he approached the train station, realised that his train was pulling away from the station. As he recounts, "I ran, so hard, yelling, and finally managed to jump on to the last carriage of the train, where I waited till we got to the nest stop, so I could get to my seat". This story is familiar to a lot of us Indians, who love our railway food and drinks. From banana podis when approaching the Konkan coast, to vada pav in Mumbai, hot chai and lassis everywhere, everyone has a story about a near missed train incident. But in the end, the pedhas or the bhajiyas or the vadas are always worth it.

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