The Sunderbans, home of the famed Royal Bengal Tiger, is next door to Kolkata. So, every Bengali is a tiger expert. But not many of them would have visited the area, which was declared a World Heritage site for its mangrove forests way back in 1987. Instead, ask them if they have been to the Kumaon Hills in Uttarakhand and the answer will invariably be a resounding yes. Some would have gone there more than once. The reason for their fascination for the region is none other than Jim Corbett. His books are immensely popular in Bengal – perhaps, more than other parts of the country. Some of his works have been translated into Bengali. This makes many Bengalis tiger hunters at heart.
I am no exception. Since childhood I have visited Corbett country many times. First with parents as a kid, later with the family and also on work when it was part of my sales beat. At one point I had seriously considered building a house there and even bought a small piece of land close to Ranikhet, which was later acquired by a former boss. Apart from the usual tourist circuit of Nainital, Bhimtal and Almora, we travelled off the beaten track to lesser known places like Garur, Bageshwar, Chaukori and Pithoragarh, sometimes by bus and on other occasions in rickety jeeps and ready to fall apart Ambassadors. The winding hill roads were hard on the radiators of those ancient jalopies. So, frequent pit stops were necessary in Pahari dhabas along the way. While sipping sugary tea and pakoras, what always caught my eyes were heaps of a yellow dry preparation of potatoes with whole green chillies sticking out of the mound and raita in round earthen vessels. The third item on display was the local sweet speciality called Mithai, which is a brown chocolate-like fudge covered with sugar-coated globules of poppy seeds. But sugar is not my poison, I prefer molasses in the form of refined liquid. There is no dearth of that in the Kumaon Hills, though much of it is sold as ayurvedic energising potions in glass bottles. However, real Pahadi food eluded me on those trips.
It was during the pandemic lockdown ensconced in the Nilgiris that pangs of nostalgia struck me. Unable to move out, the internet became, like for many others, my vicarious travel companion. Searching through the internet, I discovered many recipes of Aloo ke Gutke and Kumaoni Raita. At a superficial level, Aloo ke Gutke may appear to be the Pahadi cousin of Aloo Jeera. But it has a distinct character. The differentiators are the use of Hing and the native wild mustard seeds called Jakhiya, which the Garhwalis prefer over the ordinary local Rai. Besides, it is cooked in mustard oil with the addition of turmeric for colour and red chilli powder for zing. But cooking from YouTube recipes, one cannot replicate the original taste. Besides, even if one gets organic Jakhiya via Amazon, where do you find the famous Nainital Aloo?
The secret of Pahari food, I learnt after a lot of research, is Pahadi salt. And it is not the pink Himalayan salt, as I had first thought it to be. It is an aromatic salt mixture made with garlic or green garlic shoots, green chillies and cumin paste, which add a special flavour to the simplest of dishes. Though available online in dry form, nothing can beat the freshly made stuff on a stone grinder. While trawling the net, I also chanced upon Nimbu Saan or Sana Hua Nimbu, a salad made with the Himalayan Lemon or Galgal with dahi. The key ingredient for it is “Bhang ke Beej” (hemp seeds), considered to be a super food of Uttarakhand. On my recent trip to Dehradun, Chef Pradeep at the Hyatt introduced me to Bhang ki Chutney, which was delicious sans the high, taken with Gehat dal ka Parathe and Dapheli. Gehat is also called Kulti dal in the plains and is supposed to have medicinal properties such as clearing kidney stones and intestinal impurities. Dapheli is a form of Kadhi made with Jhangora or barnyard millets, which too is supposed to be loaded with health benefits.
Thus the story of Pahadi food is one of hyperlocal ingredients that is not easy to commercialise. It is disappointing that with tourism booming in Uttarakhand, very few hotels and resorts offer authentic local cuisine. Sadly, Maggi noodles are the most popular dish in the so-called 'Pahadi dhabas' on the way to Rishikesh. But I was lucky to find a place called Desi Chulha on Rajpur Road in Dehradun which serves honest Pahadi fare. Their Kafuli -- a mix of three dals -- Lai, Palak and Kandali (also known as Sisunak or Bichua), Chainsoo (Urad Paste Daal) and Aloo Thechwani (a hilly potato curry with tomatoes, Jakhia seeds, garlic and coriander seeds) taken with ragi (millet) are great comfort foods.
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What about meat? Surely, the Pahadis are not vegetarians. In the Himalayan foothills, from east to north, meat eating is widely prevalent even among Brahmins. Uttarakhand is no different. The cooking is characterised by the use of whole, coarsely ground spices, chillies and garlic more than onions. But curries are not items of daily consumption. On special occasions, a whole goat would be slaughtered and grilled on an open fire. The organs and parts are cooked as separate dishes. The Bhutwa made with goat innards and offal is a hill specialty. Though it is not for the weak-hearted, Desi Chulha turned out a mean preparation to be savoured with the hill red rice. Alcohol can be a great taste enhancer to be partaken either before or with the meal. I tried teasing Chef Ashish Pant at the Neemrana Glass House on the Ganges in Rishikesh to make some Bhutwa for us. He looked a trifle embarrassed and directed us to a dhaba in Raiwala on the way to Haridwar. Clearly, for all talk about “vocal for local”, gastronomic tourism is yet to arrive in India.
(Sandip Ghose is an author and current affairs commentator. Twitter handle @SandipGhose.)