The Americans, it is said, have started more wars in history than they have won. Opinion may be divided on that. But one battle they lost comprehensively is changing Indian breakfast cereals. After trying every marketing trick in the book, they did not succeed in replacing the desi idli, poha, paratha and puri from our morning diet. In comparison, the British were more successful in introducing bread among a larger cross-section of the country. Thus, toast with butter, jam and eggs are by far more popular than cornflakes, muesli or oats for starting the day.
While it is true that it is difficult to beat the sheer diversity of Indian food, I shall go a step further to suggest that the underlying reason for the failure of the American invasion on Indian culinary territory is that the concept of breakfast itself is alien to Indian culture. What we have in most parts of India is more akin to a morning meal rather than breakfast. I have my own little theory for it that others are, of course, free to refute. I believe that in a primarily agricultural and rural country, people usually had two main meals in a day. The first was before leaving for work in the morning and the other on returning in the evening soon after dusk. Early sunrise and the warm climate in the east were congenial for an early start to the day, which meant cooking and eating as well. At mid-day, people would have a light snack or tiffin -- as it is called in the south -- that could be carried easily from home and eaten without fuss or procured locally. Coming home for lunch was not an option. In the absence of electricity, the night meal had to be prepared before it got too dark for feeding the hungry folks returning from the field.
The syrupy tea and snacks like ganthia in Gujarat, puffed or flattened rice in other places, kick-started the day. What followed was a much heavier fare in most societies. So it is not surprising that among the Muslim community, some would have a rich nihari, paya, kichadi or keema with heavy flat breads. The Punjabis have sinful parathas, the Biharis litti chokha and Indoris die for poha. The quintessential Bengalis of yore would often eat a full plate of rice, fish and dal before leaving for “aapish” (as they pronounced office) and the kids would be fed starched rice and vegetables boiled in the same pot before being sent off to school. Now they prefer Maggi noodles, I am told, which is easier even for the mothers to prepare.
The South Indian breakfast indeed belongs to a different universe which no other civilisation in the world can match. But being from north of the Vindhyas, I am partial towards puris and kachori or kochuri as we Bengalis call it. Further east, in Assam I have had some interesting pithas made mainly of rice flour. They do have a wheat flour variant too, paani pitha, which is made more savoury with onions and usually served with a potato subzi. In Bengal, however, luchi (roughly, maida puris, though it is much more evolved and complicated than just that) with tarkari -- usually a thick curry of potato juliennes subtly spiced with kalonji and slit green chillies (and addition of cauliflower in winters) -- was a delicacy that is nearly extinct now.
Some old Bengali sweet shops would make kochuri -- which is essentially a thicker version of puris with a little filling in the centre, a mix of masalas and a touch of hing, more for taste than matter. It is accompanied with cholar dal (dal made of split Bengal gram) -- a wee bit sweet cooked without onion or garlic, containing bits of coconut. The iconic Putiram Sweets in North Kolkata, near College Street, was famous for its kochuris as was Sri Hari Mistanna Bhandar in Bhowanipore lower down on the scale. Though people still go to Putiram more for its nostalgia value, it is not the same any more or tastes have changed. Now, with a burgeoning non-Bengali speaking origin population in the state, North Indian kachori has taken over with a particular variety called 'club kachoris' being the new craze.
Without doubt, the best breakfast kachoris are found in Uttar Pradesh. Banaras has a Kachori Gali -- an entire lane dedicated to kachori. Prayagraj (formerly Allahabad) has its Netram Sweets in Old Katra and Sulaki Sweets in the Chowk area. Netram in Lucknow is equally famous (on a recent visit, I found they have perfected the packaging for take-away and home delivery). I have childhood memories of vacations at my Mama’s place in Allahabad, going to Sulaki in the mornings in a cycle rickshaw to get fresh kachoris and jalebis fried in pure ghee. The jalebis in UP are thin and made in small rings unlike the thicker and larger varieties further up north.
What makes UP kachoris such a delight is as much the kachoris as the accompaniment that goes with it. The standard fare is three kinds of vegetables -- including two kinds of potato, one dry and the other a thin (raseela) curry. But the defining one is sweet and sour mashed kaddu (pumpkin) subzi and boondi raita. West UP -- Mathura and Agra -- has bedmi puri, a thicker version of kachori made with a mixture of wheat flour and rava or suji (semolina) and a stuffing of urad dal (brack gram) spiced with hing (asafoetida), amchur (dried mango powder), garam masala, chillies (green and red chilli powder), coriander and ginger. But with aloo sabzi, it is a bit too heavy for my liking.
The Rajasthani kachori is another genre. Practically every city of Rajasthan has its own special kachori -- ranging from pyaz (onion), dal, matar to even a sweet mawa kachori. But they are all day snacks and not exactly breakfast kachoris. The most famous Rajasthani kachori is arguably from the city of Kota. The water of the river Chambal is supposed to impart a special character to it. The joke is that people of Kota eat kachoris from moon to noon.
The fame of Bihari dal puri has spread across the shores. The indentured labourers carried it to Mauritius making it the national street food of that country, known as dholl puri. However, the Bengalis have the last word on kachoris, with their maccher (fish) kochuri. The taste of those kochuris made by my mother’s aunt, rolled at the seams like a work of art, still lingers in my mouth even after half a century.
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(Sandip Ghose is an author and current affairs commentator. He tweets @SandipGhose.)