Culinary Chronicles
By Yasmin Rahul Bakshi
Confessions of a Cosmetic Cook –
Some questions pretend to be small talk. They are not. They are pop quizzes you never signed up for with no multiple choice and a very judgmental examiner.
Twenty-eight years ago I was 23 and still honestly thought that life was a solid strategy. No filter, no editing, no little voice that said maybe just smile and will you check the recipe. Just pure, unpasteurised enthusiasm and a complete lack of self-preservation. At that age you think confidence and competence are the same thing. They are not.
She asked me out of nowhere, “Do you know how to make Pindi Chholey?”
Let’s call her the Grand Inquisitor of Legumes. The kind of woman who had made the same dish for decades and felt that she could tell by the smell if the salt was added to it or not. A self-proclaimed connoisseur!
I, in my infinite youth and infinite wisdom, said, “Yea, I can.”
I even said it with confidence, like I had just invented chickpeas.
“How?”
Ah! The trap question inside the trap question.
And because I thought a question deserved a real answer, I gave her the full director’s cut with behind the scenes commentary. I told her about the overnight soak, like you are putting the chhole to sleep and whispering goodnight to them. The little muslin pouch with the Assam black tea leaves for that impossible, almost political dark colour. The pressure cooker counted its whistles like a very strict invigilator. The slow roast of spices until the whole kitchen smells like an argument you actually want to have. I was basically ready to give a TED Talk on legumes.
She listened fully. No interruption. Which in hindsight should have been my first warning. She paused, glared at me with the expression of someone who had already won and delivered the review.
“You are a cosmetic cook.”
I sat there frozen, my 23 year old heart thudding in my ears. A cosmetic cook? Did I put lipstick on the chhole? Was my tadka wearing foundation? Was my cooking so pretty it had no soul? I didn’t know what it meant, I just knew exactly how it felt. Like someone had taken a pin and popped my entire, earnest little existence.
I wanted to ask for clarification. Like, sorry, is that a certified course? Do I get a diploma in lipstick application for legumes? Is there a touch up counter for chana? But I didn’t. I just sat there, trying to look like I understood the insult which is the most 23 year old thing ever.
And it stung more because this wasn’t a critic who gave you stars and disappeared after one meal. This was a critic with a lifetime subscription. The kind who will taste version two, version ten, version eighty. The kind whose approval isn’t given in compliments, it’s given in second helpings, which is a much tougher currency.
I replayed that line for years. Cosmetic! In the shower. While kneading the dough. While waiting for the cooker. Such a small word with such a big ego.
I kept making it anyway. Not to prove a point – though let’s be honest, a little bit to prove a point.
Mostly because I am stubborn and because chickpeas are excellent listeners. I argued with them, I burnt its batches, I fixed it. I changed the masala by a pinch and then another pinch. I made it when I was happy. I made it when I was irritated, until it slowly stopped being a recipe I remembered and became a recipe I understood. It became mine.
Today that same blend is my “Magic Chana Masala”. It lives in kitchens in countries I have never even been to. I get photos of empty pots at 11 p.m., I get messages that say “made it again today” and “my kids fought for the last spoon”. That empty pot photo is my Michelin star. That fight for the last spoon is my standing ovation.
And she, my original critic, the woman who once certified me as cosmetic, now says very casually, “Where is your Chana Masala, give me some.”
No lipstick. No foundation. No filter. Just 100 percent magic, 100 percent memory, and 100 percent chana that has finally learned how to defend itself.
So for the record, twenty-seven years later with a little more wit and a lot more masala.
Yes. I can make Pindi Chholey.
Ingredients:
- Kabuli Chana – 250 gms
- Chana masala – 3 Tbsp
- Desi ghee – 3 Tbsp
- Green chilies – 4 slit
- Ginger – 1 Tbsp finely chopped
- CTC tea leaves – 1 tsp
- Soda bicarbonate – ⅛ tsp
- Dry amla – ½ tsp
- Cinnamon stick – 2 inch
- Black cardamom – 1
- Bay leaf – 1
- Salt – according to taste
Method:
- Soak the Kabuli chana overnight in water.
- Discard the water, rinse the chana.
- Make a pouch using a piece of muslin cloth with the tea leaves, dry amla, cinnamon stick, black cardamom and bay leaf.
- In a pressure cooker add the soaked chana, the spice pouch, soda bicarbonate and salt along with 300 ml water.
- Cook until tender.
- Heat 1 Tbsp of ghee in a pan and add the green chilies and ginger. Toss for a minute.
- On medium heat, sauté for 2 minutes until the masala turns dark and aromatic.
- Add the boiled chana along with its water.
- Bring to a boil and then lower the flame.
- Cook until the curry thickens and desired texture is achieved.
- Switch off the flame.
- In a separate pan, heat the remaining ghee and bring it to smoking point.
- Pour the sizzling hot ghee over the cooked chana.
- Mix well and serve hot with bhatura, poori, parantha or kulcha.
(Yasmin Rahul Bakshi is an accomplished senior consultant Chef and a food historian. A widely travelled Army wife from the Mussoorie hills with exposure to international cuisines & preserving recipes with the medium of food photography and digital content creation in the form of stories.)
