News You Can Use

Something is very fishy

The temptress above mentioned is enjoyed best when it is warm, but not immediately off the stove. Both the Parsi and Goan curries are coconut based (grated, ground coconut, never coconut milk), but the latter is watery; unlike the Parsi version which acquires full body with tomatoes, ground peanuts, chickpeas and garam masala together with blended garlic-ginger paste and fresh curry patta (curry tree leaves). It is a cardinal sin to add boiled prawns after the curry is cooked; they must be an integral part of the process from the very beginning so that the essence of the prawn can permeate the texture of the curry. The size of the prawns is critical to its culinary success. Rather tiny shrimps, derisively called jhingla in Parsi dialect, are to be avoided. However, the greed to use very large ones will result in rubbery prawns unable to absorb the curry’s flavor. With a mean green chilli enhanced kachumbar and paper thin fried papads as accompaniments, kolmi-ni-curry is guaranteed to make your palate orgasmic.

Like the ragas in Indian classical music, each type of fish has its fixed time of the day for optimal consumption. A gargantuan Parsi breakfast of yesteryears comprised fried eggs, mutton kheema (mince) and the much desired boi. While on the kitchen table, raw boi looks rather displeased with itself (unlike the happy looking pomfret bearing a silly grin). However, it undergoes a divine transformation when it is fried after being marinated with a light dash of spices. Its sweet flesh, ensconced in the warm hug of the ghaoon-ni- rotli (ghee laden, multi-layered Parsi version of the paratha), titillates your taste buds. In the Parsi consciousness, boi, which is seldom available in Bombay, is associated with the Udvada Parsi hotels (the now defunct Majestic; and the vibrant Globe and Ashishvangh) serving them at breakfast, before you pay homage to the Holy Iranshah (unlike Hindus who fast before visiting a temple).

Bombay’s answer to boi as a breakfast fish is, of course, boomla (Bombay Duck). Coated in a batter of rava (semolina) and lightly fried golden brown, the flesh just melting in your mouth. Rice flour rotlis and gor- keri-nu-achaar (sweet-sour mango pickle) are permissible companions; though the purist would like to eat the boomla by itself, after jettisoning its single soft bone. One such purist was the jovial director of the Mumbai Samachar, the late Rustomji Cama — a man of much joie de vivre and great girth — who would polish off a few dozen boomlas, not from a plate but from a kandiyo (container made of woven straw); lifting four or five together with his podgy fingers. Some prefer to have boomlas with beer, midmorning. We recollect the boomla courting controversy, decades ago, about its propensity to contain undigested worms (you pressed the raw boomla and a few worms would wriggle out); this did not, however, deter Cama or thousands of other Parsis from relishing it.

During our Navsari summer vacations, we came across yet another little known breakfast fish called levta (mud hoppers), wriggling live in the container and even a couple escaping — little black unattractive looking devils — cooked on a black thikra (a black flat griddle) with a little oil. It was an acquired taste; sort of crunchy. Some made levta no patio too.

Fisherwomen in the towns of Gujarat then made home delivery, early in the morning. Sharp tongued and witty, they would match their bargaining skills with their Parsi customers. The latter had a sharp eye for scarlet red gills — a guarantee of freshness — and would unabashedly press their thumb on the fish to rule out softness, and, therefore, staleness. Sometimes things got vicious but otherwise there was bonhomie with the fisherwoman, as also with the boo (female mutton supplier), which is yet another story.

The cheap and wholesome era faded many years ago and now the dearest fish in town is, unfortunately, the pomfret, endearingly and uniquely called chhamno in Parsi dialect. Even revered five star hotels of antiquity serve the farm bred basa instead of the expensive pomfret; and Parsi wedding caterers charge a hefty premium on the paatru , if pomfret is to be served. Undoubtedly, the Parsi fish, pomfret is delicious in its myriad avatars — lightly fried, steamed after wrapping in leaves and coated with green chutney as the famed paatra-ni- macchi or in the mouthwatering sweet and sour white saas (sauce) with the ubiquitous cherry tomato, fillets or cutlets for those allergic to bones, and in fish pies. Our late aunt, who was a theater actor in Adi Marzban’s comedies, used to bake the most divine fish pie made with pomfret, cheese, mashed potato and white sauce (there were no ovens those days in middle class homes, so it was baked in an aluminum vessel covered with glowing charcoal on top — a slow laborious process, during which the juices from the pie’s ingredients would seamlessly intermingle). The aroma of her fish pie still does something to our neural network.

A few Parsis enjoy rawas (mango fish or Indian salmon), surmai (seer fish) and bangra (mackerel). These are less popular, though cheaper, as the flesh is coarser or there are too many bones (which even nimble fingers cannot pick). One Parsi fish which merits mention is the bhing (shad), popular in the Bharuch area; sold wrapped in a small saadri (mat). Baked bhing was quite delicious.

For those with a taste for the exotic, there is dried boomla (they smell to high heaven) in a patio or pickle; garabh (fish roe) — quite awful, to be honest — though its pickle is exported even to North America and the UK.

This completes our list of Parsi fish. Those fish whose navjote cannot be performed are smoked salmon, black ink emitting squid, shell fish like mussels, scallops and oysters, the evil looking eel. Almost all designed for the subtle European palate. Kolmi-ni-curry, please take a bow!

And finally, it would be unfair not to mention this quintessential Parsi fish. It is cute, shapely and white; with bright red eyes and silvery fins and a perfectly manicured tail. Super sweet creamy flesh, with not a bone. Even Jains relish it. The mawa-ni- machhi from the Parsi Dairy Farm looks so much like the real thing that one vegan acquaintance would not have it on her dining table. We believe it would be sacrilegious to suggest gift wrapping it in a miniature sudreh and kusti to make it look more endearing.