Physicist and cheese-chef Addie Raghavan on opening yourself to surprising breakfasts on the road.
While there are several easier vantage points to view Kanchenjunga — in 2012, ambitious tourists that we were, we climbed up to a vantage point in the village of Darap for a sunrise view of the third highest peak in the world. Darap is a convenient midpoint between Yuksom and Pelling, the popular tourist spots of West Sikkim. It is a bit more laid back too. We switchbacked between sloped fields of black cardamom to a high point only to be greeted by a cloudy, pointless sunrise. When we reached our destination — there was no mountain in view, just early morning hunger.
I was in Sikkim through a tour organised by Kipepeo – a tour company that focuses on socially responsible travel in Northeast India, and that visit was the first of what would become several visits to the Daragaon Homestay run by Shiva and Radha Gurung in Darap. After our viewless hike, we headed back to the Gurungs’ homestay wondering what bounty of organic food we were going to be fed for breakfast.
When we arrived, Radha was in the foyer with a wide pot of oil, skillfully making sel rotis. I had never eaten these before. She told us she added a touch of black cardamom into a predominantly rice flour-based sweet batter. With clenched hands, she modulated the positions of her fingers, piping out the batter through the ridges of her rolled palm, into hot oil. Rounds of batter sank, then rose, as they puffed up and became crispy.
Slightly sweet, crispy; and with that sliver of black cardamom from the very fields we crossed earlier, sel rotis became a revelation for me. As I think back,
I remembered the nuance of having something slightly sweet with savoury condiments, and how it brings joy.
I also remembered that on that day in Darap— we definitely overate.
It is so easy to be swept off your feet when you experience something new and exciting on your travels. Let us take the example of the quaint, nondescript Maggi thela on the highway to Spiti Valley. The views are breathtaking, the weather is cold, the altitude is incredibly high. As a tourist,
it can be such a captivating experience: the whiff of kerosene disturbing the aroma of the clean and crisp waters of the Chenab, and the thela walla dutifully making warm bowls of Maggi. Scratch that, you’re in Wai Wai noodles territory… so it’s warm bowls of Wai Wai.
It is a great travel experience and it may provide much needed support on the rough journey along the Khoksar-Kaza highway. It is, however, not a noteworthy meal.
While travelling in Jordan I noticed how breakfasts across the country meant olives, pickled turnips, hummus-like dips, cheese, generous glugs of olive oil, and bread. The higher sodium content of the food may be somewhat of a cultural preference, but it is also a necessity in the hot and arid conditions of the Middle East. On the other hand, while visiting Chizami in Nagaland, it was a bowl of galho with pork, greens, vegetables, Naga dal, and rice that provided the high-energy to sustain the physically demanding life of a farmer on terraced fields.
A few months back, while on an ambitious Konkan coastal road trip with friends who also work in food, it seemed appropriate (again) to wake up at 5 a.m. and head to the Mirkarwada jetty in Ratnagiri. And why not — when all the fun activity of auctioning and selling fresh fish off the boats happens early in the morning at the docks. On that morning, the sky was expansive with a spattering of deep altocumulus clouds. The pier was noisy and busy. It was hard to walk in a straight line as there were autos swerving around with purpose. The ground was wet, muddy, with a few dead small fish and fish innards. Everywhere, briny, fishy, and sultry aromas were around us.
Also around us were fisherfolk; the men carried tubs filled with myriad types of fish, while women fishmongers yelled across to wholesale fish merchants, who were there to get a large loot before it was too late. The socio-economic distinctions and classes could be witnessed in this ecosystem, as well as prescribed gender roles and the lines of faith. While the fishmongers were selling fish, there was so much to see. Boys from the Northeast, with suitcases, hopped gracefully into trawlers getting ready for a week-long fishing expedition; while a three-wheeler lorry drove up and down the jetty bringing large quantities of crushed ice to load into the interiors of the boats.
But the ebbs and flows of the market did not have much effect on a maushi who stood by a table with a food warmer and a dabba with some mixed vegetable gravy. On closer inspection, I noticed warm ghavane being pulled out of the food warmer, folded onto a paper plate with a healthy dollop of warm stewed vegetables. As I approached her to grab breakfast I noticed how this breakfast was the democratic choice of food at the jetty. The food of all the classes, genders, and religions. The food of all the fisherfolk. There may have been other maushi-vendors lurking in other coves of the market, but this breakfast here, this was where everything paused for a moment, this was the story.
In the Konkan, ghavane are a staple. Rice is soaked in water overnight and is ground fresh into a very thin batter. Unfermented, and spiced with fresh chilies and cumin, fresh ghavane are ridiculously fun to make and eat. The best breakfast I had in the Konkan coast was freshly made ghavane with a dry bombil chutney at a friend’s house. At the jetty, eating pre-made ghavane out of a food warmer, with a mixed vegetable stew was not meant to be the best meal. And it wasn’t.
I’m beginning to realise that breakfasts play such a crucial role in developing the identity of a people across cultures. They beg the question – what do people eat as a source of immediate fuel every morning? It has got to be something that is affordable, and readily available. Sometimes it is instant noodles; but more importantly, breakfasts tie into the culture of the people, their necessities, or the way their likes and dislikes of food have developed over centuries and shaped their identity.
Aditya Raghavan is a scientist who quit his academic career to pursue food. He divides his time between cheese making and working in restaurant kitchens. In his spare time, he travels to learn more about food.
Illustration by Kruttika Susarla