Rasmalai
January 15, 2006
My mother-in-law is quite a fabulous cook, especially when it comes to Kerala cusine. Her dishes are legendary among family and friends who have had the opportunity to savor her preparations. So many of the childhood stories that my husband’s family reminisce about are triggered by something that she has made. She makes it a point to prepare a dish that is special for every single person who gathers around her dining table. And altruistically she waits till all have been served to take the least popular dish for herself. My mother is also like this and maybe most mothers are. Anyway, over the years I have realized that my mother-in-law’s way of connecting individually with people is through their palate.
We were fortunate that while we were finding a flat of our own, Bob’s company put us up in a very nice upscale hotel in lower Parel in the heart of Mumbai. Frankly with the exception of one hotel that Bob and I stayed in while visiting Rome this was the nicest hotel that I’ve ever been in.
The amenities, especially the food, are fabulous. The breakfast buffet is a cornucopia of fruits, savory South Indian delicacies such as idli, dosa, sambar as well as the more standard international cuisine of eggs (made to order), croissants, pancakes, French toast, and cold cereal. There are probably 100 other items that I could also list. Lunch and dinner is similarly extravagant with a myriad of choices to cater to Indian palates as well as to less adventurous international business travelers to India. The dessert choices are varied enough to tempt even the most disciplined diner. Nevertheless, living in a hotel for 3 weeks as we were with 2 young children can wear thin. As the weeks ticked by, feelings of sheer boredom, grated nerves, confinement in close quarters all manifested themselves. Despite these, rest assured, lack of nourishment was never an issue.
Having been long-term guests most of the daily staff knew us well, especially Sandrine, Nikhitita, and myself, as we were in the hotel on most days while Bob was at work. The rotund jovial South Indian chef in particular took a liking to us and would come and greet us daily as we arrived to breakfast. He would always bring two bananas for Nikhitita and a banana and an apple for Sandrine. It was a ritual. Another part of the routine involved him bringing a plate of hot off the griddle dosas and a 4 or 5 chutney assortment for Bob. As our stay progressed, Bob gravitated towards the pooris and aloo baji in lieu of the dosas, whether it was true or just our perception, we felt as though we were slighting the chef. The chef’s way of connecting with us was by offering us his food in lieu of an outstretched hand and our refusing the food he offered meant more than simply refusing food.
Another hotel staff person made it a special point to bring more fruits that Sandrine liked such as blood-red apples and small bananas when she replenished the fruits in our room. And yet another staff person brought a candy bar for Sandrine on occasion.
It didn’t end with the kids. Bob had mentioned, in passing, to one of the hostesses at the restaurant that he hoped they would include in their dessert offerings a special Indian dessert that he was particularly fond of, at least once more during our stay.
The very next evening we had just finished our dinner at the restaurant and had just arisen to go up to our room. The hostess hurriedly came running and asked us if we could wait just 5 more minutes. We were in a rush to go and so she changed her mind about surprising us and said that they had specially procured the dessert Bob had been craving. Bob looked a little ill has he had already indulged heavily in the dessert offerings. “Could I have it tomorrow?,” he asked meekly patting his visibly expanded mid-section. Although visibly disappointed the hostess graciously nodded, “Of course, sir.” Later that night around 10:30 pm (we had turned in early since it had been a long day, especially for Bob), there was a knock on the door. Sleepily, we wondered who that could be. I heard some voices outside and then the hotel door shut after which another door shut but more quietly. Bob walked in with a look of disbelief. Suddenly, it hit me as I had recognized the smaller door as the mini-refrigerator in our room. I looked up at him with one word, “Rasmalai?” This was the Bob’s favorite dessert (a delicacy made of cottage cheese served in sweetened milk, flavored with delicate rose water and capped with a sprinkling of crushed pistachios) making an appearance again. He was still too full to eat it but courteously accepted it, only to put it into the refrigerator. Unbelievably we were again specially served rasmalai the next evening after dinner (this time they caught us before dessert) and then rasmalai appeared in the dessert spread for everyone the very next night.
I know that Bob and I will forever think of “rasmalai” as that special way that my mother-in-law and other Indians connect with people through their food.
My mother-in-law is quite a fabulous cook, especially when it comes to Kerala cusine. Her dishes are legendary among family and friends who have had the opportunity to savor her preparations. So many of the childhood stories that my husband’s family reminisce about are triggered by something that she has made. She makes it a point to prepare a dish that is special for every single person who gathers around her dining table. And altruistically she waits till all have been served to take the least popular dish for herself. My mother is also like this and maybe most mothers are. Anyway, over the years I have realized that my mother-in-law’s way of connecting individually with people is through their palate.
We were fortunate that while we were finding a flat of our own, Bob’s company put us up in a very nice upscale hotel in lower Parel in the heart of Mumbai. Frankly with the exception of one hotel that Bob and I stayed in while visiting Rome this was the nicest hotel that I’ve ever been in.
The amenities, especially the food, are fabulous. The breakfast buffet is a cornucopia of fruits, savory South Indian delicacies such as idli, dosa, sambar as well as the more standard international cuisine of eggs (made to order), croissants, pancakes, French toast, and cold cereal. There are probably 100 other items that I could also list. Lunch and dinner is similarly extravagant with a myriad of choices to cater to Indian palates as well as to less adventurous international business travelers to India. The dessert choices are varied enough to tempt even the most disciplined diner. Nevertheless, living in a hotel for 3 weeks as we were with 2 young children can wear thin. As the weeks ticked by, feelings of sheer boredom, grated nerves, confinement in close quarters all manifested themselves. Despite these, rest assured, lack of nourishment was never an issue.
Having been long-term guests most of the daily staff knew us well, especially Sandrine, Nikhitita, and myself, as we were in the hotel on most days while Bob was at work. The rotund jovial South Indian chef in particular took a liking to us and would come and greet us daily as we arrived to breakfast. He would always bring two bananas for Nikhitita and a banana and an apple for Sandrine. It was a ritual. Another part of the routine involved him bringing a plate of hot off the griddle dosas and a 4 or 5 chutney assortment for Bob. As our stay progressed, Bob gravitated towards the pooris and aloo baji in lieu of the dosas, whether it was true or just our perception, we felt as though we were slighting the chef. The chef’s way of connecting with us was by offering us his food in lieu of an outstretched hand and our refusing the food he offered meant more than simply refusing food.
Another hotel staff person made it a special point to bring more fruits that Sandrine liked such as blood-red apples and small bananas when she replenished the fruits in our room. And yet another staff person brought a candy bar for Sandrine on occasion.
It didn’t end with the kids. Bob had mentioned, in passing, to one of the hostesses at the restaurant that he hoped they would include in their dessert offerings a special Indian dessert that he was particularly fond of, at least once more during our stay.
The very next evening we had just finished our dinner at the restaurant and had just arisen to go up to our room. The hostess hurriedly came running and asked us if we could wait just 5 more minutes. We were in a rush to go and so she changed her mind about surprising us and said that they had specially procured the dessert Bob had been craving. Bob looked a little ill has he had already indulged heavily in the dessert offerings. “Could I have it tomorrow?,” he asked meekly patting his visibly expanded mid-section. Although visibly disappointed the hostess graciously nodded, “Of course, sir.” Later that night around 10:30 pm (we had turned in early since it had been a long day, especially for Bob), there was a knock on the door. Sleepily, we wondered who that could be. I heard some voices outside and then the hotel door shut after which another door shut but more quietly. Bob walked in with a look of disbelief. Suddenly, it hit me as I had recognized the smaller door as the mini-refrigerator in our room. I looked up at him with one word, “Rasmalai?” This was the Bob’s favorite dessert (a delicacy made of cottage cheese served in sweetened milk, flavored with delicate rose water and capped with a sprinkling of crushed pistachios) making an appearance again. He was still too full to eat it but courteously accepted it, only to put it into the refrigerator. Unbelievably we were again specially served rasmalai the next evening after dinner (this time they caught us before dessert) and then rasmalai appeared in the dessert spread for everyone the very next night.
I know that Bob and I will forever think of “rasmalai” as that special way that my mother-in-law and other Indians connect with people through their food.
posted by Danakka @ 11:52 AM
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