My fundas are clear: I eat street food for three reasons:
1) When I am on the street and hungry
2) When I am on/off the street and stressed
3) When I see/smell street food in front of me
This was before someone, from China, came to assault my senses. His name: Mr Sichuan. But Franky ke thelewaala Sohanlal decided to call him Mr. Schezwan.
Mr Sichuan originally had Chinese peppercorns and oodles of soya sauce- he was gut shatteringly spicy and sour, and maybe just slightly honey-tinged. Like the neighbour who is always furious, but wil give you a twitch of a smile.
Then, life in India happened. Mr Sichuan met everyone from the chefs at gourmet restaurants and the macabre makers of Pav-Bhaaji at chowpaty beach. He tasted a mind boggling variety of Indian foods. He savoured the tangy and the pungent, the namkeen and the lip smacking sour. He tasted the overwhelming and the subtle. The in-your-face hospitality and the in-the-background jugaad of Indian cuisine. He understood that India is a riot of colours, emotions and taste. And he decided he wanted to own it all!
So Mr Schezwan (from China) set out to conquer the market. He transformed himself by taking up the local garb. He survived on a diet of Indian red chillies, and loads of sugar. He even cross dressed sometimes, wearing a tadka- and called himself Shezwan chutney.
He wore many hats, this man. He sprawled himself on the humble dosa, marring its subtle flavour. He does hulahoop in kachori and grabs the corner seat in a samosa. He made the poori in Bhel all wet, and wore the pani-poori like a floating ring in a swimming pool. He even caught a few delirious souls and partnered with them to make blasphemous combinations: Shezwan pan being one of them. One day, he ambushed the poor idly and forced her into submission.
And he took the supermarkets by storm. He packaged himself into bottles of an elixir that could be sprinkled on any food- including Bajre ki roti and Lo and behold- the dish would transform into fast food! Chatpata is the word! Mothers use this as a potion to make their puny kids eat vegetables, and teenagers slather it on their ghar-ka- khaana to help them pretend they are asserting their individuality.
And Mr Schezwan smiles (and cackles like a wizard when no one is watching). Because now, everything tastes the same. Tastes of him. Kachori and momos.Chapati and pizza. Bhel and Batata poha. Manchurian and vada pav. One and the same. And irresistible.
And we will flock gyms, and speak of inclusivity and indigenous foods. And we will smother their flavours in the stifling hot, suffocatingly sweet Schezwan sauce. Unity in diversity is out of flavour.Uniformity and anonymity are in vogue. Mr Schezwan has masked all our food items, till no one can tell them apart.
But who is complaining?
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