The Hindu Business Line : Bun maska ho jaye

It sells what is widely held to be the best bread in town. But long ago they nearly took the pants off my poor self. I don’t want that done again. Nor do I want to be picked on when I go there for my rather frequent tea and bun mas ka. It is one affordable, filling snack in these days of self-employment. Have it; then, spend time at Horniman Circle, head stuck in some book pretending to grow wise. Sad, they run out of that wonderful stuff well before lights fade. Else, I would have had bun maska for dinner too.

This bun is right royal. It is faintly sweet and soft with big raisins embedded on it; none of the coloured jellies you find in lesser buns. Usually in a marriage of bread and butter or jam, the latter is celebrated as the richer half. Not in this bun maska. Here, the butter is pedestrian, factory-made; having it at Flora Fountain or Belapur makes no difference. It is the bun that rules, the king for whom you make the trip to town.

The king is delivered with a flair that is tad aggressive for hospitality. Maybe he is a warrior king — who knows? You sit on benches in the middle of the noisy bakery, as noisy and boisterous as only an Irani restaurant can be. The place is a leveller — the person sitting next to you could be a humble peon or a busy merchant banker. All come for the lip-smacking food. If you are lucky, the waiter may sense your hunger and serve you fast. It is equally possible that he may ignore you, till you stop him and demand your bun maska before the office crowd finishes it. In that ambience, certainly rough for any restaurant, assertiveness only adds to tradition. Ask and you shall get. For the meek done in by themselves and even more so by the clamour around, it may take a while to say ‘ek bun maska chai’. But usually everyone manages for the aroma is inspiring and the fear of losing out, real.

When he comes, the king is a perfect slice across his broad middle and thrice split from top to bottom. The seasoned customer quickly inspects the colour. A medium, glowing brown is perfect for a blend of the bun’s indulgent flavour and the saltiness of the butter. Coming to think of it, that union is a study in contrast — the art of baking meets the science of consistency. Inconsistency is a necessary trait of art. So, if you find yourself facing a bun with a slightly burnt façade you anticipate the loss of taste and smile away the disappointment.

Colour is only the first step. Your appetite is whetted if the serving of the day sports a voluptuous raisin half-buried on top or on sifting the pieces you find a sliced black pearl stuck like precious stone to the bun’s white innards. Happiness is a mix of colour and raisins; if both have eluded you, then it just wasn’t your day.

I have often wondered what makes the perfect bun. Is it the colour; is it the raisins or is it something else? It is the colour and the raisins that cast the spell. But the neat slice also counts; an aesthetic input. Even if I overlook the cheap-looking jellies, I can never get a perfect slice around the middle from those buns sold at department stores. My homemade bun maska typically ends up in shreds that are then consumed with butter, the way you would some chappati and curry. My admiration for the bakery in question has only increased.

What I don’t understand however are the bodybuilders on its walls. For long, one framed picture existed — a well-built gentleman in trunks, flexing his muscles. Of late, there have been a few more additions. Every time you lift your eyes from a plateful of delicious bun maska, your eyes bump into those images of wellbeing. The connection, a logical one that is, still eludes me. Ten years ago, on my first visit alone to the bakery after a colleague introduced me to the place, the elderly manager attempted to convey what was perhaps a likely link. I was waiting to pay the bill when he took one look at my thin self and said aloud, “Eat my bread, you will produce children!” I must have looked as golden brown with embarrassment as the bun I had just eaten. The man next to me couldn’t control his laughter. He slapped me on the shoulder. It gave away under the force, all bone and backbone having packed up and fled. I hastily paid and left double quick.

The bun maska lured me back. As yet, the managers don’t know I am there. Though finding me won’t be difficult — they just have to look for the most macho guy in the restaurant ordering bun maska with a growl. I am hoping my disguise holds.

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Bun maska ho jaye