Eating like a local in Garhwal

The Corn Village sounded a bit like a tourist gimmick. (If you’re a traveller in the age of new media, inundated with information, you’re perpetually looking out for tourist traps.) I was sceptical about a visit organised by a five-star hotel, JW Marriott, where I was staying, to a village lunch where the locals have practised subsistence farming for centuries; a village whose name wasn’t googlable. We were escorted by kind men on Royal Enfield bikes where we rode pillion.

Mussoorie’s roads are as kind to the biker as they are unkind to car-sick people. The gentle winds, undulating roads and breathtaking vistas take even the most anxious person’s mind off the sharply rising heights. We were on our way to Bhatoli, in Tehri Garhwal district, to eat like the locals on the invitation of one of the hotel’s employees.

Our bikers were noisy, and I almost apologised as they entered the quiet village. We had gone there on a day the village was busy harvesting maize, but whoever had been left behind to man the house peeped outside from the threshold. The first glimpse of the village afforded me a view of serene blue mountains with old wooden houses in the foreground. Golden bunches of corn hung from the eaves of every household, a sight that can’t be forgotten easily. An old man sat sunning himself in his own backyard, surrounded by mounds of the cereal, and a charkha . Every house had harvested its share of corn, and it now hung in bunches like Diwali lights from the corning.

The oldest houses in the village, built over 200 years ago, have remained untouched. They are made entirely of wood beams. We entered the first floor from a tiny opening in the ceiling of the ground floor, with the help of a wooden shed ladder. It led directly to a narrow sitting room, where a sofa faced the tiny square windows looking on to the hills outside. The windows were painted with designs of the local Aipan murals, an Uttarakhand art form used to decorate floors and walls during festivals.

We sat down on the stone floor, and were served a simple meal of yellow jakhiya -flavoured raita , makki ki roti and a dhania chutney, flavoured with a local herb that grew only in the Garhwal hills. Thick rice pudding, called jhangore ki kheer followed this simple meal.

A walk around Mussoorie’s Landour area with long-time resident Ashok Mahindroo, a naturalist, convinced me that I was now well versed with the herbal wonders that dotted the Garhwal ranges. Wild versions of ginger were everywhere, and an Indian version of watercress grew all over if you let it, like weed. The sun glinted through the leaves that had given pretty Mussoorie its name. It seemed as if Mahindroo plucked and tasted everything he came across.

The stinging nettle — don’t touch, or face a week’s worth of unbearable itching — had its antidote growing (as is wont) right beside it. I learnt how it was a popular saag eaten by the locals, after boiling it in hot water. There were several edible flowers on the way, used in local version of salads.

We were rewarded the next day by a sumptuous Garhwali lunch at the Marriott, but even the breakfast had its surprises in the form of a stuffed roti , commonly eaten in the morning, called gahat ki roti . Gahat is a local pulse, full of nutrition and taste.

Lunch threw newer flavours at us. The popular chainsoo dal (Pahadis are very fond of their various unique dals ), prepared with broken moong dal and a form of soya bean, came close to dal makhni in its texture, but was lighter on the stomach. Sisor saag , the famous stinging nettle stir-fried, was a close cousin of mustard leaves, in its flavour, made with jakhiya , a spice that looks like something between mustard seeds and black sesame seeds, but was neither. Sides included sani hui mooli , not the pallid radish you get in city markets, but a vegetable with a sweet, pungent aftertaste.

Garhwali food is nutritious and full of superfoods for those particular about their diet. Mandua ki roti , a flatbread made with a local fruit, gluten-free and very crisp, was served as an accompaniment to all the food. I regretfully skipped dessert; the thali had been a feast for both the taste buds and the eyes.

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