Street, Eat, Repeat. Eight spoons and the bheja cutlet

How the tables have turned! Or, in this particular case, the humble thaal .

What was once the subject of goggle-eyed horror, is today the object of gastronomical effusions. And a food tradition inevitably greeted with “eek, you all eat from the same plate!” is now being hailed as foodie adventure. It’s now the inspiration behind blogs and t-shirts, food festivals and excursions.

Suddenly, biryani cooked on charcoal fire and t-shirts declaring Bohri Food Coma are popping up across the country. The Bohri Kitchen — a home dining outfit that introduces guests to the festive thaal — is a smash hit in Mumbai.

The thaal — for the deprived souls who’ve never wangled an invitation to a Bohri feast — is an enormous metal plate, larger than a hula-hoop. There was a time when it served as a dining table for regular family meals. But more and more, it’s brought out only for festive occasions.

At these elaborate affairs, about eight people sit around each thaal and wait with a greedy gleam for the food procession. On the face of it, they’ll be making polite conversation about Farida’s BA results or Adnan’s Honda, but internally, they’re gearing up to snag the most succulent bits of kaju chicken. Then the first dish arrives. It’s placed in the centre of the thaal and eight hands swoop in hungry unison, cheerfully sharing not just the custard apple ice cream but the viral du jour as well.

Which explains why the thaal hasn’t ridden the ethnic chic wave so far. For, no matter how luscious the figs and cream, how exotic the bheja cutlets and how redolent the dabba gosht , there’s always the little matter of eight spoons plunging into a single bowl. Or eight hands lunging for the tender chicken leg.

Still, this system has been in place for centuries in the Bohra community — descendants of Gujarati Hindu traders who, influenced by missionaries from Yemen, converted to Islam around the 10th century. The thaal is central to their identity. So much so that they celebrate its birthday every year! And, of course, pay enormous attention to all the details. Before the thaal actually arrives, a square cloth called a safra is placed on the floor. Then comes a round stand called a tarakti , and it is on this that the thaal is placed. Next, everyone takes a pinch of salt and awaits the first dish — always a dessert!

This is usually a huge bowl of hand-churned ice cream or strawberries topped with puffs of whipped cream or something equally dreamy. And while it’s suddenly fashionable to declare that our ancestors were geniuses who knew everything about nutrition and nuclear warfare, I’m making no such claims. I bet that the dessert-first system arose out of pure impatience. Why waste precious appetite on rice and gravy when you could binge on fat white jalebi topped with rose petals and pista.

After the first dessert bowl is wiped clean and cleared, along comes a savoury dish. Usually something fried and frilly — chicken and white sauce cutlets, kheema samosas, you get the picture. Then comes a traditional halwa or mithai or the unbeatable malai khaja — sweet, clotted cream in a flaky pastry. This is followed by some serious meat — a smoked leg of lamb, a fried chicken, or a lethal red mutton. And, of course, as a nod to those who want their fruit and vegetables, small bowls of salads and chaats sit along the rim of the thaal .

The rounds of mithas and kharas continue, depending upon the generosity of the host and the repertoire of the caterers, the monosyllabic magicians with names like Bhol, Badri and Dilawar. But the meal eventually culminates in a big rice dish — a traditional, nutty curry, daal-gosht or rainbow pulao. After which the overstuffed zombie-impersonators mumble their thanks and shuffle home.

All this sounds charming in a National Geographic kind of way, but as a child I never thought so. My mother is a Bohra, my father is not. So at such dinners my father would be seated at the table with the hip transplant crowd and a few other ‘outsiders’. My mother would rush to meet cousins. And we children were hustled into making up the quorum at incomplete thaals .

Often these thaals were unpopular for a reason — they comprised the hacking coughers, the spitty speakers, the chicken leg-grabbers and the squinty aunties who spent all dinner asking probing questions like, “How is Bhai Qader related to you?”

Of course, commercial ventures like The Bohri Kitchen have managed to shed the aunties and other unpalatable aspects of communal eating. Their guests sit around a “pseudo thaal ”. They get the trotters and the khatta-meetha chicken and the date chutney. They taste authentic Bohri cuisine and understand why it’s such a favourite. But they also get individual plates and a full meal, and do not have to battle over every morsel. After which, they might even get the t-shirt! Which proves that sometimes — just sometimes — it is possible to have the best of both worlds.

My mum’s dabba gosht

The dabba gosht is a dense pie made of tender mutton and egg. There are now versions that include noodles and cream and cashew paste. But this is the unadorned original.

1/2 kg tender mutton, cut into small pieces

1 tsp ginger-garlic paste

Quarter green papaya, finely sliced

A pinch of turmeric

1 tsp red chilli powder

Salt

Three eggs, whisked

1 Marinate the mutton in the ginger-garlic paste, salt, chilli powder and papaya for at least two hours. Remove the papaya slices when ready to cook.

2 Whisk three eggs with a little salt.

3 Coat a midsized vessel with a generous quantity of oil. Then heat the oil on slow flame and pour half the egg into the vessel and spread it. When the egg starts to cook, gently place the marinated mutton on top of the egg in a layer.

4 Pour the remaining whisked egg on top of the mutton.

5 Then place a tawa on the flame and heat it. Turn the gas to simmer. Place the vessel on the tawa.

6 Next, cover the vessel. You can either seal the cover to the vessel or weigh it down with a heavy object like a mortar. Then pour water on the lid.

7 Cook on the slowest flame possible for about an hour. Make sure that the water on the lid does not evaporate entirely.

8 Once cooked, allow the dabba gosht to cool and then overturn it into a plate.

Shabnam Minwalla is a journalist and the author of The Six Spellmakers of Dorabji Street

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