MARIANI’S

  August 28, 2005                                                        NEWSLETTER

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In This Issue

Incredible India  Part Two by Suzanne Wright

NEW YORK CORNER:  Maremma by John Mariani

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Incredible India Part Two
by Suzanne Wright

      India is a land of impressions for the foreigner, not to be understood but merely absorbed on a trip the vast sub-Continent.  Let me therefore give an impressionistic sweep of my time there.

     After touring the awesome deserted palace complex of Fatephur Sikri, I reached Rajasthan, home to impressive forts, palaces, art and culture.  Here the landscape becomes arid and beige, but the women’s clothing morphs from saris to brilliant, jewel-toned cotton skirts and scarves that enliven the desert setting.
     These hard-working women build roads or transport huge piles of wood or brass water pots on their head with regal bearing, their silver jewelry—toe rings, anklets and bracelets—tinkling and glinting in the sun.  The road is flanked on either side by chest-high fields of mustard; piles of perfectly round cow patties lie drying in the sun.  The dusty asphalt is shared by a dizzyingly competitive brew of private cars, taxis, buses, bicycles, motorcycles, camel carts, rickshaws, pedestrians, cows, chickens and trucks with brightly painted tailgates that advise “Horn Please.  Keep Distance. Use Dipper at Night (lights),”  which explains the constant blaring symphony of horn bleats.  I learned to anticipate the throat clearing that proceeds spitting and dodge the glob.
    At Ranakpur, the magnificent Fifteenth-Century Jain temple (below, left), no two of the 1,444 carved marble pillars are the same.  Yellow-robed priests with thumb-sized smears of sandalwood on their foreheads--their “third eyes”--use large skeleton keys to open wooden doors that reveal splendid statues.  Situated in lush rolling Rajasthan countryside, the 48,000-square foot temple is enclosed by a wall and is one of the five most important pilgrimage sites for Jains.  Best of all, no hawkers mar the experience.
     Equally enchanting is Sri Eklingji, a secluded Tenth-Century complex of 108 temples dedicated to the God Shiva.  Located about 30 minutes outside Udaipur, it, too, is enclosed by high walls.  I arrived at an auspicious time:  bells were ringing and Hindu pilgrims were offering garlands and incense.  I was the only tourist there.
     Mountainous Jaipur (below) is known as the “pink city,” thanks to a coat of pastel paint the city got during the visit of Prince Albert more than a century ago. Indians love a festival.  Hundreds of diamond-shaped kites are aloft for today’s festival.  Sure, the Palace of the Winds was postcard-perfect, but it was the fascinating observatory of former King Jai Singh, featuring massive astrological tools and gadgets including a sundial that captured my imagination.
     The Hotel Rajvilas (Goner Road; 91-141-268-0101), on the outskirts of Jaipur, famously hosted President Clinton, adding a helipad for his arrival. Its landscaped grounds (left) are a breathtaking combination of flowers and water elements.
     At Meherangarh Fort in Jodphur, smog finally gave way to clear skies and a panoramic view of the buildings of the “blue city.”  A recently married couple—of the warrior caste, as evidenced by his sword—paraded through the fort, yoked together with a bright scarf, their family trailing behind.
     In Rathambore Park I’d come to stalk a tiger.  And I’m celebrating a birthday.  My gift to myself?  A dashing tent at Vanyavilas (Ranthambhore Road, 91-7462-22-3999; below), where Africa meets India.  The most intimate of Oberoi’s opulent resorts, it is a favorite with honeymooners.  Although I have a cold (the manager prescribes  his “mother’s recipes” ginger steeped tea with lemon and honey—and keeps them coming throughout my stay), I revel in the food of Chef Saurav Banerjee, like  bekhti, a flaky white fish from the Bay of Bengal richly prepared with curry leaves and coconut milk.  I have become alternatively addicted to the rosy hued, slightly salty watermelon juice and the fresh lime juice.  I merely mention I like cheese Danish and voila! they appear in my morning breakfast basket.
     But it is his condiments that enthrall me most.  Since the resort is closed for three months during the summer (it’s just too hot for tourists), Banerjee dedicates the down time to making more than a dozen preserves, pickles and chutneys that he stores in large ceramic jars: sweetly acidic mango, strawberry, tomato, sharp orange, carrot, pineapple, lemon, sweet and hot pickles.  My favorite? Hoeberry, a very sour cherry-like mincemeat with cloves and star anise.  But the best present is the chocolate birthday cake I enjoy and the hamper of condiments the chef sends with me to the train station.
       Although I didn’t see any tigers while on a game drive at Ranthambore Park, I did spot crocodiles, jungle cats, sambars (Indian deer), and kingfishers in the hilly, heavily forested former hunting ground of the kings.  I bought ravishing and inexpensive (no bartering required!) mirrored scarves from the women’s cooperative Dashkar, which preserves artisan traditions and financially liberates rural women.
      The erotic temples of Khajuraho, nicknamed the “Kama Sutra temples” and built between the Twelfth and Twelfth centuries are exquisitely and provocatively—not profanely—carved are with ecstatic couples and cavorting dancers.  But it was the Thursday market that really got me snapping pictures. I watched a scrawny vendor squatting in the dirt, scaling fish for customers using a curved bone while flies buzzed around; cauliflowers and radishes and carrots piled high, their riotous colors competing with the women’s garb; dal (beans) in hues ranging from yellow to red to green to black in triangular piles, waiting to be poured into scales. I enjoyed a simple, crunchy treat:  a large white radish split down the middle and serve with a squeeze of lime and sprinkle of white pepper.  It was my favorite food memory.

     “Number 7,” the skinny rickshaw driver who lolled outside my hotel, became my de facto guide and transportation since I’d used him the day before. He had tracked my movements, hoping for another fare.  He has a lopsided smile, gray pants hitched up beneath a dirty cream shirt and seven kids, hence his nickname.  He pumped along carefully, avoiding roadside bumps.

      Nothing equaled the nightly spectacle at the Ganges in the holy city of Varanasi, for the evening pujas, religious rites featuring bells, fire and flowers that take place along the ghats, steps that lead into the river.  In this ancient town, a dip in the mother river purifies; if you die here, it’s said that your soul goes straight to Shiva’s side, instead of reincarnating again.  During a surreal sunrise boat ride, I saw (and smelled) through the fog and smoke, a body carried aloft on wooden stretcher, swaddled in saffron-colored cotton; bodies being burned on the crematories; bathers; dhobis (washermen); vendors in small boats selling tiny urns to fill with holy water; even a dead cow floating by.  No doubt about it: this was the real India.
    In Goa, the Leela (91-832-287-1234; below) is a lush, sprawling resort whose lavishly  landscaped golf course, lagoon, and talcum soft golden beach could be in the Caribbean, except the architecture is a blend of Indian and Portuguese, reflecting its glory as a former European colony. About an hour north, Old Goa is chock-a-block with Catholic churches, convents, even the tomb of St. Francis Xavier.
     The Leela has several restaurants and a trio of talented chefs:  Kayomarz Bharucha, Yvonnick Jegat-Deniau, and Vijayan Parakkal.  Riverside, an Italian-themed restaurant overlooks the River Sal, across from a fishing village, which emits a muffled murmur.  Shimmering bands of light play across the water.  It’s a pleasure to tuck into a salad of perfect basil and sundried tomatoes and follow it with a sublime thin-crust pizza with a twist--spicy chicken tikka and okra masala.
    Goa is known for its beach shacks (temporary restaurants) and the Leela has theirs.  As I watch two skeletal Brahmin cows amble across the sands, I lap up a beachside meal of pumpkin-colored prawns masala in a rich paste of coconut milk and curry, and a richado, a flaky, subtle fish served with dried shrimp and saffron tinted coconut.  I sip the potent Goan liquor, palm feni.
    At Jamavar (which means ‘shawl’), Indian specialties are served. It’s an elegant restaurant where the strains of the sitar play in the background.   I arrange for a special thali, a selection of small dishes presented in silver cups on a silver tray.  There’s  seafood rassam, a clear tomato soup with bracing curry leaves, bracing; followed by fish tikka makhani, flaky snapper served with smoky dal, black lentils cooked with cream;  pistachio gobi, cauliflower with an unusual grassy taste and a perky green color; dal makhani:  calming, creamy, red kidney beans cooked overnight.  Excellent roti and naan breads accompany the meal.  For dessert, there’s carrot halwa in a fusion presentation, a mincement-like, cardamon-scented carrot shred encased in a lightly fried spring roll with a puddle of vanilla cream.  With wine and water, this feast runs about $29.
     I’m in the “Lake City,” Udaipur, in an Oberoi resort, Udaivilas (Haridasji Ki Magri; 91-294-243-3300;  below) right). I consider Oberoi hotels (they have 11 in the country) the antidote to the rigors of India.  Uniformed staffers will meet you at the airport with a sign bearing your name and whisk you to sanctuary.  Said one driver when I commented on the hotelier’s renowned hospitality, “We are smiling from the heart.”
     Although the drought had dried up Udaipur's lakes, I scored a room with a water view: a lovely cocoon with a cozy window seat that overlooks the pool.  My freestanding tub featured thoughtfully provided pillow.  The interiors were sumptuous without being overwrought, cool and neutral with a few native touches.  The staff is peerless.
     I order breakfast on my private terrace; it’s serene. I feel I have the place utterly to myself, although I know they are near capacity. I take dinner on the patio; there should be a view of the lake.  Coal-stoked fires lick the air and I am given a blanket to keep the chill off.  Preceding dinner is a Rajasthani music and dance performance; the sound of the sandoor, which looks like xylophone to me, is pretty and tinkly. Yes, the meal was good, but I most enjoyed my chat with the waiter Ashkish, who shyly asks me how it is to write when he sees me scribbling notes.  He says he writes poetry and we share favorite scribes.  My favorite room service surprise?  A rose-scented tiramisù.  Blush colored, perfumed, served in parfait glass, it was a creamy floral treat topped with truffle-like pistachios.
 
 
    About 30 miles outside the city is Devi Garth (Village Delwara; 91-2953-289211; http://www.deviresorts.com), a boutique hotel where Liz Hurley had recently stayed.  From its hilltop perch in this tiny village, it has commanding views of the surrounding mountains.  Known as a heritage hotel because of its historical importance, its buttercream façade appealingly shabby chic.
     And the food?  In a word, wow!  My table is festooned with gold lamé stars which wink at me in the early afternoon light.  The innovative menu includes Lebanese and Thai accents along with Indian specialties. The lamb and olive crêpes are a  savory stack of silver dollar sized pancakes crisped on the edges and layered with slices of tender lamb and oily calamata olives.  I follow that with a piquant chicken with honey-mustard glaze.  But it’s the lemon tartlet with a buttery shortbread crust that is like sun on a plate, paired with appealingly astringent lemongrass ice cream.
     In a land so randomly cruel, kindnesses emerged:  the driver who greeted me with a rose; the guide who carefully used a handkerchief to wipe dust off my camera lenses; the waiter who gave me a second glass of watermelon juice and a makeshift birthday card; the chef who invited me into the kitchen for hoeberry chutney, which softens the fire of my chicken tikka; the army officer who shared a train compartment with me, declaring I am “his guest” offering me a blanket and tea.
  In the end, India breaks your heart, tests your will, exhausts your spirit, stretches your soul, awakens your humanity and, finally, repays you for its challenges and exasperations with its indelible imprint.

    To read Part One of "Incredible India (July 2, 2005), click here .
 
How to Barter Without Bitterness
“Indians even negotiate their birthdays,” I was told by one native.   Somewhere between a social activity and a blood sport, bartering determines the price of everything from a guide’s services to jewelry to furniture. How to navigate these tricky social, political and cultural shopping waters?

• Establish rapport.  Maintain a positive attitude: be polite, calm and respectful.  A sense of humor is key.
• “Have a look” is an opening  likely be followed by an invitation to drink tea.  Unless you have 30 or more minutes to spare, pass.  The concept of “browsing” doesn’t exist.
• Don’t barter when you are jet-lagged, tired, or your judgment is impaired by alcohol.
• Do your homework prior to the trip.  If you plan to buy antiques, jewelry or other expensive items, know what you are looking for and approximate values.
• Don’t barter unless you are really serious about purchasing an item.  Then counter-offer 50-75% of the first quoted price.  Don’t insult a merchant by offering 10% of his stated price. The deal has to be win-win.
• Determine what you can afford to spend. Establish a ceiling for any item you are serious about buying, so you can avoid emotional overspending and buyer’s remorse.
• Trust your gut.  Does this feel like a scam?  Are you being uncomfortably pressured?  If so, leave.
• Use common sense. A cheap knickknack may have more “give” in its selling price than an antique rug. Barter appropriately.
• If you love an item and it seems to be one-of-a-kind, buy it.  You may not see that antique doorknocker again.
• If you have a guide or driver, consider asking him or her to haggle on your behalf.  The money you tip him will be less than the typical tourist markup. Just don’t let him lead you to places where he may receive a commission (“my friend or my cousin has a shop”).
• Keep things in perspective.  Even if you overpay by $10 or $20, think about what you would have spent for the same or similar item back home.

 

NEW YORK CORNER
by John Mariani


MAREMMA
228 West 10th Street
212-645-0200

        Cesare Casella has always been one of New York's most ebullient and energetic chefs, perhaps because he is always sniffing the  aroma of  a sprig of rosemary he always has in his breast pocket.  Author of three cookbooks on Tuscan cuisine and owner of the very popular Beppe on East 22nd Street, Casella has now headed west, both geographically and philosophically, adapting the food of the southern region of Tuscany called Maremma to his affection for Sergio Leone's "spaghetti westerns" of the 1960s.  This marriage is an honorable one, the decor of the new restaurant lots of fun, including steer horns and serapes, and Casella himself may get duded up in cowboy garb as part of the gag.
      Or is it a gimmick? I ask because the food is so good here that I don't quite see the point of the theatricality, which includes goofy-sounding menu items like "Sloppy Giuseppe" and "Earn Your Spurs," backed by a loop of "yee-ha!" western music I bet Cesare's mamma never sang to him back in Lucca.
       But it's really of no consequence because whatever the derivation of the flavors here, they click wonderfully well and show Casella at his hearty, most generous best.  My friends and I ate and ate and ate--way too much but very, very happily--starting with a dip of Casella's beloved Tuscan beans laced with olive oil and good country bread.  There is a daily selection from the "bean bar."  "Big Blue" was a nicely fried bluefish with spinach and chickpeas, and "Coyote Flapjacks" were neat little Tuscan crespelle with a basil-walnut pesto that went quickly at our table.  That silly-sounding "Sloppy Giuseppe" was indeed a form of Italian Sloppy Joe--shredded, well-cooked, caramelized meat over fettunta, a form of toast  with olive oil and garlic.  "Mess Kit" (somebody stop this man!) is grilled Maremma-style sausage and caramelized onions (from Texas, 'natch), while Tuscan chilies (more beans) were dotted with bacon crumbles and fresh chilies.  Our appetites now roaring, we dug into tiburzi, a pork pot roast with Castegneto vegetables, and "Earn Your Spurs," a mess (now I'm doing it) of slowly cooked short ribs with stone ground grits, otherwise known as polenta.
      A tomato-bread panzanella soup came with ruby red shrimp, while the bordatino de mare was a form of seafood polenta with hot chilies.  We kept going: "Wild Bill Cody" pappardelle with a rich chocolate-wild boar sauce.  "Tumbleweed" was spinach tagliatelle with an equally hefty pork ragù, and gnocchi (which were too soft but according to Casella correct) had just cherry tomatoes and marjoram to dress them.
     How can anyone not love any form of fried chicken? And Casella does one scented with lemon and topped with green tomatoes, while his "Chicken Fried Pork "is a pork cutlet topped with shaved cremini and grana padana cheese.  Not done yet: trout is rubbed with chile and served with roasted cannellini, and, finally, the "cowboy steak" was a massive rib-eye (and a steal at $28) with fingerling potatoes.
       There were desserts and we were up to them--a chocolate tart, cheesecake, panna cotta with rhubarb sauce, and a lemon tart--all good if not breathtaking.
       We drank mostly red wines--a lot of them--and rolled out into the New York night feeling terrific. At least for the time being. Next time I'll pace myself and order only half of what I did the first time.  But  my friends and I were powerless to resist. Curiously enough, Maremma's menu has a lot more snap and seasoning than most anything you'd find in Tuscany. So whatever it is that Casella is doing at this lovable trattoria,  he's doing it very well indeed.

COOKBOOKS WE NEVER COOKED FROM

YEAH, RIGHT

DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS

The Kitchen Restaurant shown in the photo in last week's issue is in Boulder, CO, not Denver.

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* On the weekend of Sept. 16-18, the Sofitel Lafayette Square in Washington, DC,  will hold an "Aromatic Weekend” package ($1,400 per couple, $800 pp), incl. Master Sommelier Evan Goldstein offering instruction in "nosing" and tasting wines; a cooking lesson by Chef Antoine Westermann, to learn how fresh herbs and spices perfume different foods; fragrance professionals teaching how to identify different scents; a 4-course gourmet dinner by Chef Westermann;  Sunday brunch; Tastevin gift set; deluxe accommodations. Call 202-730-8446.

* From Oct. 2-7 Chef Hugo Ortega and sommelier Sean Beck of Hugo’s restaurant in Houston will lead a culinary and sightseeing tour of Baja, California and the Guadalupe Valley, incl. wine tastings and vineyard tours.  Accommodations (all with ocean view)  at Las Rosas Hotel & Spa near Ensenada.  The package incl. airfare, all transportation, hotel, breakfasts, welcome dinner, farewell dinner, wine tastings, and 3 vineyard lunches.  Approx.  price $1,584 pp.  Call 713-479-1312.  . . . In Houston, Hugo’s will feature a special dinner showcasing the food and wine of Baja on  Aug. 7 at $78 pp.  Call 713-524-7744.

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MARIANI'S VIRTUAL GOURMET NEWSLETTER is published weekly.  Editor/Publisher: John Mariani. Contributing Writers: Robert Mariani,  Naomi  Kooker, Kirsten Skogerson,  Edward Brivio, Mort Hochstein, Lucy Gordan, Suzanne Wright. Contributing Photographers: Galina Stepanoff-Dargery,  Bobby Pirillo. Technical Advisor: Gerry McLoughlin.

 John Mariani is a columnist for Esquire, Wine Spectator, Bloomberg News and Radio, and Diversion.  He is author of The Encyclopedia of American Food & Drink (Lebhar-Friedman), The Dictionary of Italian Food and Drink (Broadway), and, with his wife Galina, the award-winning new Italian-American Cookbook (Harvard Common Press).

 Any of John Mariani's books below may be ordered from amazon.com by clicking on the cover image.

copyright John Mariani 2005