At the Rice Boat restaurant in the Taj Malabar, spicy meen mulagittathu, a
delicious fish curry flavored with Kashmiri chilies, is served with basmati rice.
First taste of India: a delicate coconut cookie, thin with buttery crumbs. When I open my eyes, there are sunrise views of the Arabian Sea.
My fourth taste: a sumptuous fish curry. Chunks of tender red snapper swimming in bright orange broth burnished with Kashmiri chilies, crackled with mustard seeds and curry leaves.
I landed in Cochin—Kochi, as it’s now known—at 12:48 this morning after 27 hours of sleepless travel. For the last four hours we jounced across the stormy Indian Ocean. Above, the stars glittered hard in the cold, clear sky. Below, splotches of pink sheet lightning flashed through clotted clouds. In between, a strange white vapor drifted upwards. Over the tip of India, the air smoothed, and we glided over looping strings of bright lights, flung like so many golden necklaces over dark velvet.
More firsts: In the airport, the scent of thick, humid air perfumed with smoke and sandalwood. Not incense, but mosquito coils with glowing tips. Malaria, you know. And roadblocks, three of them, on dusty roads lined with shadowy palms and dimly lit food stalls. A clutch of khaki-garbed policemen loomed in the headlights, then pantomimed rolling down the window. They looked at the young driver, at me, at the back seat. Each time, he said, “Taj Malabar,” and they waved us on.
Finally I asked why. “Looking for spirits, modom,” mumbled the driver. I had a sudden vision of ghosts attaching themselves underneath the car. Could the battered Flying Police Patrol van with a man in khaki slumped over the front seat have been a ghost wagon? The driver continued: “Liquor, modom.” “Smuggling?” He nodded.
Jetlagged to the point of hallucination, I fell into a bed strewn with marigolds.
But about that fish curry. I’m at a table in the Rice Boat at the Taj Malabar. The restaurant, inspired by a traditional kettuvalam with woven ceiling, is perched over the grey blue waters of the Arabian Sea where tankers and smaller craft steam to and fro. Across the harbor is old Cochin with its cavernous go-downs or warehouses, vaguely redolent of the black peppercorns that once made this port the nexus of the Indian spice trade. But that was centuries ago.
A pair of Italian women at the next table pick desultorily at a pair of lobsters. Hmmm. I glance at the menu. The waiter suggests freshly caught red snapper, prepared three ways in the style of Kerala, the skinny state on the west coast of India in which Cochin is located. I order a glass of freshly squeezed pineapple juice, sweet-tart and frothy.
Soon the first round arrives: a morsel of masala-grilled fish, coated in a thick red paste fragrant with the spices that perfume the kitchens of Kerala: turmeric, red chilies, curry leaves, shallots, ginger, garlic and black pepper. Pan sautéed and served on a banana leaf, the fish is just this side of over-cooked, but I am surprised at the subtle flavors.
Next comes meen pollichathu. This time a snapper fillet is wrapped in a banana leaf and grilled. But first the fish is marinated in lemon, turmeric and red chili powder, then topped with a luscious cooked masala, or mixture, of 10 spices, including mustard seeds, curry leaves and fenugreek crackled in coconut oil. The spices are tempered with tomatoes and thick coconut milk, and soured with cocum, the small dried black fruit of the garcinia tree prized for its tartness in this part of India. I tease open the banana leaf with my fork and taste--the snapper is tender and sublimely spiced, with multiple layers of flavor. I could eat buckets of the masala.
“Very typical of Kerala,” smiles my waiter, as he puts a final bowl of meen mulagittathu in front of me. If this is typical, please let me have it every day. The fish curry is exquisite, hotter that the first two dishes, not searing but producing a glow that starts in the stomach and courses through the body, ending in a near-euphoric flush. Succulent chunks of red snapper are bathed in a rich, bright orange broth, spiked with Kashmiri chilies, balanced with tomatoes, fresh ginger and shallots. Again, there is the slight bitterness of mustard seeds, curry leaves and fenugreek sizzled in coconut oil, and the sourness of the cocum.
I eat this vivid, burnished dish with basmati rice, soaking up the broth with an appam, a thin rice flour “pancake” that becomes thick and spongy as it absorbs the liquid. I am deeply, truly happy.
Taj Malabar, Willingdon Island, Cochin 682 009, Kerala, India. Telephone: (91-484) 2666811/ 2668010 Fax: (91-484) 2668297. E-mail: Malabar.cochin@tajhotels.com.
Web: www.tajhotels.com.
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