Pav Bhaji: After a fashion

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I’ve been hooked on a riveting BBC3 series lately.

It’s a simple idea. Take a bunch of asinine kids hooked on cheap throwaway fashion. Subject them to the reality of the Indian apparel manufacture industry. And watch them recoil at the horror of having to work 14-hour shifts, in dingy factories alongside child labourers.

When they end up in the dark alleyways of Mumbai, one of the kids remarks on what a service they are doing by buying the cheap clothes in the first place - providing jobs to these workers.

No shit, Einstein!

Consider this. Never mind ethical labelling. Buy what clothes should actually cost and give the workers half a chance. For every £3 bargain basement top, somebody is paying the price!

Something to mull over while I bite into this Mumbai street food classic Pav Bhaji, a moreish vegetable curry served with buttered bread rolls, fresh coriander, onions and liberally doused with lemon juice.

Much as I hate using ready mixed recipe masalas, the Pav Bhaji one calls for 15 masalas to source, roast and grind. Stick to the ready stuff from ethnic shops and save the time for something more worthy instead.
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Greenfinger licking mango dal

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Summer arrived. So did my Greenfingers Day when I take an annual stab at gardening.

Dressed in my grungiest outfit, I made it to a plant nursery with hubby in tow.

I wasn’t fooling anyone. Three cries of “look honey, basil/coriander/jasmine” later, a kindly salesperson walked over with a thinly-veiled smiled and asked how he could help.

We wanted a creeper. Preferably something that grew bushy and tall. Without regular watering, sunlight or attention.

Or soil for that matter. We were talking about a three square feet, moss-ridden balcony here.

Finally we settled for a medium hedge. I brought it back and shoved it into a planter aided by a cheese slicer, kitchen scissors and amused neighbours.

Greenfingers Day, thankfully, is an annual event in my home. But I hope summer is here to stay.

With the first warm days, raw mangoes have made it to my Indian grocer cum spice shop. I made a light, sweet and sour dal made with them called Tauk Dal. The dal-making technique here involves boiling the lentils in lots of water in one go to get a watery, light texture.

Enjoy this with Basmati rice and a cool glass of Rose Blush. Preferably while gazing out of the kitchen at your new, bushy hedge.

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A right royal buffet

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We were at the Mirch Masala restaurant Sunday buffet. Two blonde, bearded uncles. Aunt Madge, fresh off a congested motorway. And me with my quasi Urdu and gora husband.

As we settled into our crisp onion bhajis, I let out a gasp. I had suddenly remembered my recent brush with international foodie fame and fortune.

I’m in Olive, I declared with a flourish.

Uncle one raised an eyebrow. Uncle two gave me a grunt. Aunt Madge just said: “Who’s Olive?”

Great. Only, like, the best food magazine published by the BBC. Read by a gazillion people, none of whom I actually know.

They asked me about my favourite cheap eat in London - the £6.95 eat as much as you want lunch buffet at Diwana Bhelpuri House in Euston. But if you’re not in London, this information is about as useful to you as your local weather to me.

So here are my top tips for spotting a really good Indian buffet instead:

  1. Elderly Indians: No self respecting elderly Indian will pay money to eat poorly cooked version of the food they eat at home
  2. Hot chapattis/rotis: There is little point in rotis that have languished on the buffet table, turning rock hard and stone cold
  3. Wide selection: Surely, the whole point of the whole exercise is to eat until you can barely move, a huge meal that you would be nuts to cook at home?

Dying to eat Bhuna Gosht

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I’ve had a few strange working lunches in my time. The first question set the tone for this one: “Have you thought much about what would happen when you die?”

In my experience, Indians don’t talk about death much. I’m quite happy to follow this fine example.

But now, I was sitting across a rather morbid will-writing consultant (or something). In between bites of my stone-baked, Capricciosa pizza I was being force fed likely future events.

“Do you have any possessions of real value you want to present to anyone?”

Gulp. My pots and pans?

“Real value.”

My shoes?

We finally settled on the only piece of pricey jewellery I possess. With that, I ran off to work leaving the husband to answer the last call.

To think I’d even momentarily considered parting with my pots and pans! I put them to use straightaway with Bhuna Gosht, and served it with my new found recipe for perfect naan - an Earthly reminder why life is worth living.
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