Lord of spices

Being a chaatwallah for a day can be a humbling experience, discovers our correspondent

Ever since my mother showed me the door after a disastrous job in the kitchen, I have gladly stuck to more creative pursuits like gluttoning and playing the scathing food critic at home. But now, she had got her revenge: I was to be a chaatwallah for a day and that, she thought, would teach me those much-needed lessons in humility.

At Kaleva Sweets, my workstation, I took my position behind the chaat counter. My ‘assistant’ for the evening, Gupteshwar Singh, handed me a pair of plastic gloves and a plastic cap and said, “These things are mandatory since people these days are particular about hygiene.” I also wore a shirt to match Singh’s and didn’t look particularly bad. “You’ll start by making raj kachoris, our specialty. It’s quite simple,” Singh said in an assuring manner. Raj kachoris are huge gol gappas with a filling of dahi bhalla, papdi, boondi and chana mooth. Oh, so I won’t get to dunk my hand in the jeera paani, I thought, almost disappointed. After he showed me the ingredients, I made him go over them again. The heat from the tawa was searing—more lessons in humility.

“Don’t worry about all this,” said Singh. I took a raj kachori and strained my ears as Singh began rattling off instructions. “Make a hole on the softer side that is large enough for the ingredients to fit in.” I did as ordered but ended up breaking the kachori even before I could punch in a hole. I mumbled an apology and grabbed another kachori. “Be gentle,” Singh warned.

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The second time I tried, I got the hole right and stuffed in the ingredients. There are approximately 10 things that are stuffed into each raj kachori and the fillings kept slipping out of my hand each time I tried to lift them from the containers. Will Singh yank off my gloves and cap and ask me to leave, I thought nervously. After all, he wouldn’t want to lose his Sunday customers to a shaky chaatwallah. But Singh gently said, “It is difficult to get a grip on anything when you wear gloves. I prefer bare hands but…”

Once all the ingredients were stuffed in, I had to garnish the kachori with namkeen. It took me 10 minutes to make the kachori, something Singh can do in less than a minute. “Not bad for a start,” Singh said. “But the real test is when you have a demanding customer,” he said.
While I was fondly looking at my kachori, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see my first customer, a hurried middle-aged man. “Ek raj kachori, jaldi se,” he ordered. I almost reached for the bhalla and then realised I had to make a hole in the kachori first. The hole was easy and Singh watched as I reached for the filling. But Singh didn’t hang around for too long and left me to my kachori. But I soon had a good-looking dish ready and handed it to the customer. He stared at it blankly and then gave me a hard look. “Namkeen kahan hai,” he asked stonily. I realised I had forgotten to sprinkle the namkeen and quickly made amends. “Spoon? Spoon kaun dega,” he asked. The spoon was right next to his fat finger and I had half a mind to scoop the kachori filling on to his face. Manners, I told myself.

Singh smiled as he walked up to me. “Now you know. Making the raj kachori is simple. It’s difficult to please the customers.” I couldn’t agree more. Soon, another customer walked up and demanded a chaat papdi. It’s easy to rustle this up—the same ingredients, minus the kachori. This time I remembered to serve with a spoon. “Here is your chaat, sir,” I said with a flourish. “I don’t want it in a plate. Give me in a bowl,” said the customer. I did as told and he left, frowning.
Ultimate lesson in humility: it’s a tough way from the stomach to the heart.