Food for thought
Sushmita Bose -
Sunday, November 02, 2008 2:04 PM
I know I'd promised that I'll write about The Omani Sheikh sauntering into my hotel room, but, before that, I want to take you on a gastronomic tour. Omani Sheikh will have to wait till next Sunday. You see, I need to tell you, first, about how I am hooked to the strawberry smoothies - AND the peach ones, glugging down the creamy contents, generously spiked with chunky strawberry and peach pulp, every day. Two 400 ml bottles a day. The people manning the ‘cold' foods counter at the friendly neighbourhood supermarket look up hopefully whenever I put in an appearance. Which is every evening. That counter makes a killing.
"At least this is something [and I mean it in the qualitative sense] I would never get in Delhi," I think as I smack my lips after draining a smoothie bottle every morning, and then one every night. So maybe it was worth coming to Dubai after all. That way, I feel ever so better, instead of being morose for hours on end at times like when a friend in Delhi SMS-ed me to say she couldn't take my call since she was watching Bharatnatyam at the Qutub Minar (or was it Humanyan's Tomb?) .
Or when someone calls to say that the weather is turning mellow and there's a sharp nip in the air - one that makes you wrap the shawl tighter around your frame, and hug yourself closer - that he felt when he went on his morning walk in Lodhi Gardens. Here, central air-conditioning takes care of all mercurial inconsistencies. Only fools venture out on the roads: on rare occasions when I've been foolish enough to do so, I was perilously close to suffering a sun stroke. "This is nothing, madam," boasts Aruna (who's now been rechristened Arun). "Wait till you encounter summers, THIS is very pleasant - by equatorial desert standards."
Okay, I am digressing. I was talking about strawberry and peach smoothies. My mother has this irritating habit of asking me whenever we talk on the phone, "I so hope you are eating properly and not neglecting your health... Health is wealth, you know... and you are ALL ALONE in a foreign city - if something happens to you..." Her voice trails off at this point. I can picture her shaking her head. She used to parrot the same lines while I was in Delhi too (other than the ‘phoren' city bit), but there at least I had a semblance of support system: friends like Tiger; cousins like Black Sheep; bro and sis-in-law in Gurgaon; kindly landlord and landlady and the ever tail-wagging Chhoti; and uncle and aunt who I saw once in six months even though I lived seven houses away from them.
In Dubai, eating - not just eating out -- is the second-best that you can do. Shopping and mall-crawling - together -- occupy the number one slot. I haven't really had the time to explore the eateries out here (there are loads and loads, I am told, and most of them very, very good), but the supermarkets are the most food-friendly in the world. True to my calling, I've singled out an Indian chain, five minutes walking distance from my place. It's called Choithram's - and you even get cooked meals that you can buy by the metric scale, other than tons and tons, and shelves and shelves, of processed food (the likes of two/three/four-minute noodles, soups in cups, miracle biryanis, vacuum-packed dal maknis).
On the first day at Choithram's, I gaped at the array of Indian food on display inside the glass cabinets: dal, subzi (at least 10 different kinds), paneer curry, chicken curry, mutton curry, fish curry, all kinds of rotis and parathas. After that, I gawked at the ‘Indian' Chinese spread: fried rice and noodles, chilli chicken, sweet and sour paneer and so on. Fast food like kathi rolls, burgers, pizzas, pasta etc. ‘Nature fresh' stuff like salads and fruit salads. AND frozen food; I immediately bought an icy packet of methi parathas (that had 50 per cent less weight-inducing substance than the fresh off-off-the-stove variety) and a nine-grain offshoot that promised vital nutrients and vitamins. Later that night, I was to prepare a couple of parathas (one methi and one nine-grained) and gobble them up while watching Feroz Khan and Mumtaz romance on a channel called Zee Aflam.
In office, I ordered in a salad one afternoon and realised that a small serving of a Greek Salad (there's nothing Grecian about the salad, let me hasten to add: there were diced Amul cheese cubes instead of Feta cheese, and carrots instead of lettuce) costs more than a chicken burger, that comes with a well-endowed fleshy patty, and a goodly smattering of fries. It's no wonder that everyone tends to get fat here.
"Watch what you eat," a few spoilsports have already started sounding the alarm bell. "Usually people pile on at least five kilos in the first month of their Dubai stint." Sporadically, I try and go on a salad (and fruit salad) diet, but sustaining that steely resolve, alas, is a bit much for me. Even without going restaurant hopping, there's just too much to eat here. So help me dear Lord as I down another sugary strawberry smoothie.