Having been born in a traditionally vegetarian household, my introduction to non-vegetarian food wasn’t at my grannie’s table. But having been advised by the doctor ( those days there weren’t any pediatricians or nutritionists) to have a good protein intake, I was weaned on Bovril soup! Luckily my grandmother didn’t know any better and allowed us to not only keep it in her spice rack, but also use the regular utensils while boiling water and the regular cup and spoon to feed me. Indians have very strict food rules with cross contamination being a major concern.

We aren’t allowed to share food that had been tasted or dug into by someone else. Food has to be served only with the right hand making sure that the spoon is not dirtied by using a grubby hand. Utensils for special food were kept separately and even in our supposedly ‘modern’ home, cookware for non-vegetarian food was kept separately.

So the fish curry I grew up on was the one we ate at Aunty Patsy’s or Miss Bharucha’s while the chicken curry was Mrs. Khanna’s Sunday special. Our biryani was the much coveted recipe by Aziz Uncle and our Railway Mutton curry was Miss Lawrence’s family’s secret recipe. And as the years went by, our family’s table became global with recipes shared from all over the world.

However, there is something to be said for DNA. It may be extremely impolite to say this, but certain things are genetically determined. For instance, the way you make your fish curry.

I have always prided myself in being a good cook and even published a cook book! I could make any dish by merely guessing what the ingredients were and have even taught my Punjabi friends how to make home made paneer an a Chilean guest how to make the perfect pepper steak! But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t manage to convince my fish eating grandson Little Po that my fish curry was even worth tasting. Diluted though his blood line was by my brahminical daughter’s, his Saraswat blood flowed thick and strong through his veins. No amount of spice, no variety of fish could match the fish curry made in his paternal grandpa’s home.

Today, however, since Ms. Papaya expressed a desire to eat fish curry, I decided to go to the fish market and give my curry one more try.

The Grant Road Municipal Market

Despite the hundreds of online fish vendors, and the fact that our building strictly forbids fishermen from selling fish at our doorstep, I had no option but to trek all the way to the Municipal Market at Grant Road. Every Municipal ward has a market where fresh produce is sold and even though online shopping is the current trend, many of them have been redone to make them more attractive to the few who dare venture to shop for fresh.

What a change it was with clean granite floors, gutters that actually contained the water and none of the bandicoots, cats and pigeons that used to wait to grab the fish that got away. But what happened to the fisherfolk? It used to be such a colourful place with the fisherwomen dressed in bright gaudy sarees, their earlobes hanging down with traditional gold earrings, flowers in their hair and shouting out instructions to the men who lugged around the baskets of fish. These women would flirt with their male customers, yell at the young layabouts and generally exchange pleasantries with one another.

Luckily my old friend Kala was still around as was Indrayani but it won’t be long before these two also abandon the fish market as their children have now got off the boat and into staid well paying desk jobs. I only hope I get a chance to take the Little People to the fish market one day, before this form of shopping completely dies out.

Till the next time,

Ciao