Yet Another Guy Writing About Food

Eating seafood in Mumbai is a constant education. A quick glance at the menu in any restaurant serving fish reveals a series of unfamiliar names: rawas, surmai, bombil, pomfret.

This afternoon on my way to the Mahalaxmi racecourse, Mumbai’s home to thoroughbred racing, I stopped by the Race View Restaurant, a small stand across the street from Gate 6. According to a recent article in TimeOut Mumbai, which put the spot on my radar, the small shop has been there since 1918. I edged my way inside, and waited for a seat to open up, anxiously eying the clock. In India as in the US, I never like to miss the first post.

When I found a seat, the gentleman to my left was clearly of the same mind. Casually examining the his racing program, he kept glancing towards our server, with intermittent motions clearly expressing impatience. And I hadn’t even ordered.

Luckily, I’d been scanning the menu — at least the daily specials — while I stood awkwardly in the doorway. Today’s point of education would be “pomfret.” The name was familiar. But if you asked me a basic question, like how big the fish was, or the density of its flesh, I wouldn’t have even been able to bluff. It might as well have been related to the Coelacanth.

Thoughtfully (rather, coincidentally), the preparation I ordered helped scratch away at my ignorance. While the “pomfret curry” would likely have obscured the fish with sauce and vegetables, the “pomfret fry” I asked for arrived at the table in elementary form: a petite, thin white fish, dredged in spices and lightly fried in oil. It was no larger than the moleskin notebook in which I’d been jotting some thoughts before the food arrived. On the side, a pile of chapatis, and a small bowl of red sauce, which hinted at coconut milk and revealed my undeniable ignorance of south Indian cooking.

The crispy, thin flesh quickly slid off the bones and into my mouth, eased down by chapati and the piquant sauce. A curious looking fellow, consumed rapidly. And soon, I was hurrying on the heels of my tablemate, out the door and across the street, in time for a full day of racing.