Brittania isn’t an unknown gem. I first heard about the place from an article on Bombay food in the Wall Street Journal. And on my second visit, earlier this afternoon, the octogenarian proprietor Boman Kohinoor offered clippings from Time and Saveur.

But sometimes, the hype is justified. Brittania isn’t cheap, certainly compared to the other Parsi cafes scattered through the southern part of the city; our meal for two cost about 15 dollars. It’s hours are restrictive; the restaurant is only open for lunch. Neither of these points should deter anyone from visiting; Brittania’s take on Parsi food is immensely satisfying as well as unique.

Brittania’s signature item is the berry pulao, a generous pile of saffron-hued rice topped with chunks of potatoes, crispy onions, fried cashews, and dried-red berries, allegedly imported from Iran. Then there’s the protein, chunks of tender mutton, chicken, or hard-boiled eggs. (Vegans and egg-averse Indian vegetarians can also opt for stewed vegetables. It’s aromatically spiced, hearty, and deeply satisfying.

Seeking to expand my repertoire, I opted for the fish patra. Kohinoor explained that this pomfret preparation used to be steamed in a banana leaf, but now gets wrapped in aluminum foil. No worries; the fish is unwrapped at table side, then capably, if unceremoniously, deboned by the waiter. The preparation is distinguished by the sweet green curry that covers the fish when it’s revealed from the foil — a sweetness that comes from gur, or jaggery, an unrefined sugar that’s boiled down into liquid form and added to the chutney.

Two items complete the Brittania experience– a dish of the creamy caramel custard for dessert, and a dose of Kohninoor’s charming repartee. “Are you British or American?” he asks my wife, as we prepare to leave.

“American,” she responds. “Why?”

“The British say ‘Thank you so much,’ while the Americans say “I appreciate it.’ But ‘how much is so much?’ I ask them.” Evidently one gentleman finally answered the query by spreading his arms wide to demonstrate the magnitude of the thanks.

That seemed appropriate to everyone. “Thank you so much,” Kohnioor told us, and we responded in kind — “Thank you so much.” — before stepping back out into the mid-day sun.

They’ve arrived! Visiting Bombay’s Crawford Market yesterday (the local equivalent to the Reading Terminal Market, minus the roast pork sandwiches), I struck out on my main objective. But the visit was far from a total loss.

While I knew mango season was approaching, I didn’t know it had already begun. But the Alphonso, the “King” of Indian mangoes, had turned Crawford into its court. They were everywhere: piled high on tables, and nestled in boxes lined with straw. Not cheap, though. Three of these beauties cost me Rs. 150, more than a dollar each.

They’re worth every rupee. Rich, creamy, succulent. The list of appropriate adjectives would be hefty enough to rupture a thesaurus, so I’ll stop at that.

The Alphonso season moves quickly, winding up in May. So if they don’t show up in my local vegetable market, I’ll have to hop the train again — soon — and grab more than just three.

To see the City Paper story, click here.

Indian food made me more English. Like most Englishmen of my generation I now think of takeout or delivered Indian food as a native dish imported centuries before. I am English enough to think of Indian food in particular as an aspect of England that I miss here in the US where Chinese is the ethnic dish of local preference. But my Englishness also leads me to miss East European Jewish cuisine in its very slightly adapted British form (a little more boiling, a little less spice than Jewish cooking here in the US). I can work up a nostalgia for fish and chips, but in truth it is nothing more than a self-generated gastronomic Heritage Exercise. We hardly ever ate the stuff when I was a child. Were I ever truly to set out in Search of Past Taste I would begin with braised beef and baked turnip, followed by chicken tikka masala and pickled wollies swabbed in challah, Kingfisher beer and sweet lemon tea. As for the madeleine that would trigger the memory? Naan dunked in matzoh ball soup, served by a Yiddish-speaking waiter from Madras. We are what we ate. And I am very English.

Apart from worthy analogue of Indian food in England to Chinese food in the US, this is simply a masterful piece of writing, and a useful reminder that it wouldn’t hurt to double down my efforts to think critically (and write) about the interface between food, culture, and memory. Or simply to note that there’s an aching divide between the alt-weekly pieces I turn out, and writing like Judt’s. (As I note while procrastinating on a story about the first cheesesteak in India.)

Konkan Map, circa 1740

The best of this food, I’m discovering, has its roots in Konkan, a stretch of Indian coastline extending south from Bombay, through Goa, and into Karnataka. Fish and rice are staples of the region’s diet, and the many Konkans living in Bombay — just one of many regional identities represented in those polyglot city — are well represented on the culinary map.

All of this is just a long-winded way to talk about today’s lunch. Thali is Hindi for plate, and in a restaurant setting, a thali is a fixed meal, offering a sample of items all on one plate. Gajalee was the first fish-focused restaurant I’ve been to in Bombay that offered a thali. With a chance to try several fish preparations, this was a perfect choice for my solo visit.

What was on it? One part dry: Bombay duck, crispy on the outside and slippery on the inside, was enhanced by an astringent, almost mustardy green chutney. And one part wet: meaty surmai, or kingfish, sitting in that spicy red curry sauce that I’m increasingly recognizing as a Konkan staple. And the other thali essentials: a small bowl of vegetable curry (meh), two rotis, a pile of rice. Plus, a small poor of creamy, purple liquid that I saved for last. I assumed (or hoped) that this was a dessert, misled by the color. (When is purple anything other than sweet.) Not this time; instead it was a bowl of spiced buttermilk — an acquired taste that I’ve yet to take possession of.

I don’t think I’ll ever get the deed to spiced buttermilk. But consider this the beginning of a sustained inquiry into Konkan seafood.

Indigo’s menu is as impressive as one will find here in India. Items like “saffron fettuccine in spiced olive oil with chorizo, spinach and shallot marmalade” would look at home at any fine dining establishment in a major American city, especially one looking to demonstrate a global reach.

First, the original Indigo in South Bombay was joined by a nearby “deli.” Then came a glitzy global tapas and nightlife concept across from Bombay’s Mahalxami racecourse, Tote on the Turf. And a northern outpost of the Indigo family, the Indigo Cafe, in Andheri — not far from our own flat.

While nearby as the bird flies, the Cafe does no favors for the uninitiated looking to find it. Addresses (and knowledge of them) are spotty at best in this rapidly growing city; and the restaurant’s location at the end of an unlabeled lane suggests either a desire to avoid creditors or supreme confidence of the power of the Indigo name to reach the ears of the targeted clientele. An first, aborted effort to find the restaurant included a rickshaw ride, two kilometers of walking, five consultations with shop owners to gauge directions, and final, a bitter fight with my wife, precipitated by the stress of finding the establishment. That night ended not with fried chicken or linguine, but rather with French toast at home.

Armed with a proper sense of the location, we struck out for the cafe again the next night, and arrived preprared to eat. The restaurant announces its casual ambitions at the head of the menu, offering breakfast served all day — rench toast, quiche, bagel (gasp!) served with cream cheese, capers and lox. Based on Akerkar’s New York history, I will one day try the bagel — even if my fear of disappointment is high. (I’d be a fool to expect this.) French toast wasn’t on the agenda either.

What we did find was strikingly well executed casual western food. A chilled watermelon and buttermilk soup had been strained to near silken fineness. Sea salt-rubbed chicken breasts prominently displayed the hatchmarks from their preparation on a hot grill. But they’d also spent some time in a pan that had then been deglazed with red wine. In a presumed concession to local tastes, the plate was disappointingly bereft of any vegetable component. Garlic potato wedges were good, yes. But the protein and a starch without a vegetable was like a Rush recording without Alex Lifeson
– classic trios have three parts for a reason.

All was forgiven by the time the dessert rolled around (and the bottle of Indian Merlot-Shiraz continued its path towards empty). A banana souffle peered over the edges of its Le Creuset ramekin before we dug our spoons in to devour the rich, creamy interior.

We headed home, not feuding and hungry, like the previous night, but sated and relaxed; reminded of the power that a well-executed restaurant meal holds on our sense of comfort.

When I think of Bengali food, two things used to cross my mind. Overpoweringly sugary sweets– far too much for my American palate to handle. And river fish, usually prepared in a tumeric-enhanced sauce, and served with rice.

My basic impressions would have been different if I was exposed to Kolkata-style rolls. But I didn’t learn about these hearty cigars of egg, mutton, and spice during my week in Kolkata in 2005. Instead, I’ve only just discovered them here in Bombay, at a Bengali roadside joint by the name of Hangla’s. The name evidently means glutton in Bengali, and on my first visit several weeks ago, I responded to the mandate, devouring both a spicy, well-formed fish chop (essentially, the Bengali equivalent of our fish cake) as well as a mutton egg roll. On today’s visit, I reined it in. Just one roll.

But what a roll. Behind the glass separating the kitchen from the “sidewalk” sits the tawa, a large, slightly concave, metal disc, which serves as a grill in so much Indian cooking. Onto the oiled tawa goes a roti (that’s a flatbread, to those of you new to Indian cooking). An egg, cracked on top of the roti, is then broken up. Flip the roti, and the egg side, now directly exposed to the tawa, gets fried right on.

Next up — the meat. First, some slivers of red onions. Then tender chunks of mutton. Both mixed together on the hot tawa, while the egg roti sits on the counter, awaiting its filling. And there’s no sauce or chutney on this roll, unlike its cousins from the northwest. Just the acidic hint of fresh lime juice, some finely chopped green chillies, and some salt.

It comes across the counter tightly rolled, with a sheet of waxed paper serving as a diaper, keeping the mess in. And vanishes quickly (if you’re me); or not so fast (if you’re my slow-eating wife, eating the paneer equivalent.) I recommend a thimble-sized Coke (200 ml) to rinse it down. Although made to order, this is undeniably fast food. And fast food doesn’t get much better.

Nope, definitely doesn't look like duck

Bombil, or Bombay Duck as it’s called in English, in no way resembles a duck. While the origins of the name are contested, it can be said with certainty that there’s no connection in either appearance or taste.

That’s a good thing, because if I was hoping for the savory richness of pan-roasted duck breasts from tonight’s dinner, I would have been sorely disappointed. But I went to the fish market this evening looking to expand my seafood horizons, not because I had a dynamite bottle of red Burgundy and I was looking for the right match.

Curious about a thin silver fish, I asked the seller what it was called. Her response was unrecognizable. Hoping to uncover something I could look up how to prepare properly, I asked about the plate of thin entities, about six inches long, that looked liked they’d be most at home slithering about just above the sea bed. “Bombil,” she responded. I knew that name! It was the Bombay Duck.

She popped the heads of the fish one at a time, and I took them home, to set about preparing them. The internet, in its infinite wisdom, suggested frying them. The result? Tasty fritters of soft fish, with the thin bones melted into the flesh. I’ll cook them again.

So, for all of you desperate to know how to cook that cache of fresh bombil (no, it won’t work for the also-popular dried version, which you’re also unlikely to have lying around), a recipe:

8-10 bombil (heads and tails removed, halved)
2 tbsp Garlic chili paste
several pinches Garam Masala
several pinches Salt
Flour/Semolina
2 tbsp oil

Marinate bombil in mix of garlic chili paste, garam masala, and salt for 30 minutes
Dredge fish in flour
Fry in small pan until crispy

If Apple’s chosen mode of conveyance was class in a 747, I travel in the second-class compartment of the Mumbai Suburban Railway, where a sardine would not feel out of place. Luckily, last night, that train took me to Trishna. On the express train: only 30 minutes.

The restaurant, nestled in a back alley in the Fort section of South Mumbai, announces its presence with an austere, opaque facade, which stands out distinctly from the neighboring stalls and storefronts. Clearly something is going on inside, a sense highlighted by the uniformed doorman. The only indicators of what activities transpire come from the small sign that spells the restaurants name above the doorway, and the plaque announcing that the establishment has the right to withhold admission and will not be serving alcoholic beverages to minors.

But all who come to Trishna come knowing that this is a destination for seafood — specifically, Mangalorean-style preparations made with the freshest fish available. (For whatever reason, Mangalore, the chief port city of the southern Indian state of Karnataka, serves as the reference point for seafood in Mumbai.) Inside one of several sparsely decorated dining rooms, the trim that suggests the prow of a ship and the aquarium stocked with tropical fish, reinforce this focus.

The suited waitstaff, equipped with black bow ties and name tags, brought out plump king prawns in green masala. The consistency of this sauce — likely made from a mix of corriander, mint, garlic, some chillies, and more spices — was as if it had been pounded out with a mortar and pestle. More likely, it was an electronic mixture, reigned in to produce a coarse mix, rather than a smooth puree. The one complaint about the meaty, succulent prawns is that there weren’t enough of them.

Again, pomfret made an appearance. This time, off the bone, from a fish larger than the last one. Lush slices of flesh, roughly one inch by three inches, swimming in an aromatic brown gravy, accentuated by hints of coconut milk.

With such success with their seafood, Trishna could be forgiven for slacking on their other options (although, not by my vegetarian wife.) Yet the dal hyderabadi, rich lentils, golden in color, with an entrancing smoky flavor, stands up against the best dal I’ve had in India, on this trip or any previous ones.

A word for the wine geeks: there’s a substantial list here of seafood friendly whites — a Chablis, white Burgundy, Sauvignon from New Zealand and Chile — all pushed outside of my price range thanks to punishing excise taxes. Representatives from India’s growing domestic wine industry are more wallet friendly. But a glimpse around the dining room showed tables with not wine, but soft drinks and beer, ours included.

Trishna beckons for future visits. We didn’t touch any of the big-ticket items: king crab, lobster, squid tiger prawns — all at the head of the menu, with prices revealed only upon asking the server. Perhaps when I can afford to start flying around the world to eat.

Instead, my choice was made for me. Approached by a vendor (vendors everywhere in a country with a massive informal sector) hoisting a tray loaded with, what on first glance looked like steroidal cornflakes. Maybe they were on the “clear”? Or the “cream”? Both?

“Chana chaat masala,” the vendor importuned.

Why not? I waited while he formed a cone from a sheet of old magazine paper, then filled it with the flakes, made not in the laboratory, but instead from fried chickpea batter. Next came finely chopped red onion and lime, and several shakes from a plastic vial of chaat masala, a spice mixture. Roughly ten seconds of practiced tapping at the mouth of the cone served to distribute the mix properly.

As suggested by the polished manner in which the snack came together, it was a solid combination. The thick, crisp flakes lapped up the acidity from the lime. The spice added even more zing. And I quickly polished off my starter snack, a palate teaser for the walk down the beach.