Goa Unlimited


Goa Unlimited
Traditional Goan fare. Photo by Kavita Datta The writer is a food writer based in New Delhi, India.

Not allowed to disclose the name of the roadside eatery she had the best fish at in Goa, Vasundhara Chauhan settles for sharing some food experiences and a recipe for recheio masala As usual, we had barely got into the car when I finished with the formalities. Alex, the driver, was well, the ‘season’ was not so good and the weather had been hot. Then I asked about what is always closest to my heart: where should we eat this time? He’s learned not to apologise for holes in the wall and recommended a couple of places where locals like him eat.

As I’ve discovered, there are two, maybe three, Goas. One, where the re-settled expat gentry get their fresh arugula, carpaccio and sun-dried tomato salads, followed by thin crust pizza topped with smoked mozzarella or souffle omelettes filled with shrimp and bacon bits, finished off with chocolate walnut torte and espresso. Another, in a shack on the beach, where too much sun and sand vie for attention with grilled seafood, C-grade cafreal/sorpotel/vindaloo and pomfret rechade on the one hand and Israeli, Greek and Italian menus on the other. As Alex explained, he eats at places often with no name, generically located by asking for a ‘fish thali’. These, he said, are almost always Hindu because patrons have no fear of contamination by beef or pork: they cook just fish.

So on this trip we ate at three ‘fish thali’ establishments, and repeated the one we liked most on a fourth foray. They all have a standard, basic menu, and a simple, similar environment. The place has a covered portion, with ceiling fans; tables are laminated, and drinks are plentiful. The locals drink whiskey – at any time of day – with the ‘sookha’ dish of the day, which changes, depending on the catch – so it could be prawns or tisri, clams, sookha – prawns or clams with onion, chilli and coconut masala.

The other ‘dry’ dish I’ve grown to love is chaunak with recheio masala, fried with or without a batter of rawa – sooji in other parts and semolina in the rest of the world.

Chaunak is translated to rockfish, and must be a large fish, because the slices it is thinly cut into are big and boneless. Sometimes they serve kingfish, surmai, cut and cooked similarly. But I’m going too fast; these are sometimes just snacks; the entree is yet to come.

Within minutes of ordering, a steel thali is plonked on the table, fully loaded. Large enough to hold everything, it has some food placed directly on the thali, and some, the runny stuff, in small steel katoris. The size of the katori is irrelevant because you can ask for infinite refills, and I have, even of ‘expensive’ dishes like crabs and clams. Rice comes in a generous oval steel boat, and it’s local, short-grained and sweet. Salad – julienned cabbage, usually, the dry green veg, a roti and pickle are directly on the thali, with a slice of rawa-fried fish on the side. The hold the curries.

The best ‘fish thali’ place I went to, and am not permitted to name, on pain of exile, is on the road between Baga and Mapusa, had the additional kokum ‘soup’, strongly flavoured with garlic, with a tartness so mild that it could only have been imparted by kokum. Whenever I eat out, the moment I begin to consider what to order, I start to feel hungry. So when I drink that kokum and the edges to the appetite get sharper, I’m grateful the thali’s already there, sitting in front of me. There’s a pale orange curry, whitened and a bit grainy with coconut, which holds that day’s choice of fish.

The last time it was the claws of soft-shelled river crabs, which you could crunch and eat whole, shell and all. The flesh was sweet and tender, and the gentleness of the gravy was just right – not sharp and vinegary – to complement the crab meat. Once the vegetable was green beans lightly sauteed with shredded coconut, tender and delicate; and another, my favourite homey veggie, mooli and aag – radish and its leaves, chopped fine and barely cooked so that it was still crunchy. The pickle was rubbish – commercial tinned stuff – and, in any case, unnecessary.

The ‘dry’ fish on the side was once clams; but I’ve had ladyfish, the local fingerling; chaunak or surmai more often. These have a crisp coating, a crust, of semolina, but the fish itself is first rubbed with the red recheio paste.

Sometimes we verified which fish was part of the thali, and ordered a different one on the side, and then asked for it to be pan-fried without the semolina batter. Chaunak, which is best in any case, is particularly good without the coating – so the flaky, fresh fish can be enjoyed without distraction. Somnath, the perky young man waiting at our table, was sent to the kitchen again and again for wedges of fresh lemon, green chillies, more kokum, more crab curry, more mooli ka saag, more everything.

And it was heartening to walk in and find it full of obviously non-touristy locals. The only ‘outsiders’ I saw there were a middle aged European couple, eating soup, followed by bright turmeric-yellow French fries!

RECHEIO MASALA

   Makes 1 cup
— 20 dried chillies
— 4 cloves
— 20 cloves garlic
— 1 tsp cumin seeds
— 1/2 tsp peppercorns
— 2 inch piece cinnamon
— 1 tsp turmeric powder
— 2 tsp tamarind (imli) pulp
— Malt vinegar, about 1/2 cup
Grind all spices together, using vinegar to moisten.

Traditionally a stone ‘rogdo’ was used, but an electric grinder does the job. This spice paste can be stored for months in an airtight jar.Email: [email protected]




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