Sour grapes — that was my first response on sitting down to finally savour the Pondicherry Kitchen. It had such a welcoming glow about its spice-coloured cover. Here, I’d finally penetrate the mystique of the great Creole cuisine of India and segue my holiday fling into a lasting affair with my own stovetop. Soon, I would serve myself cold soups and curried salads, Tamoule-inflected sautés, saucier curries and French desserts with a soupçon of an Indian accent…
Imagine then my shock at cracking open this cookbook only to arrive at… cashew nut pakora (mundiri parupu bagoda) and brain kavapu! I hadn’t expected such preponderance of chutney (even if aubergine prawn) and kebab (though starring lamb chops). Whence these assads and vindalus, the masala game curry and Mughal-style brinj then? Among sadam and rasam and kujambu, the French heritage of Pondicherry appeared as mere garnish. There appeared a locavore’s rendition of gigot daube and mimosa muthaiy (eggs mimosa); but the lamb blanquette curry sat unapologetically alongside Malaya and Mossolman curries, and turkey kurma.
It seemed I was chewing the cud of my summer vacation memories too hard to notice that the subtitle simply read: ‘Traditional recipes from the Indo-French territory’. No promise that these would be dishes uniquely inspired by that connection. If ‘Pondicherry kitchen’ is mere window dressing, no French sauceuse worth her roux can argue with the egalitarianism of Lourdes Tirouvanziam-Louis’ interpretation of ‘traditional’.
The book does have a Putcherry roll (a roast) recipe from the 1930s, petits pâtés vernacularized with ghee and coriander leaves, a spiced mouton aux petits pois and lamb papilotte. I did find snake gourd and chana dal sauté (kadalaiy parupu podalangkaiy kootu) and chow chow sauce blanche. Also coq curry concocted with… aubergines; nary a cockerel in the chatti.
Hanging my head in shame — an editor has even less business misreading than a chef following a recipe — I went to prepare and eat humble porial (aka lamb fricassee), followed by the unfortunately named ghee balls. They weren’t a holiday on the tongue; but they will repeat very satisfyingly indeed. Burrrp!