The last time I took a date to a dhaba
Siddharth Srivastava
International Herald Tribune
NEW DELHI In India there is every kind of restaurant. But
none beats the dhaba experience.
Until recently I lived at Chanakyapuri, which is the
diplomatic area of New Delhi. Tucked a couple of kilometers
away from this high-security area is a popular dhaba called
the Rajinder da Dhaba.
There are several thousand fast-food stands like Rajinder's
all over India - along the highways, in little nooks and
crannies of big cities. The beat cops and municipal
authorities have to be kept happy by the owners, but they
come cheap. Sometimes a meal a day suffices. Anything for
dhaba chicken curry.
Traditionally, the dhabas are meant for truck drivers
looking for a break alongside highways. They offer cheap
food, music, open-air TV and a charpoy - a bed of jute
strings, a tad uncomfortable but the best ventilation given
the summer temperatures and erratic power here. Some of the
dhabas along the highways also provide girls who sing, dance
and do other things that are illegal.
But the ultimate turn-on is a blob of chicken leg in a bowl
of curry and butter, and tandoori rotis, a preparation of
wheat resembling pancakes on a sheet of newspaper, onions
sprinkled with pungent syrup and a liberal dose of Indian
masala (spices).
The government of Punjab, one of the wealthier states of
India, lists dhabas as an attraction worth a try by
tourists. Many a foreign visitor has gone away clutching
his/her stomach, given the heavy dose of masala and mustard
oil. But there's nothing more Indian. Also, there are no
social barriers here.
The crowd in Chanakyapuri, where I lived, despite
backgrounds in which hygiene was a very important
consideration, were regulars at the Rajinder dhaba.
I took a friend. I try not to form a general opinion based
on a single episode, but my advice is that a dhaba is not
the best place to date. Seema found the atmosphere a bit
overwhelming. She, if I may take the liberty, belonged to
the classes, not the masses.
To begin with, a comment on the ambience of the Rajinder
dhaba. Like most others, it includes buzzing flies, grime,
dogs and an envelope of fumes spewed by traffic whizzing
close by. The eating area is limited to a few rusted iron
tables fixed to the ground. The rest is open sky and the
charred interiors of the tandoor, a huge clay stove filled
with charcoal to roast the meat or prepare the rotis.
When we arrived at the Rajinder dhaba, everybody stared at
Seema.I heard her say "oh god" under her breath.
"Just taste the food, taste the food and see for yourself,
forget about anything else," I insisted.
As usual, the Rajinder dhaba was bustling. Opel Astras and
scooters, Cielos and motor cycles, truck drivers,
bureaucrats, diplomats, laborers and businessmen jostled for
the limited space to get their piece of chicken leg or
breast in white earthenware saucers. There's no etiquette,
no spoons. Sleeves rolled, heads bent, fingers dipped in
gravy, well-heeled gentlemen stood next to others wearing
almost nothing.
We chose a relatively empty table, and I went off to fetch a
plate of curry. From this short distance, I watched a burly
man settle his plate next to her and proceed to feverishly
devour his chicken.
He seemed a regular and guessed that the girl was in some
discomfort. Observing her skirt, he embarked on a loud
conversation with nobody in particular. With a liberal
use of Hindi expletives, he talked of a fight a couple of
days back that engulfed the dhaba. It started when
someone from one group spilled something on someone from
another group. Both the groups threw their curry at each
other, scalding skins.
"One person lost his eye," he man noted. He pointed at the
ground, which still carried stains of the battle - blood and
curry. When I came up with the chicken, Seema told me she
was about to faint.
I held her while a crowd gathered, some holding pieces of
tandoori chicken as if they were watching a film shoot.
"Make her smell a shoe, a shoe," a woman insisted.
A man in rags began to take his off.
"She will be fine," I stopped him.
"Lets get out of here," she murmured.
I have never been to a dhaba on a date again. But I still
slip in from time to time to grab hot and spicy chicken with
rotis on a worn out newspaper rag.
It's divine.
Siddharth Srivastava is a New Delhi-based journalist.