Winter Warmers: Lasanyo Rotlo (Garlicky Pearl Millet Flatbreads)

Throughout the winter of 2014 I was in India on a clinical placement and, considering the mild winter we have been experiencing here in London, I can honestly say that our winters can be, at times, comparable. Especially so in the states situated more towards the north like Gujarat and Rajasthan, the latter of where I was finally forced to request an electric heater from the hotel reception after layers of socks, shawls, and clothing still had me shivering in my antique wood four-poster bed. Staying at a family home in Jamnagar I swear I could feel the cold in my bones at night, my nose and feet numb, since I was practically offered a charpoy set in the courtyard with just a mosquito net and a couple of thick blankets for company. For protection and sustenance during the colder months, warming and bulking foods have always been consumed as part of an essential winter diet on the Subcontinent, and this generally continues to be observed, at least among the older generation and the rural population who are known to adhere to long-standing Ayurvedic principles. Energy-rich pearl millet, or bājra, replaces wheat flour rotis, and are eaten with pungent pickles made sharp from the generous use of mustard and mustard oil. The heavy qualities of jaggery are appreciated over cooling sugar through moreish peanut and sesame brittle confectionaries, found in abundance during the cold season, and fiery garlic chives are added to everything for aromatic piquancy.

Cardigans and shawls in Rajasthan

 

Gujarati man taking a stroll on a sunny winter's morning

I was discussing such observations with the same friend that brought over the shrikhand, inspiring my post on yoghurt. She relayed to me that one of her favourite Rajasthani winter treats happens to be crumbled bājra roti mixed together with ghee and jaggery. In much of India these bread-based dishes are referred to as chūrma or chūrā (chūr literally means powder, but also indicates shredded and crumbled pieces of unleavened breads), and can be prepared as either a sweet or savoury instant snack with leftover roti. The recipe I am presenting today happens to be a favourite of Kathiawar, or so I have been informed. I had never heard of it before, having fiercely detested bājra roti as a child; it was too thick, too dry, and had an unpleasantly crude bitter and smoky flavour. In Jamnagar, I was served bājra rotis with a sweet and sour fruit pickle and spoonfuls of the richest, creamiest ghee I have ever had the pleasure of tasting. The ghee had solidified in the cold, and had to be scooped up with a piece of the thick, rigid roti. This combination was taken as a light supper, along with mung bean khichri, cumin potatoes cooked in a simple tomato sauce, and a cup of hot tea. And it was delightful.

Funnily enough, I did not come across lasanyo rotlo in Gujarat. Instead, my cousin introduced it to me while I was in unbearably hot Mumbai for a short while. She has always loved cooking and impressing guests with her eclectic repertoire. On this particular occasion we had plans to go shopping in Bandra, and my cousin wanted to rustle up something quick and easy, yet nutritious enough to last us until dinner. “Hey, Cheraaaaaagh!” she exclaimed. “Have you had lasanyo rotlo before?” When I said that I had never heard of it she declared that that was exactly what we would have for lunch. The maid was asked to prepare a handful of bājra rotis, before being sent to the market to pick up a bunch of garlic chives. “And make sure you come back with a fresh, fat bunch! If you dare return with a withered yellow bunch like last time I’ll send you right back,” my cousin shouted after her. 

My sister was summoned to the kitchen and instructed to proceed crumbling the rotis. I was not looking forward to lunch, especially with it being centred on bājra, and must have been in a strop of sorts after my own suggestion for lunch was rejected. My cousin kept insisting I join them in the kitchen to observe, but I persistently found some excuse to keep away. Lunch was ready in a flash and, as she snapped at the maid to prepare a jug of lassi right away, my cousin brought a large serving bowl to the table. Upon lifting the lid, the tantalising aroma of garlic and coriander wafted towards me and started to make my mouth water. She served me a generous portion of what essentially looked like toasted breadcrumbs flecked with the brilliant green of freshly chopped herbs. “What do I eat this with?” I enquired. “You eat it just like that!” came the irritated response. And then, a little gently, “But you have it with lassi, otherwise it will feel too dry and heavy.”

I remember finding it weird at first, almost like eating a bowl of cereal without milk. But then the textures and flavours started to mingle and sing: soft and chewy with crunchy crusty bits, strong with garlic and onion flavours, and a deep earthy note, possibly cumin or asafoetida. Every now and then, you caught a tiny bit of green chilli to shake things up, and it was all washed down with silky smooth, creamy lassi. It was definitely a very filling meal for something that took such little time and effort to prepare, notwithstanding the dear maid.

The Ayurvedic view of winter is that the colder months provide increased energy and digestive power; it is the best time for growth and muscle development, and the time to take rejuvenative herbs along with food items that are high in fat and protein, and those that have just come into season. It is also a time to increase the consumption of unctuous and heavy substances; oils and butters to help moisturise the skin, rich comfort foods for sustenance.

Bājra is considered astringent and sweet in taste, with drying and heavy qualities, and a heating potency. As a result, it balances kapha and vata, and increases strength in the body. Because it can be difficult to digest, bājra is preffered to be eaten in the colder months, when our digestion is strongest; our digestive fires burning more effectively from the heat generated to counter the cold. It is recommended for metabolic disorders, obesity and weight gain, and to alleviate feeling cold. It also serves as a heart tonic. To assist the body during vata and kapha-dominant seasons like winter and spring, bājra works by virtue of its increased fibre content, encouraging the elimination of toxins, and for providing the extra energy required when exercising.

Pearl millet has the highest protein content of any grain, and that too with a balanced amino acid profile. Though it is a high-energy food, it contains fewer carbohydrates and more fat per 100 grams than what is found in both wheat and rice, which is specifically why the north-western states of India traditionally prefer bājra during the colder months. Pearl millet also contains twice the amount of iron than whole wheat, and more fibre than both wheat and rice. The consumption of pearl millet has been shown to greatly benefit those with Type 2 diabetes, as it has a low glycemic index. It has been found to inhibit the development of malignant breast tumours and colon cancer cells. Because it contains beneficial amounts of such essential nutrients as B vitamins, potassium, magnesium, and zinc, the inclusion of pearl millet in your diet can assist in maintaining a healthy heart and reducing the risk of such metabolic disorders as high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and weight gain. It is also a gluten free grain.

Bājra rotis tend to be on the dry side, which is why they are often served with lashings of ghee or butter, and eaten with lassi or a cup of tea. In this recipe, the crumbs are fried in a generous amount of ghee to not only encourage bulk and lubrication in the body during the cold, dry months, but to also give the dish its wonderful crisp and chewy texture.

If garlic chives are not available, I just use regular chives or spring onion along with finely chopped garlic. This way, you still get that satisfying vegetal crunch and the welcome aromatic pepperiness of garlic.

Lasanyo Rotlo

(serves 2)

Ingredients:

150g (1 cup) Bajra Flour (pearl millet flour)

2 Tbls Whole Wheat (Chappati) Flour, plus extra for rolling

½ tsp Salt

½ tsp Carom Seeds (optional)

2-4 Tbls Ghee or Unsalted Butter

½ tsp Cumin Seeds

1 pinch Asafoetida

1-3 Green Chillies, finely chopped (or cut in half for less heat)

100g Garlic Chives (or Spring Onions), finely chopped

3 cloves Garlic, finely minced

Salt

Large handful of Coriander or Parsley, roughly chopped

·  First prepare the rotis by adding the two flours, salt, and carom seeds to a bowl and mixing well.

·  Gradually add about 120ml (around ½ a cup) of warm water to the flour mixture and knead to a stiff but pliable dough. Cover with a damp cloth and leave aside for 5-10 minutes.

·  Heat a skillet or frying pan over a medium-low heat. To make the rotis, divide the dough into four equal balls, and roll out into ½-inch thick rounds with the help of a dusting of chappati flour. Sometimes it helps to use cling film to roll out these rotis as the lack of gluten makes them rather sticky and fragile, and a bit of a challenge to roll out.

·  Place on the frying pan and cook until faint bubbles start to appear on the surface of the roti. Turn over and cook the other side, gently pressing down with a spatula or such implement to ensure even cooking. Repeat on the other side as necessary. Stack the rotis on a plate and smear with ghee or butter if desired.

·  Once cool enough, break the rotis into pieces and place into a food processor. Pulse the pieces to make rough breadcrumbs. In Indian homes, this process is meticulously done by hand, pinching the rotis to a coarse crumble.

·  In a heavy-bottom pan, heat the ghee over a medium flame, and add the cumin seeds. Once they darken and start to sizzle add the asafoetida, allowing to cook for a few seconds. Tip in the garlic chives (or chives / spring onion), the garlic, and the chilli, and stir fry for about 20 seconds, or until that raw smell of garlic just begins to cook out.

· Immediately tip in the breadcrumbs and salt. Increase the heat, stir frying and pressing the breadcrumbs to the bottom of the pan from time to time in order to catch and crisp up. Continue this for 2 to 4 minutes, until a warming, toasty smell begins to rise, and sprinkle generously with chopped herbs for added succulence and freshness.

·  Serve hot with a tall glass of cold salted lassi, or any available yoghurt drink. I tend to accompany this dish with spiced roasted aubergines for a complete meal; one of my favourite winter comfort foods.

Lusophilia: Lisboa, te amo!

Fado na Alfama, by Markus Lüske

I recently returned from a week in Lisbon. The holiday was an incredibly thoughtful birthday gift from a friend, as I have always had an unusual passion and interest for all things Luso. As young children, my parents took my sister and me on our first holiday to the Algarve. I cannot say what it was about the country and its wonderful people, but subsequently, I chose to do my first memorable school project on Portugal. In my late teens, I developed a taste for Brazilian electronic music, a deep enthusiasm for such artists as Suba, Cibelle, Fernanda Porto, and Céu, then branching out to baile funk music and Angolan kuduro, the latter genres being introduced to the international mainstream by Diplo and M.I.A. I loved Maria Rita, Bebel Gilberto, and Mylene Pires, and owned all the latest bossa nova compilations of both João and Astrud Gilberto, and Stan Getz. I discovered the intense beauty of Portuguese fado. It was from a desperate desire to understand Cibelle’s poetry and identify with Amália Rodrigues’ longing that I sought out a Portuguese language teacher in Neasden.

The music of my youth

My friend and I debated for a while over which part of Lisbon we should stay at, and upon learning of its status as the birthplace of fado, my friend opted for history and culture over nightlife, and booked a bijou apartment in Alfama. The eccentric owner of the flat, Maria, met us outside Santa Apolónia railway station on the Tuesday evening that we landed. She proceeded to guide us down Rua Jardim do Tobaco, and began relaying amusing anecdotes about previous guests, the neighbourhood, and her colourful personal life with gusto and an air of effervescence. As we followed her across the road opposite the Museu do Fado, we passed through a small public square to enter Alfama’s archetypal labyrinth of steep and winding, narrow streets. By the time we had ascended the first couple of cobblestone inclines and were tackling the first set of steps, Maria was already out of breath, her gravelly voice wheezing and panting between sentences. A few more turns and steps later, we had stopped outside a tall terraced house. Maria reached her hand through an open panel in the door to release the lock, assuring us that this was the only way to enter the building. A rather steep and narrow wooden staircase led to our room on the top floor, and it took another good fifteen to twenty minutes of Maria nattering before we were finally alone.

It was, by then, after 10 o’clock in the evening, and we needed to find something to eat. So we set off into the streets of our new neighbourhood and settled for an al fresco dinner at the first open restaurant that we came across, situated on a cobblestone side street. A fado performance went on in a small square behind us as we picked on pastéis de bacalhau and olives, awaiting our meals. We had ordered a jug of wine and, when our food finally arrived, my friend began to wax lyrical about his grilled sardines and boiled potatoes. I had initially found my own dish of bacalhau à bras to be quite bland, almost like a fish khichri of sorts. It was made up of shredded salted codfish cooked with sliced onions and strips of fried potato. But I soon began to appreciate the subtle flavours and textures, almost as much as conversing with the Nepalese waiters, speaking both in Hindi and in broken Nepali.

The next morning was, for me, unbearably hot; during our stay the temperature refused to dip below 28°C. I had stupidly forgotten to pack my Kolhapuri slippers, and did not bring anything in the way of summer clothing. Desperate to get some airflow going, I was suddenly captivated at the east-facing window. The view was like a scene from a postcard. The terracotta tiles of Alfama’s rooftops blazed red before me, only to be offset by the brilliant white of the buildings they enveloped. To the left stood the serene Igreja de Santo Estêvão, and ahead a vast stretch of sea blue, almost like facing the edge of the earth: the celebrated Tagus river. 

View of Alfama from the Miradouro das Portas do Sol 

I stood there for a moment, the sun’s rays hitting my chest, breathing in Lisbon’s sweet air, taking in the beauty. After we had showered and got dressed, we set off for a pastry shop nearby that Maria had recommended in order to sample the famous Portuguese pastéis de nata for breakfast. Something about the narrow streets and the heat of the day reminded me of India, of Old Delhi and my walks around Jamnagar during the afternoon siesta. Of course, Alfama was nowhere near as busy and crowded as any Indian locality, but the clothes hanging to dry outside people’s front doors, the small square windows looking into quaint home kitchens, and the camaraderie between its residents; these little things caught my attention, reminding me of neighbourhoods in India.

A fruit stall in Alfama on the left, and a fruit seller in Rajkot, Gujarat, on the right

Front doors in Portugal and in Gujarat

Neighbours socialising in the streets

Many of the houses and buildings throughout the city itself were tiled with striking ceramic tile work known as Azulejos, an influence bestowed by the earlier Muslim inhabitants of Iberia. This too corresponded to what I had seen in Northern India, similar geometric shapes and floral motives adorning the grand buildings of the Mughal elite and the old towns. The many churches too were, quite naturally, of a similar design to the churches I saw in Diu, a former Portuguese colony until only 1961, just south of the Saurashtra region of Gujarat. In fact, the Igreja de Santo António de Lisboa, which stood close by at the bottom of our street in Alfama, made me think back to my visit to the Church of St. Paul in Diu.

The Church of St. Anthony in Alfama on the left, and the magnificent Church of St. Paul in Diu on the right

We decided to walk to the Castelo de São Jorge, not too far from our apartment. Trundling up the steep steps of Beco de Santa Helena, we found that we had come face to face with the Cerca Velha, or the medieval Old Wall, and a bustling street bearing an imposing statue of São Vicente stood opposite the Museum of Decorative Arts. Following the tram tracks, we explored the town on our way to the castle, getting lost many a time along the way, discovering local life, walls decorated with bold graffiti, and more tiled buildings. The castle itself and the surrounding grounds also reminded me of Diu and its fort, while its structure and impressive size has similarities to the forts of Jaipur, albeit on a much less intricate and aesthetically refined scale. The amount of walking and the heat of the day saw us finally retiring at our starting point, the Miradouro das Portas do Sol. With a spectacular view of Alfama before us, we sat at a table on a vast balcony, the largest balloon glass of gin and tonic I had ever encountered, and a bottle of ice-cold champagne between us.

A tiled building in downtown Alfama

The Lisbon Cathedral on the top row with its Romanesque entrance, and the Mahabat Maqbara of Judagadh, Gujarat, below with its Gothic French windows: both buildings showcase an amalgamation of various Eastern and Western architectural influences.

For many nights, we longed to observe a live fado performance. Earlier on in the week my friend and I resolved to have dinner at the Museo do Fado restaurant, opting for a table outside after being encouraged by the balmy weather and the throng of patrons enjoying drinks and conversation outside the restaurant. It was only after the chatty and beautiful waitress had brought us a basket of bread accompanied by garlic butter, olive tapenade, creamy farmer’s goats cheese with a home made fig conserve, and an octopus relish as appetisers, that we noticed everyone beginning to take their seats inside the building in anticipation of the performances. We made up for our dismay by getting absolutely slaughtered bar hopping across Bairro Alto later that night, and ending up at a live jazz bar where I was allowed to smoke indoors and where I had my first taste of luscious ginjinha.

Ginjinha (Source)

One night, after visiting the Sé Cathedral, sauntering around the vicinity of the striking lemon and white Praça do Comércio, and dining at a pizza restaurant for a change from seafood, we sat down at a fado restaurant for dessert and ginjinha just in time for their late night performances. We had stopped here earlier to refresh ourselves with lime juice, and had got chatting to one of the waitresses. She had enquired if we liked music, and that she and her husband were both singers, that we should come and watch them perform that evening. The maître d’, a pushy mature lady with a honey-blonde beehive, brought over my chocolate mousse and a tiny glass of ginjinha just as the first performance commenced. A trio of men started tuning their elegant and striking Portuguese guitars, like noblemen training oriental crested pheasants; they introduced the performance with a couple of songs. Then, a tall and graceful woman in a coral strapless silk dress and a black lace stole joined the guitarists. She was incredibly beautiful and refined in appearance, with her dark hair tied into a neat bun, a precise flick of eyeliner framing her sparkling green eyes, and alluring scarlet lips that seemed to be set in a placid smile.

I took a spoonful of the chocolate mousse and sipped on the ginjinha. The rich, dense mousse coated my mouth in a blanket of bittersweet bliss, followed by the intense sour cherry liqueur: deep and luxurious, syrupy, burning my throat and chest. The fadista began to sing. Her voice was crystal clear and slightly high pitched. She moved and sang perfectly, her actions and eyes matching the mood of the song; one slightly jovial, the next more melancholy. The restaurant was lit with candles, and a warm pink glow had settled on everything, the strapping guitarists, the doll-like singer, the glasses of alcohol, and the mesmerised faces of the seated diners. It may have been the ginjinha, but I was starting to feel very warm. The performance ended to wild applause, and I went to pay for our bill. Behind the bar, washing dishes in the kitchen, I spotted the waitress from earlier. She caught my eye and managed to wave. I told her that we had been waiting to hear her sing, that we had come especially for that reason at her own request. She appeared hesitant for a moment. Then she lifted her index finger and came to the bar. “Let me speak to my boss,” she told me. Perhaps she could organise something. I ordered another round of ginjinha and returned to my table. The guitarists looked as though they were set to head home, and I could see the waitress almost pleading with the maître d’. Finally, the guitarists returned to their places and began to play as one of the men sang to warm up. The waitress entered the performance space and began whispering with the guitarists nervously. With a song decided upon, the soul stirring strumming commenced. Out of nowhere, a powerful and slightly husky voice boomed across the room. As she found her feet, the waitress’ voice oozed from the depths of her very core out through her mouth. The honeyed words trickled like heavy but reluctant tears onto the audience, the words of sadness and longing, of love lost and better days. She looked as though she was breaking down, the microphone bearing her frustration, her feet stamping on the tiled floor. And then, once the performance was over the agony on her face disappeared, and the awkwardness and nerves returned in contemplation of the next song.

The night at the restaurant with the waitress

That night I was blown away. The two performers had such different styles, personalities, and performance deliveries. Where the first singer stood with poise and cool confidence, her vocals precise with a restrained playfulness, the waitress displayed humility and a sweet charm, desperation to some minute extent, whilst her singing alluded to personal loss and suffering. It was like watching a film, one of those old Indian films set in a brothel or a royal palace, where you view the lives of two artistes of different social classes and levels of expertise, and their journeys through love and privilege. Being lucky enough to observe a few more fado performances throughout my stay, including one where a spirited and amiable group of elderly friends took turns on the stage, they made me think of the old mehfils and mujras of Mughal India, so lavishly portrayed in art and media. The old friends reminded me of my family around the time I was born, when my grandfather would invite his pals over and they would all sit on worn Persian rugs and fraying bolsters playing musical instruments and arguing over the melody and lyrics of film songs and ghazals. Each of my aunts would be roped into singing as the remaining guests and family members would sip on tea and graze on snacks, mothers cradling their sleeping children in their laps. Of course, the history and social practices of mehfils and fado are not comparable, but the passion in the performers, the sense of desolation present in the florid lyrics, and most importantly the emotions these performances stir up, the bringing together of souls through music, this is the common ground I found between the musical performances of Northern India and Lisbon.

There is so much more to share about my trip to Portugal, including visiting the fairytale castles of pastel-coloured Sintra, reminiscent of my idea of South India merging with an aristocratic colonial hill station, and the historical municipality of Belém. Visiting Lisbon made me feel strangely at home. Perhaps understanding the language helps in familiarising yourself with a place, adding to that my keen interest in the country, but it felt like I was simply revisiting a part of my past with new eyes. Alfama itself was magical, and we left its sweet old ladies and captivating fadistas, its crumbling brickwork and glazed azulejo tiles, and its magnificent churches and hole in the wall ginjinha bars in the early hours of the morning. That night was the night of the total lunar eclipse and the Super Blood Moon. As my friend caught a couple hours of kip in preparation for the early flight, I stood at the window admiring the reflection of the brilliant full moon on the Tagus River. As the hours passed, the moon began to disappear and surge higher into sky, making me stretch my body further through the window. Around 2.30am we pulled our suitcases as silently as we could across the cobblestones of Alfama. One or two astronomy types were out with their telescopes and cameras, a truly surreal sight in the old world surroundings of the town. I looked up as we approached Santa Apolónia railway station, and I saw the luminous garnet moon watching over me. It bid me farewell, following me all the way in the taxi to the airport.