Samosas

I took the samosa tour of northern India. There were plenty of other treats on my (leaf) plate but the unassuming samosa quickly became my default snack. They were recognisable, self-contained and incredibly satisfying. I ate them when everything else was too difficult, too fly blown and when it was just too hot for a proper sit down meal. I ate them plain or with coriander chutney, standing or perched on rickety benches chased with a sweet hot masala chai.

Udaipur, lake city and the most romantic place in India, supposedly. It is a pretty tourist town, empty in the off season when I visit. Pre-monsoon the lake has dried up, guesthouses are being renovated and tourist restaurants are closed. The touts seem resigned to the slow period and make friends with the few tourists in town instead of pushing the hard sell. The only way I can handle the heat here is to get up and out early then hibernate under a fan for most of the day. One morning up I’m up early, rejoicing in the cool and quiet and have wandered far from tourist-ville when hunger strikes.

Everyone here wants a piece of the walking wallet, so politely declining offers is my default position. I pass this chai stall which is filled with men sitting on stoops and windowsills but an enormous rubbish pile and searing sunlight further up the road force me back. The kindly limping chai maker (first picture) ushers me to an empty space on the only bench seat and brings me some rejuvenating spiced chai and an unadorned samosa. Fried until the wrapping is extra crisp but retains some pleasing chewiness where the folds are. Chilli, turmeric and coriander seeds, amongst other things, flavour the mashed potato filling.

I watch the old samosa maker calmly folding one pastry after another. He chats with a friend and smiles at my determined attention. A break in the conversation allows me to ask a question, which the friend translates, badly. The pastry is rolled into circles, then cut in half. He first wets the edges of the half moon, then forms a cone shape, pressing the edges together. A small ball of potato filling is pressed into the cavity, the edges are wet again before the being folded in and sealed into a bloated triangle. A touch of flour on the base absorbs the excess water and prevents the pastry from going soggy and sticking.

I’m sure they found my interest laughable, but I was fascinated by the process and impressed by the ease with which this old man performed his job, totally different to my experience of food preparation in Australia. I took a few photos, and ordered another round.

2x chai and 2x samosa 16rs (about 40 Australian cents)

More photos from Udaipur