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

Kolkata, monsoonal, dirty and terrifying. I had just arrived in India and was completely overwhelmed, but we’ve all heard this story a hundred times or more (mine’s here). As the days passed I realised I’d have to brave the stares, sun and mud if I was going to eat something worthwhile in this country. It started with a still-hot take away samosa, extravagantly spiced, wrapped in crisp short pastry and served in a used-newspaper baggy. Then some quickly downed cups of masala chai increased my confidence to levels appropriate to a sit-down breakfast.

A little stall at the end of my street was the target. Near empty in early morning sunlight I manage to order some potato curry and puris through interpretive dance, before realising that the cook speaks English. Hello a marked increase in unwanted attention. I’m focussed on the food. Chunks of tender potato, well cooked tomato and onion slivers swim in a thin sauce, simple and spiced. But the vegetables are really just an excuse for the puris. These deep-fried breads quickly became a reason to get out of bed in the morning. They are light but just greasy enough, chewy and flaky. So good that I ordered another round. The unsteady wooden bench was filling up around me and people stood in the shade eating their fill so I downed my chai and went exploring.

Puris ready to eat.

Breakfast #1:
Potato curry, 6 puri’s chai, 14rs (~$0.35AU)

Flurys

Just around the corner from the breakfast cart is an air conditioned temple of European-style pastry and desserts. A doorman polices who enters, while over-efficient uniformed waiters clear, deliver and direct operations. I am waved in immediately, seated and looking at a menu as easily as in Australia. Flurys opened in 1927 catering to Europeans and from the looks of the menu which includes cucumber sandwiches, Viennese coffee and Peach Melba, not much has changed.

Flurys is filled with moneyed, modern Indians and more than a few international tourists on the morning I visit. My rich, buttery croissant comes with real jam, not that fluorescent jelly gunk, but the coffee is that watery variety you get at the breakfast buffet in fancy hotels. The food is fine, the room comfortable and cool, but a gruff waiter rushes me, this is not a place to linger on a busy morning.

The cake selection at Flurys, the drawcard that makes this place famous, is enticing, but I don’t taste any, I’ve got a train to catch.

Breakfast #2:

Flurys
Croissant with jam, orange juice, coffee 195Rs (~$5AU)

I didn’t know it then, but my two Kolkatan breakfasts, plus the over priced coffee* from the nearby starbucksian barista describe a snippet of the story of modern India. Old and new, dirty and clean, Indian and international, poor and rich, all side by side and mixed up on top of one another. Despite difficulty and distress, I enjoyed breakfast number one much more. The food, ambience and experience were expansive compared to the stilted, sanitised, stuffy and stuck-up ponceyness of Flurys.

More photos of Kolkata on flickr.

* I gave up coffee after Kolkata.