Mumbai

There are many ways to get to know new cities. You can even become acquainted with foreign places through their food. In the immigrants’ city of Mumbai this is exceptionally fascinating, as are some ways of distributing meals.

Finally! I am so proud. After two weeks, I have the moves down. I can break up fluffy white chapatti bread with one hand, without using my left, and scoop up daal, delicious lentil mush, to eat one of my new favourite foods. There are, unfortunately, far too many of them. Indians eat with their right hand because the left is considered unclean. But, that’s another story having something to do with toilet customs and so has no place in an article about food.

Previously I was once very close to what we in Central Europe call Indian food, or so I thought. Not in an Indian restaurant in Stuttgart, but on Brick Lane in London, where some Indians and Pakistani posing as Indians dragged us into their curry restaurants. Today, I know there is no such thing as “Indian” food. Now I am in Mumbai, smack-dab in the culinary melting pot. Every city has its own flavours and odours and in Mumbai they are in excess. Every day, thousands of people immigrate to the Maximum City from all corners of the subcontinent. They come from the north, the south, from Goa, from Rajasthan and everywhere. That is what makes the food in Mumbai so fascinating. It is a conglomeration of a diverse array of traditions. It is as if you would get Palatinate, Franconian, Bavarian and Hanseatic specialities in Stuttgart and then divide them up into various confessions. The dishes in Mumbai are filled with what the people have brought along with them from everywhere else.

We are sitting in the New Martin, an establishment not much bigger than Udo Snack. The queue outside the door is getting longer and longer. None of the tourists stray here, only the Mumbaikar who order specialities from Goa. No meal costs more than 1.50 euros. We order Chicken Vindaloo and Pork Sorpotel. The little sausages from Goa that were recommended to me are sold out. The pork tastes a little like our goulash and is scooped up on rolls, like so much food here.

There are all kinds of bread varieties that I’ve never heard of before like roti, papap, puri and naan. But my favourite is chapatti. It’s good with anything, for instance with thali, yet another speciality served in little bowls. It is available in various flavours and, for us Europeans, in various grades of hotness. There is even a light Ayurvedic variation, because the Mumbaikar also are becoming increasingly health conscious.

The cityscape is also characterized by street vendors and, of course, everyone warns against them. Mumbai’s people are electrified; everyone is rushing to and fro. The stuff offered at the potholed street corners is really fast food; a quick meal eaten out of the hand at cheap prices. One true speciality is called vada pav, a sort of deep-fried mashed potato that is pressed into a roll. The price was raised awhile back by two rupees (from eight to ten) because of inflation, which really disgruntled the Mumbaikar. The other top seller is pav bahij, for which a mixture of potatoes, chillies and tomatoes are smeared onto white bread. These specialities were all brought here by the hardworking rural population and were never, naturally, part of a fashion magazine diet plan. Neither is dosa, a wafer-thin, crispy pancake that can be filled with potatoes or cheese and tastes a little of caramel. It is eaten with coconut chutney, which I first mistook for horseradish. Scrumptious! But, one of the best refreshments in the humid afternoon heat was a plain, freshly sliced cucumber strewn with masala, a hot blend of chilli and salt.

Another phenomenon can be observed about noon round about Churchgate station: the dabbawallas, who can really only be seen in Mumbai. The men carry long containers on their heads in which countless tin cans are lined up. These are then arranged on the ground using an incomprehensible system of numbers and colours so they can be further transported. This is how approximately 200,000 meals cooked in the morning at home by wives in Mumbai find their way to their husband’s offices. The error quota is said to be trivial, only one false delivery out of 16,000,000. Even Richard Branson thought this was so remarkable that he studied the dabbawallas’ system. For the employees in the city, it is cheaper than getting fast food from next door and it’s still the best you can get: a home-cooked meal.

Hardly anyone, though, cooks their own meals nowadays in Mumbai – at least not in the aspiring middle class and upwards. They have their food cooked for them. Depending on their religious confession, food at home is either vegetarian, no pork or everything. One day a co-worker (a Catholic) brought ox tongue to the office in a Tupperware bowl as an afternoon snack that hardly any of the employees – with the exception of the vegetarian (Jaina) – left untouched.

In Mumbai, however, not only the national specialities and those of the various religions are served. In addition to Parsee, Gujarati and Malani, you can also get Iranian, Lebanese, Italian, Mexican, American and Chinese food. This is demonstrated by wonderful dim sums and crispy, sizzling Chicken Teriyaki. The fact is that I never ate such good Chinese food in Germany as I have in India.