Shukto

Last year, in a burst of inspiration, I tried the Shukto for the very first time. I liked how the dish finally turned out (though I'm not sure how it would've gone down with Shukto purists, the Bengalis). A couple of weeks back, I came across the following article, written by a Bengali (Pronoti Datta), about the Bengali love for bitters (I don't mean the variety served with gin). The shuktos and the charcharis were mentioned in detail and so I thought this would be a good piece to put up on my blog. Do give it a read, its very interesting. For information, this was featured in Times Crest edition.

When bitter is better

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One Sunday, the day I usually cook, I prepared my first charchari. It's a mash up of various vegetables, cut in large cubes and flavoured with paanch phoron and a bit of mustard paste. I anxiously presented my creation to my grandmother, U. The charchari is after all one of the principles of Bengali cooking and praise from my grandmother is highly valued as it's strictly rationed. Effusive praise is out of the question. The charchari was examined - were the vegetables cut correctly (size is as important as taste), were sweet and savoury perfectly balanced and so on. The verdict was a stoic, "It's fine...But the true test of a cook is shukto. "

Many communities have unofficial litmus tests. Back in the day, I'm told, Gujarati girls had to roast papads before prospective mothers-inlaw. Apparently it's tough to evenly roast a papad without singeing it. Maharashtrian girls are judged by their puran polis. They have to be evenly rolled and delicately thin. A colleague's family that takes tea rather seriously - they drink about ten cups in two hours - values members who can make a perfect pot. The sleight of hand is in brewing the tea for as long as it takes for the milk to boil.

Now shukto is quite a fascinating item. It has a uniquely bitter taste that grows on you only as you get older. Most kids can't stand the taste and its slightly mushy texture. It was on my list of least favourite foods till fairly recently. In Hour of the Goddess: Memories of Women, Food and Ritual in Bengal, Chitrita Banerji remembers recoiling from shukto and other bitters such as neem leaves and karela as a child, notwithstanding her grandmother's theory that they are good for the liver, especially the livers of young girls.

Shukto is also an example of differences in the cuisines of East and West Bengal. And its recipe varies from household to household. I learnt this during a particularly stormy episode of cooking in the kitchen under the baton - or ladle - of our cook and resident cuckoo, B.

The dish usually has vegetables such as radish, plantain, broad beans, brinjal, drumsticks, potatoes, ridged gourd, raw papaya and bitter gourd. In our home, we dice the vegetables into small pieces. However others cut the ingredients into larger cubes. B was prepared to show me a version of shukto that my late grandfather preferred. He liked it without mustard paste as he had trouble digesting it. But before I began cooking, my grandmother entered the kitchen. "Shukto tastes much better cooked with mustard, " she said. B, who is prone to quick escalations of temper, was inflamed. "Baba liked my shukto. Are you saying it was bad?" "Of course not, " said U, serenely. "I'm simply saying it tastes better with mustard paste. " "For all these years, you've never let me cook shukto with mustard paste, " said B, as if she had been denied a fundamental right. It was a moment that spoke of how seriously Bengalis take food, and mustard. At that point, I injudiciously chose to interrupt. "None of us have digestion problems. Let's use mustard paste. " In response, B charged towards the fridge, took out a box of mustard paste and flung it across the kitchen counter.

Overcoming B's anger and two parallel commentaries - B complaining about our family and U holding forth on the regional variations of shukto - I cooked a Bangal (East Bengal) version of the dish. I tossed the vegetables into a phoron of mustard and methi seeds and bay leaves, added a bit of salt and turmeric. When the vegetables were soft, I threw in a spoon of mustard and a spoon of ginger paste, added sugar to even the taste and just before taking the kadai off the hob, a generous spoon of ghee. In this case, the shukto derived its bitter taste from the radish and the methi and mustard phoron. Unlike Ghotis (West Bengalis ), Bangals, U pointed out, don't usually add karela to shukto. There's another difference in the two cooking styles. Natives of West Bengal often add a dash of roasted paanch phoron when it's done. But even within the two styles there are many minor variations. The recipe of shukto in The Calcutta Cookbook calls for carom (ajwain) seed paste in addition to mustard paste, and a bit of milk that's added towards the end. Banerji's recipe has a seasoning of ground ginger, mustard and poppy seeds. The mustard and poppy paste is mixed with a bit of flour and water before being added to the vegetables.

At the end of the day, it's a fairly simple item to cook. What's the big deal then? In Heat, Bill Buford writes about travelling to Italy in search of good pasta. It's a simple thing to make, he discovers, but it's a simplicity that has to be learned. The same, I think, can be said of shukto.