It's funny when friends get married and then you have the typical wedding post-mortem conversations. A friend of mine recently got back from his honeymoon, and we got chatting. Since both of us had fun weddings with zero politics, the big thing to discuss was the presents. One thing we had in common was the utter apathy of some present givers towards the present recipients.
Since he had four times the number of invitees, he was stuck with more presents (read more ugly presents). I have already macro-analysed mine many columns ago—what took the cake were two exceedingly ugly vases (one of which the cat thankfully broke and the other has been sent to the mother’s) and some random photo-frames, toilet kits, make-up, lamp shades, crockery and tea-sets (one of which was a toy set I’m quite sure, and gifted by mistake). I really think the time for the gift registry has arrived in India, and if someone doesn’t do something about it soon, I am going to turn entrepreneur for sure.
A common phenomenon at every wedding is gift defaulters—the ones who eat, shoot and leave, and don’t bother to bring anything, because they think no one is keeping tabs. But they are wrong, because weddings are all about lists and even excel sheets (yes!), and one is taking notes. So I know what you didn’t do, cheapskate!
I decided to get into the mind of the gifter and was surprised by how many types there were:
1. There are those who play safe (I find that sensible), decide what is the amount of cash you are worth, put it in an envelope, seal it, give it, and forget about it.
2. There are those who either think cash is impersonal or are embarrassed to let you know how much they think you are worth, so they ask you what you want. Better still, they take you shopping soon after.
3. Some will ask you what you want beforehand and get you exactly the thing.. hurrah!
4. Some will angle for a house invite, so they can check out what you don’t have and give you that. Except that you have to do the work.
5. Some will ask you what you want and get something totally different and make you wonder.
6. Some compulsive gift shoppers will spend hours hunting for the one thing you might like, personally gift-wrap it, and bring it (this populace is shrinking)
7. There are those who, for months after your wedding still keep telling you, “I still have to get you your wedding present,” and not do anything about it. They will also keep throwing possibilities at you, and even if you bite, nothing happens.
8. There are those who keep blaming you for never telling them what you wanted, and hence depriving them of the privilege of giving you a present.
9. There are the cheap recyclers who recycle something old, something they got at their wedding, wrap it back, and gift it to you. The clue to this is big packages. Bigger the package, more the chances of it being recycled.
10. And finally there are those who don’t gift, and don’t care.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Yes, I can
I never make new year resolutions, as I am usually quite resolved anyway, so there’s not much to fix (how boring). But this year, I have noticed that the cat has been displaying a great sense of purpose since the turn of the year. So I wonder if it has indeed made some resolutions. When I probed her in catspeak, here is what she shared (of course some of it may be offensive to human consumption and I recommend animal guidance):
1. I will not waste precious feline time on menials like crows, pigeons and other insects that come visiting.. instead I will focus on higher forms on Discovery channel and National Geographic.
2. I will hence, demand full viewing rights of the television when my flat-mates are at work, as I need something to recharge my batteries and can’t be bothered sleeping all day (much as they imagine I do)
3. I will practise my long jumps on the woman of the house instead of the man, as she has more resilience and notices the art in my sport. I will now jump lengthwise instead of breadthwise, as she’s not very long anyway.
4. I will fully express my sexuality by devouring all the men that stop by the house, especially the blue collared ones, as they smell so delectable, and are not usually scared of me.
5. I will make the most of every outing - random car rides, visits to the vet, to the lady’s mother (who is rather kind and huggable, but has two petrified cats who are too old for my taste) and the old man who I think fancies me.
6. As soon as I attain puberty, I will yank off this collar my flat-mates have bestowed upon me, and elope with the first able suitor.
7. I will insist upon fat-free chicken and organic fish, as I have to maintain my svelte form for such a suitor.
8. All alerts of human visitors’ have to be submitted 10 cat hours in advance, with a brief biography of said human, so that I can study its aesthetic quotient and ankle-delectability.
9. In case of animal visitors, I need a video shown to me at least one cat day in advance so I can gauge the stupidity quotient of said animal and tone down my brilliance accordingly, so that they don’t feel inferior.
10. I will demand full access to the fridge and the cupboard, where I need to retreat from time to time, just to collect my thoughts.
11. The man of the house will not treat electronic gadgets as his personal property. What is life without wires?
12. I will file a petition for animal abuse against the nincompoops who blast loud speakers every night and insist on singing (sometimes orating) in their ghastly voices.
13. I will not be asked again why I go for the lady’s nose. She is rather charming, but she needs a nose job, what can I say?
14. I will not have my flat-mates talk about me like I am not in the room.
Meooow! Time for my beauty nap.
1. I will not waste precious feline time on menials like crows, pigeons and other insects that come visiting.. instead I will focus on higher forms on Discovery channel and National Geographic.
2. I will hence, demand full viewing rights of the television when my flat-mates are at work, as I need something to recharge my batteries and can’t be bothered sleeping all day (much as they imagine I do)
3. I will practise my long jumps on the woman of the house instead of the man, as she has more resilience and notices the art in my sport. I will now jump lengthwise instead of breadthwise, as she’s not very long anyway.
4. I will fully express my sexuality by devouring all the men that stop by the house, especially the blue collared ones, as they smell so delectable, and are not usually scared of me.
5. I will make the most of every outing - random car rides, visits to the vet, to the lady’s mother (who is rather kind and huggable, but has two petrified cats who are too old for my taste) and the old man who I think fancies me.
6. As soon as I attain puberty, I will yank off this collar my flat-mates have bestowed upon me, and elope with the first able suitor.
7. I will insist upon fat-free chicken and organic fish, as I have to maintain my svelte form for such a suitor.
8. All alerts of human visitors’ have to be submitted 10 cat hours in advance, with a brief biography of said human, so that I can study its aesthetic quotient and ankle-delectability.
9. In case of animal visitors, I need a video shown to me at least one cat day in advance so I can gauge the stupidity quotient of said animal and tone down my brilliance accordingly, so that they don’t feel inferior.
10. I will demand full access to the fridge and the cupboard, where I need to retreat from time to time, just to collect my thoughts.
11. The man of the house will not treat electronic gadgets as his personal property. What is life without wires?
12. I will file a petition for animal abuse against the nincompoops who blast loud speakers every night and insist on singing (sometimes orating) in their ghastly voices.
13. I will not be asked again why I go for the lady’s nose. She is rather charming, but she needs a nose job, what can I say?
14. I will not have my flat-mates talk about me like I am not in the room.
Meooow! Time for my beauty nap.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Plan M
I don't know what it is about new year's eve that gets people into panic mode. Either you don't have a plan and are not happy about it, or you have plan A but would happily trade it for plan B. Point is, almost everyone is wondering if what they are doing is cool enough or they ought to do something else.
A month ago, the usual suspects declared with much bravado, "We don't really feel like doing anything this year," Turns out, most of them have fled the city by the time this article goes into print. So much for plan A.
Even so, I never ask people what they are doing for new years'. I just think it adds to the pressure, just in case they don't have a plan. Like I never do—I am best left at home with the felines, or in the company of close friends and a single malt, or any suitable beverage that works for all. But even in my absolute lack-of-new-year-spirithood, I have had some of the most amazing potluck parties on new year's eve in my singleton days—it was an open house for all those without a plan and with something to offer.
Now the dynamics have changed. I am married, and hosting a party has become tougher. The singletons don't want to come unless they have a date, or another plan to flash, and the married ones are a complete pain-in-the-ass to coordinate with.
I have almost always regretted venturing out and 'joining the gang' for a new year do, whether it was last year's Bombay Gym Bar Nite, or a few years ago at the Renaissance Powai, or many many years ago at Esselworld (yes!), taking those surreal rides post midnight.
The ones I remember enjoying were a midnight walk in the coffee plantations in Madikeri (Coorg) or a trek along Tulsi dam in the Borivili national park (yes, we had inner line access, courtesy a forest guard connection, I confess) . Clearly I am a child of the wilderness and the husband better come up with suitable plans in the coming years.
Last week, one of my (hitherto) cool single friends called to ask me, "So what plans for new year, babe?"
Since I don't have a day off (again!), and I don't want to blow up a month's salary doing Goa or Dubai or wherever it is everyone is going, I was just warming up to the idea of staying at home, playing board games with the husband, music on shuffle, a celebratory glass of wine and the cat nibbling my feet and other body parts. So I said, "Nothing. I am home."
Her response rattled me. "See, you have a plan already," she said. "When you have a man, you usually have a plan!"
Correction. When you have a man, you have one plan. When you are single, you have several. Actually, you are the plan.
Happy new year and all that!
A month ago, the usual suspects declared with much bravado, "We don't really feel like doing anything this year," Turns out, most of them have fled the city by the time this article goes into print. So much for plan A.
Even so, I never ask people what they are doing for new years'. I just think it adds to the pressure, just in case they don't have a plan. Like I never do—I am best left at home with the felines, or in the company of close friends and a single malt, or any suitable beverage that works for all. But even in my absolute lack-of-new-year-spirithood, I have had some of the most amazing potluck parties on new year's eve in my singleton days—it was an open house for all those without a plan and with something to offer.
Now the dynamics have changed. I am married, and hosting a party has become tougher. The singletons don't want to come unless they have a date, or another plan to flash, and the married ones are a complete pain-in-the-ass to coordinate with.
I have almost always regretted venturing out and 'joining the gang' for a new year do, whether it was last year's Bombay Gym Bar Nite, or a few years ago at the Renaissance Powai, or many many years ago at Esselworld (yes!), taking those surreal rides post midnight.
The ones I remember enjoying were a midnight walk in the coffee plantations in Madikeri (Coorg) or a trek along Tulsi dam in the Borivili national park (yes, we had inner line access, courtesy a forest guard connection, I confess) . Clearly I am a child of the wilderness and the husband better come up with suitable plans in the coming years.
Last week, one of my (hitherto) cool single friends called to ask me, "So what plans for new year, babe?"
Since I don't have a day off (again!), and I don't want to blow up a month's salary doing Goa or Dubai or wherever it is everyone is going, I was just warming up to the idea of staying at home, playing board games with the husband, music on shuffle, a celebratory glass of wine and the cat nibbling my feet and other body parts. So I said, "Nothing. I am home."
Her response rattled me. "See, you have a plan already," she said. "When you have a man, you usually have a plan!"
Correction. When you have a man, you have one plan. When you are single, you have several. Actually, you are the plan.
Happy new year and all that!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Men-who-pause
Okay, the title has been taken by a budding rock band, but it explains the subject of this blog the best, so with due respect to intellectual property, I am going to borrow it for a while.
The story is about men who stand still in the dating game somewhere after their mid 30s. Not that they really played the game earlier, but just that they feel they can now officially retire and allow life (read women) to happen to them. In fact I used to hang out regularly with two such men and the weird thing is, they actually thought I was one of them. Like I had paused too, and given up on romance, love and things that followed, and was perhaps the same shade of cynic as them. When I announced last year that I had found my man and was getting married, one of them turned a queer shade of purple.
Why? He said, plaintively.
Why not? I replied, bemused.
One had a legendary love story (my gut says it was one-sided) whose remnants lie somewhere in Australia. The other allegedly had a girlfriend, although in the five-six years of hanging out with him, I had never met her, but occasional references would be made to “Woman is coming over” or “Woman wants to meet” and other such. Till a common acquaintance told me she existed, I honestly thought she was fictitious. Anyway, at some stage, “woman” upped and left, perhaps irked by his lackadaisical approach or constant denial mode.
I still meet them occasionally, they still have the same peeves, they hate the same people, they hang out with the same randoms plus more randoms, and they have the same lack of initiative.
The fixit in me would suggest things like:
Want to go river-rafting?
No yaar, too much effort.
Want to join a salsa class?
I can’t dance, and don’t want to look silly..
Want to go wine tasting?
I am not really into wine yaar..
Want to come for a film appreciation workshop?
I hate watching movies that other people choose
Want to do brunch?
Would rather sack on a Sunday..
I feel like saying, “No wonder you are single, moron. You don’t put yourself out there. Where on earth are you going to meet the love of your life? She is not going to come waltzing into your office any given day. And since your building has no elevator, that’s ruled out too…”
So if the question is, “What is that point in singledom when you say enough is enough?” my answer would be “Never…” ( I know it sounds sexier when Brad Pitt says it to Julia Roberts somewhere in Mexico, but you get the drift)
The story is about men who stand still in the dating game somewhere after their mid 30s. Not that they really played the game earlier, but just that they feel they can now officially retire and allow life (read women) to happen to them. In fact I used to hang out regularly with two such men and the weird thing is, they actually thought I was one of them. Like I had paused too, and given up on romance, love and things that followed, and was perhaps the same shade of cynic as them. When I announced last year that I had found my man and was getting married, one of them turned a queer shade of purple.
Why? He said, plaintively.
Why not? I replied, bemused.
One had a legendary love story (my gut says it was one-sided) whose remnants lie somewhere in Australia. The other allegedly had a girlfriend, although in the five-six years of hanging out with him, I had never met her, but occasional references would be made to “Woman is coming over” or “Woman wants to meet” and other such. Till a common acquaintance told me she existed, I honestly thought she was fictitious. Anyway, at some stage, “woman” upped and left, perhaps irked by his lackadaisical approach or constant denial mode.
I still meet them occasionally, they still have the same peeves, they hate the same people, they hang out with the same randoms plus more randoms, and they have the same lack of initiative.
The fixit in me would suggest things like:
Want to go river-rafting?
No yaar, too much effort.
Want to join a salsa class?
I can’t dance, and don’t want to look silly..
Want to go wine tasting?
I am not really into wine yaar..
Want to come for a film appreciation workshop?
I hate watching movies that other people choose
Want to do brunch?
Would rather sack on a Sunday..
I feel like saying, “No wonder you are single, moron. You don’t put yourself out there. Where on earth are you going to meet the love of your life? She is not going to come waltzing into your office any given day. And since your building has no elevator, that’s ruled out too…”
So if the question is, “What is that point in singledom when you say enough is enough?” my answer would be “Never…” ( I know it sounds sexier when Brad Pitt says it to Julia Roberts somewhere in Mexico, but you get the drift)
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Delhi belles
Okay, at the cost of being accused of stereotyping, here is a subject that has always interested me. I have always wondered what it is about Delhi girls and Bombay? Why do Delhi girls love Bombay (boys included)? And why do Delhi boys hate Bombay (girls not included)?
Here’s my simplistic understanding of the situation:
Delhi girls love the way Bombay liberates them.
Delhi boys hate the way Bombay restricts them.
Delhi girls finally can be what they want to be in Bombay.
Delhi boys can never be what they want to be in Bombay.
Delhi girls love the Bombay guy’s lack of aggression.
Delhi boys love the Bombay girl’s lack of aggression.
Okay, some more. Delhi boys try to look for Delhi in Bombay and are pissed off—hot phulkas off the tava, gym next door, wide open ring roads, signals that can be broken, half dozen servants to order around, clubs where they know your daddy’s name… The Delhi girls on the other hand look for Bombay in Bombay and are pleasantly surprised. That about sums it up. Now for the gory details…
Feisty, well groomed, spirited and often loud, the quintessential Delhi girl is a treat to the laid back, not obviously ambitious, non-flashy, mostly grunge Bombay boy who is still unused to a package of aggression and beauty in the opposite sex. But when the picture perfect eyeliner and the well-ironed t-shirt coexists with an appetite for whisky with water, and a loud mouth, the result is something else. Delhi girls on their part love the fact that finally, they don’t have to shout to be heard (pun unintended).
As for Delhi boys in Bombay, they already come with such an excess baggage of testosterone, anger and insouciance that the Bombay girl with her nonchalance and cool tends to take the edge off it. Not to mention she is one girl who will never ask what car he drives on the first date and never make a face when he mentions a not-so-cool address. But since he for years has been under the “Beta, sweater pehen lo” cloud, something’s gotta give somewhere. Also, for him, the transition from, “Do you know who my father is?” to sounds of “What goes of your father?” is not a happy one. He feels emalsculated. But kudos to Delhi boys who survive the two-year acid test, because then they go on to adopt the city like no other.
In the meanwhile the lazy Bombay boy is happy to let the Delhi girl do the work. It’s only when it comes to the 1BHK-happily-ever-after situation that Delhi girls fully realise the impact of what has happened. Suddenly, they miss their phulkas and daddy’s big car and driver, their winter wardrobes and entourage too.
Win some, lose some.
Here’s my simplistic understanding of the situation:
Delhi girls love the way Bombay liberates them.
Delhi boys hate the way Bombay restricts them.
Delhi girls finally can be what they want to be in Bombay.
Delhi boys can never be what they want to be in Bombay.
Delhi girls love the Bombay guy’s lack of aggression.
Delhi boys love the Bombay girl’s lack of aggression.
Okay, some more. Delhi boys try to look for Delhi in Bombay and are pissed off—hot phulkas off the tava, gym next door, wide open ring roads, signals that can be broken, half dozen servants to order around, clubs where they know your daddy’s name… The Delhi girls on the other hand look for Bombay in Bombay and are pleasantly surprised. That about sums it up. Now for the gory details…
Feisty, well groomed, spirited and often loud, the quintessential Delhi girl is a treat to the laid back, not obviously ambitious, non-flashy, mostly grunge Bombay boy who is still unused to a package of aggression and beauty in the opposite sex. But when the picture perfect eyeliner and the well-ironed t-shirt coexists with an appetite for whisky with water, and a loud mouth, the result is something else. Delhi girls on their part love the fact that finally, they don’t have to shout to be heard (pun unintended).
As for Delhi boys in Bombay, they already come with such an excess baggage of testosterone, anger and insouciance that the Bombay girl with her nonchalance and cool tends to take the edge off it. Not to mention she is one girl who will never ask what car he drives on the first date and never make a face when he mentions a not-so-cool address. But since he for years has been under the “Beta, sweater pehen lo” cloud, something’s gotta give somewhere. Also, for him, the transition from, “Do you know who my father is?” to sounds of “What goes of your father?” is not a happy one. He feels emalsculated. But kudos to Delhi boys who survive the two-year acid test, because then they go on to adopt the city like no other.
In the meanwhile the lazy Bombay boy is happy to let the Delhi girl do the work. It’s only when it comes to the 1BHK-happily-ever-after situation that Delhi girls fully realise the impact of what has happened. Suddenly, they miss their phulkas and daddy’s big car and driver, their winter wardrobes and entourage too.
Win some, lose some.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
F.R.I.E.N.D.S
At a house party recently, I ran into someone I kind of knew a few years ago, at best as a work colleague, although there was a fair bit of random socializing involved. Since I don’t believe in making friends at work, and since our sensibilities were as different as chalk and cheese, I had unwittingly checked her off my list thereafter. However when we met this time, there still was residual warmth, and we kind of bonded. The husband asked me if we were friends, and I didn’t quite know the answer to that. “Not really,” I said. He was perplexed.
The problem with women—at least most of the ones I know, is that we have higher benchmarks in friendships compared to our male counterparts. The transition from acquaintance to friend takes a while, that from friend to close friend, or someone that forms part of your inner circle takes even longer, and that from close friend to best friend takes a lifetime, and usually never happens.
Men on the other hand have very low expectations. In fact they don’t even care if the friends never show up, except when it is convenient to them. Notice how easily they use the term “best friend” while you analyse to death even before you use it for someone you’ve known over two decades?
It’s quite simple for them:
Anybody you drinks the same beer as you is your friend.
Anyone who smses you is your friend.
Anyone who answers your sms is your friend.
Anyone who supports the same football team as you is your friend.
Anyone who loves making tequila shots is your friend.
Anyone who plays pool with you is your friend.
Anyone who shows up… anywhere is your friend.
It doesn’t matter if they never showed up at your wedding.
It doesn’t matter if they never called when your mother was in hospital.
It doesn’t matter if all they did was freeload off you, and never delivered when it came to their turn.
It doesn’t matter if they don’t know where you live.
It doesn’t matter if they don’t know your cat’s name. Or the fact that you have one.
It doesn’t matter if they got you into a financial mess and then threw their hands up.
It must be truly liberating to be a man.
I have several male friends who are never sure who will show up at their parties, so just to add numbers, they invite absolute randoms. On the contrary there are others who only hang with one or two select friends for years, decades, and are not embarrassed having a birthday party for four people. I totally get that.
Which is why, whenever there is talk of inviting people over, and we are down to a list, and the husband says, “Lets invite four or five extras in case people don’t show up,” I am amused. If you are a friend, you show up, there is no two ways about it, at least in my book.
May be if men invested as much emotion in their friendships as they did in their beers or football, they’d end up not so poor after all.
The problem with women—at least most of the ones I know, is that we have higher benchmarks in friendships compared to our male counterparts. The transition from acquaintance to friend takes a while, that from friend to close friend, or someone that forms part of your inner circle takes even longer, and that from close friend to best friend takes a lifetime, and usually never happens.
Men on the other hand have very low expectations. In fact they don’t even care if the friends never show up, except when it is convenient to them. Notice how easily they use the term “best friend” while you analyse to death even before you use it for someone you’ve known over two decades?
It’s quite simple for them:
Anybody you drinks the same beer as you is your friend.
Anyone who smses you is your friend.
Anyone who answers your sms is your friend.
Anyone who supports the same football team as you is your friend.
Anyone who loves making tequila shots is your friend.
Anyone who plays pool with you is your friend.
Anyone who shows up… anywhere is your friend.
It doesn’t matter if they never showed up at your wedding.
It doesn’t matter if they never called when your mother was in hospital.
It doesn’t matter if all they did was freeload off you, and never delivered when it came to their turn.
It doesn’t matter if they don’t know where you live.
It doesn’t matter if they don’t know your cat’s name. Or the fact that you have one.
It doesn’t matter if they got you into a financial mess and then threw their hands up.
It must be truly liberating to be a man.
I have several male friends who are never sure who will show up at their parties, so just to add numbers, they invite absolute randoms. On the contrary there are others who only hang with one or two select friends for years, decades, and are not embarrassed having a birthday party for four people. I totally get that.
Which is why, whenever there is talk of inviting people over, and we are down to a list, and the husband says, “Lets invite four or five extras in case people don’t show up,” I am amused. If you are a friend, you show up, there is no two ways about it, at least in my book.
May be if men invested as much emotion in their friendships as they did in their beers or football, they’d end up not so poor after all.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Bean there, done that
It must be hard to be innocuous.. and it must be harder to be innocuous, yet elegant. Being a vegetable is work enough, but one that is always the bridesmaid, never the bride perhaps deserves a special mention, or lets say, a critics’ award. So goes the tale of Phaseolus vulgaris, the common green beans, whose life is not half as exciting as its name threatens to be. The story of the string beans is kind of the story of the not-so-good-looking supporting actor, who has to meet very exacting standards if he ever has to stand on his own.
Not that it doesn’t happen. I have seen many a disaster south Indian meal—like a recent one at Banana Leaf (a south Indian restaurant on Juhu-Versova Link road desperate to please the north Indian) that is capable of being redeemed, just by getting their beans right. Many a sambar has been salvaged by the gentle intervention of the beans poriyal, and many a stir-fry has jumped a few notches higher just because the beans were at the right degree of crunchiness.
To me, a rasam rice with beans made the south Indian way together with papadaams rates very high in the list of soul food. So does a very English recipe where you just string them, simmer or steam them, and then toss with butter, salt and pepper.
The trick is to find them young, when they are tender and succulent, as you usually do this season. The test being, breaking them using your thumb and index finger—if they do so with zero resistance, they are a prize catch. If not, nothing can really uplift their existence. So bean it.
Mike's Tangy string beans
A quickie that even inept bachelor boys can whip up in no time—it's high on taste, low on performance pressure, and the perfect accompaniment to barbecues.
Ingredients:
Beans: 200 gm
Garlic: 3-4 cloves
Soya sauce
Salt to taste
Olive oil
Method:
String the beans, wash and drain. Keep them whole, unless very long, in which case you can break into two.
Now heat olive oil in a pan and sautee the chopped garlic.
Now add the beans and sautee on high flame for 2-3 minutes, and then on low for a minute. Add soya sauce and salt to taste, mix well.
Serve as a side and mop up the liquid with a baguette or good old pao.
Beans Soudi style
You can take a south Indian out of poriyal, but you can’t take poriyal out of a South Indian. Here is my dad’s recipe for not quite the poriyal, but a less elaborate version of it, which in my opinion ranks higher simply because of its coy quotient. Colour is of essence, so whatever you do, don’t mess with the green hue.
Ingredients:
Beans: 200 gm, chopped fine
Green chillies : two
Udid dal- one teaspoon
Mustard seeds – one teaspoon
Grated coconut (optional): one tablespoonful
Method
Heat oil in a kadai, add mustard seeds and when they splutter, add the udid dal, and fry till brown.
Now add the green chillies and the chopped beans, salt to taste, and toss.
Cook on slow fire, stirring occasionally, and preferably uncovered. You can add water if you feel the beans are sticking to the bottom of the pan.
The beans should still be a bit crunchy and very green when you are done, which should take 5-7 minutes. Switch off the gas, and garnish with grated coconut. Serve hot with sambar rice or rasam rice.
Not that it doesn’t happen. I have seen many a disaster south Indian meal—like a recent one at Banana Leaf (a south Indian restaurant on Juhu-Versova Link road desperate to please the north Indian) that is capable of being redeemed, just by getting their beans right. Many a sambar has been salvaged by the gentle intervention of the beans poriyal, and many a stir-fry has jumped a few notches higher just because the beans were at the right degree of crunchiness.
To me, a rasam rice with beans made the south Indian way together with papadaams rates very high in the list of soul food. So does a very English recipe where you just string them, simmer or steam them, and then toss with butter, salt and pepper.
The trick is to find them young, when they are tender and succulent, as you usually do this season. The test being, breaking them using your thumb and index finger—if they do so with zero resistance, they are a prize catch. If not, nothing can really uplift their existence. So bean it.
Mike's Tangy string beans
A quickie that even inept bachelor boys can whip up in no time—it's high on taste, low on performance pressure, and the perfect accompaniment to barbecues.
Ingredients:
Beans: 200 gm
Garlic: 3-4 cloves
Soya sauce
Salt to taste
Olive oil
Method:
String the beans, wash and drain. Keep them whole, unless very long, in which case you can break into two.
Now heat olive oil in a pan and sautee the chopped garlic.
Now add the beans and sautee on high flame for 2-3 minutes, and then on low for a minute. Add soya sauce and salt to taste, mix well.
Serve as a side and mop up the liquid with a baguette or good old pao.
Beans Soudi style
You can take a south Indian out of poriyal, but you can’t take poriyal out of a South Indian. Here is my dad’s recipe for not quite the poriyal, but a less elaborate version of it, which in my opinion ranks higher simply because of its coy quotient. Colour is of essence, so whatever you do, don’t mess with the green hue.
Ingredients:
Beans: 200 gm, chopped fine
Green chillies : two
Udid dal- one teaspoon
Mustard seeds – one teaspoon
Grated coconut (optional): one tablespoonful
Method
Heat oil in a kadai, add mustard seeds and when they splutter, add the udid dal, and fry till brown.
Now add the green chillies and the chopped beans, salt to taste, and toss.
Cook on slow fire, stirring occasionally, and preferably uncovered. You can add water if you feel the beans are sticking to the bottom of the pan.
The beans should still be a bit crunchy and very green when you are done, which should take 5-7 minutes. Switch off the gas, and garnish with grated coconut. Serve hot with sambar rice or rasam rice.
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