Come winter and there is marriage in the air. There are the marriage parties that have to be attended to remain sociable. Though not unsocial by nature, I was quite horrified to discover how positively derisive I had become of the food that is served at these large social gatherings. I had never in my life aspired to be a snob. But drag me one more day to this spread of Dal-Makhani, Veg Manchurian, Gobhi Adraki, Baked vegetables - to be replaced by Tawa vegetables in winter, Paneer Lawabdar, Nav-ratan Pulao, Chowmein, nondescript chicken or mutton dishes named Rogan Josh or Pasanda or Begum-bahar, naan or tandoori rotis, followed by Gulab Jamun and vanilla ice cream with a spoon of chocolate sauce - and I promise to walk out of my sixth-floor balcony - eyes closed - hands spreadeagled – into thin air - straight down to Mother Earth - no regrets! Though not one with a sweet tooth, five years back I would at least look forward to the Jalebis with Malai or Gajar ki Halwa in winter. But now – the predictability has killed the cat in me and I can walk past the sweet counter without casting a glance.
That I am also positively scared of my 50 (+/-) enthusiastic teetotaler friends with their parlor-fresh backs in back-less cholis dancing madly elegantly to the tunes of “Lungi Dance” or “Char botol Vodka” or “Saturday Saturday”- just adds to the problem. I have a dozen left-feet. I can’t dance. I could never dance. And there is no way you can drag my copious self to the ubiquitous floor today - no not even the gyroscopic lights nor the handsome DJ can do that dear friend! Apologies to my host if I appear to be less participative than what you had imagined I would be from my ebullient self in office. I am also mad at my colleagues who conveniently avoid me on these occasions and gang up with Black Label or Antiquity in their hands discussing the Director or the CEO, the Chief-Minister or the Prime-Minister, Mangalayan or genetically-modified BT Baigan till their wives call them to help feed the young brats. The sole motivation to attend these parties has boiled down to the fact that they offer a venue to exhibit the latest handloom acquisition and acquire a bit of the latest campus gossip.
Of course I am talking of middle-class affairs - not the ones where loads and loads of money are spent to make the events “memorable and different”. And so – I was quite impressed when a reception party thrown by an ex-colleague on the occasion of his son’s marriage had a distinctly different touch despite its sobriety. The sprawling lawns of Delhi Gymkhana Club were very tastefully decorated with white and muted Rajasthani urns and vases. The snacks, which are the only unpredictable items of a party, were okay other than the crispy Paneer fritters with sesame – ostentatiously named as Thai Paneer – which were rather good.
The dinner table was where the real surprise awaited us. Amidst the usual fare of sprouts, beans and other assorted greens – next to the pristine Dahi-vadas there was the name of the caterer – Kwality Caterer. For me the name Kwality conjures up magic. The rare ice creams that were an integral part of childhood pleasures symbolized the ultimate object of desire - its rarity only adding to its allure. The dreamy creamy spoons of the pink-and-white Two-in-one Vanilla-Strawberry Combo ice creams not only tingled the parched throats – they transferred me to the fairy-land where time stood still with the promise of living happily ever-after. Of the very few eateries that could be considered as a Restaurant in that small steel township of Durgapur – one was Kwality. The excitement of eating out was so over-powering that I can still remember the flavor and texture of the rich North Indian food though not any specific names. As it so happens even when I moved out of Durgapur, Kwality continued to play an important role in my life. For four long years, the Kwality restaurant at Ballygunje Phari not only served as a refuge on rainy Kolkata evenings for two souls in distress, but it also happened to be my first introduction to exotic names like Prawn Cocktail, Chicken Al-la-Kiev or Fish mayonnaise. With a princely scholarship of 1000/- per month there was a prince who not only promised me a life happily ever after but also introduced me to the esoteric world of fancy food.
While I was lost in my thoughts, the queue moved slowly ahead of me. The usual suspects were all there. So was the elbowing and pushing for a second helping or the lunging for the awaited roti. Suddenly I spotted this table with quite a few samovars in an isolated corner. Usually such isolated tables are for non-vegetarian items but knowing that this was a pure vegetarian affair I was curious. And there was this Khazana. Puris were being freshly fried and served with Aloo ki subzi. There were also Gatta curry, Sindhi curry and steamed rice. And there was Paneer Launglata. If I was exulted by the Sindhi Curry the name Launglata absolutely floored me. It was a dish with thin slices of Paneer wrapped around to form a tube - inside which was stuffed what appeared to be a stuffing made of green-peas – held together by a piece of clove - the laung. The gravy was curd-based.
Say Launglata to a Bong and I am sure she would immediately dream of Labangalatika – that seductress of a sweet – absolutely irresistible. I was intrigued – does it mean we have to now attribute the origin of our favorite sweet to Rajasthan? I know Rajasthan figures quite prominently in the history of “Rasagolla” – though this sweet is synonymous to Bengal. Is there something similar about the history of Labangalatika? Dear readers please let me know if you have any clue.
I am always bowled over by poetic and melodious names. I tried looking up Google for Paneer Launglata. For once Google has not been of much help. Other than one or two mentions of a dish named Paneer Launglata – the query mostly leads to references of a sweet – similar to the Bengali Labangalatika – but one which also uses paneer or cottage cheese for stuffing. The Bong variety uses “sweetened kheer” or khoya and coconut.
The few mentions of the savory dish Paneer Launglata that I found did not mention any stuffing. These recipes referred to the paneer being sliced and rolled - to be held in place by a clove. I tried to recreate my own at home – with a green peas stuffing. I could not manage the tubular structure – so had to be satisfied with a sandwich version. Made a curd-based gravy with asafetida, white and black peppers as mentioned in those recipes.
Paneer Launglata – you not only rejuvenated me but also inspired me to once again be on the look out for hidden treasures in marriage feasts. May be one day I shall again find an oyster somewhere with a little pearl of golden memories frozen inside it. This is my little tribute to whoever created you with his or her imagination – folding in love and beauty into mundane layers of Paneer - sealed by the dainty petals of a clove.
That I am also positively scared of my 50 (+/-) enthusiastic teetotaler friends with their parlor-fresh backs in back-less cholis dancing madly elegantly to the tunes of “Lungi Dance” or “Char botol Vodka” or “Saturday Saturday”- just adds to the problem. I have a dozen left-feet. I can’t dance. I could never dance. And there is no way you can drag my copious self to the ubiquitous floor today - no not even the gyroscopic lights nor the handsome DJ can do that dear friend! Apologies to my host if I appear to be less participative than what you had imagined I would be from my ebullient self in office. I am also mad at my colleagues who conveniently avoid me on these occasions and gang up with Black Label or Antiquity in their hands discussing the Director or the CEO, the Chief-Minister or the Prime-Minister, Mangalayan or genetically-modified BT Baigan till their wives call them to help feed the young brats. The sole motivation to attend these parties has boiled down to the fact that they offer a venue to exhibit the latest handloom acquisition and acquire a bit of the latest campus gossip.
Of course I am talking of middle-class affairs - not the ones where loads and loads of money are spent to make the events “memorable and different”. And so – I was quite impressed when a reception party thrown by an ex-colleague on the occasion of his son’s marriage had a distinctly different touch despite its sobriety. The sprawling lawns of Delhi Gymkhana Club were very tastefully decorated with white and muted Rajasthani urns and vases. The snacks, which are the only unpredictable items of a party, were okay other than the crispy Paneer fritters with sesame – ostentatiously named as Thai Paneer – which were rather good.
The dinner table was where the real surprise awaited us. Amidst the usual fare of sprouts, beans and other assorted greens – next to the pristine Dahi-vadas there was the name of the caterer – Kwality Caterer. For me the name Kwality conjures up magic. The rare ice creams that were an integral part of childhood pleasures symbolized the ultimate object of desire - its rarity only adding to its allure. The dreamy creamy spoons of the pink-and-white Two-in-one Vanilla-Strawberry Combo ice creams not only tingled the parched throats – they transferred me to the fairy-land where time stood still with the promise of living happily ever-after. Of the very few eateries that could be considered as a Restaurant in that small steel township of Durgapur – one was Kwality. The excitement of eating out was so over-powering that I can still remember the flavor and texture of the rich North Indian food though not any specific names. As it so happens even when I moved out of Durgapur, Kwality continued to play an important role in my life. For four long years, the Kwality restaurant at Ballygunje Phari not only served as a refuge on rainy Kolkata evenings for two souls in distress, but it also happened to be my first introduction to exotic names like Prawn Cocktail, Chicken Al-la-Kiev or Fish mayonnaise. With a princely scholarship of 1000/- per month there was a prince who not only promised me a life happily ever after but also introduced me to the esoteric world of fancy food.
While I was lost in my thoughts, the queue moved slowly ahead of me. The usual suspects were all there. So was the elbowing and pushing for a second helping or the lunging for the awaited roti. Suddenly I spotted this table with quite a few samovars in an isolated corner. Usually such isolated tables are for non-vegetarian items but knowing that this was a pure vegetarian affair I was curious. And there was this Khazana. Puris were being freshly fried and served with Aloo ki subzi. There were also Gatta curry, Sindhi curry and steamed rice. And there was Paneer Launglata. If I was exulted by the Sindhi Curry the name Launglata absolutely floored me. It was a dish with thin slices of Paneer wrapped around to form a tube - inside which was stuffed what appeared to be a stuffing made of green-peas – held together by a piece of clove - the laung. The gravy was curd-based.
Say Launglata to a Bong and I am sure she would immediately dream of Labangalatika – that seductress of a sweet – absolutely irresistible. I was intrigued – does it mean we have to now attribute the origin of our favorite sweet to Rajasthan? I know Rajasthan figures quite prominently in the history of “Rasagolla” – though this sweet is synonymous to Bengal. Is there something similar about the history of Labangalatika? Dear readers please let me know if you have any clue.
I am always bowled over by poetic and melodious names. I tried looking up Google for Paneer Launglata. For once Google has not been of much help. Other than one or two mentions of a dish named Paneer Launglata – the query mostly leads to references of a sweet – similar to the Bengali Labangalatika – but one which also uses paneer or cottage cheese for stuffing. The Bong variety uses “sweetened kheer” or khoya and coconut.
The few mentions of the savory dish Paneer Launglata that I found did not mention any stuffing. These recipes referred to the paneer being sliced and rolled - to be held in place by a clove. I tried to recreate my own at home – with a green peas stuffing. I could not manage the tubular structure – so had to be satisfied with a sandwich version. Made a curd-based gravy with asafetida, white and black peppers as mentioned in those recipes.
Paneer Launglata – you not only rejuvenated me but also inspired me to once again be on the look out for hidden treasures in marriage feasts. May be one day I shall again find an oyster somewhere with a little pearl of golden memories frozen inside it. This is my little tribute to whoever created you with his or her imagination – folding in love and beauty into mundane layers of Paneer - sealed by the dainty petals of a clove.
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