"Well, let's go to Calida's Road? There, Mr. Sanjay, today they give tomato soup and momo, I invite everyone! " with a broad gesture, a stocky man of Asian appearance with white skin, black hair with a little gray. It was the chief inspector of fish surveillance, one Asian country. His name was Enka. A guy with a wide nature, but also able to fend for himself.
His distinguishing feature was that at one meal he ate a huge amount of food. So his roommate Surat-Ji from another Asian country, washed by the Indian Ocean and having borders with Nepal and Bhutan, was always shocked by this.
Enka, ate 2 kg of pure white, boiled rice, 1 kg of buffalo meat at a time, the cheapest only 22 rupees per 1 kg, drank 2 liters of black tea from an iron mug. Enka, he loved meat and did not like vegetables. He needed a lot of calories. But in the morning and evening, he was engaged in training his body. Martial arts. Somehow it was a strange struggle. Something akin to sambo and judo, with power grabs. In addition, in the traditions of his people, nomads, he always carried a knife with him. But the knife was special, slightly curved. The canvas of the sword was inscribed with some runic inscriptions. The knife is small, but not small. Two palms, adult man in length. The width of the canvas was two fingers. The handle is made of deer antler, with silver accents. Enka needed this knife for cooking.
Surat-Ji, his daily portion was also shocking, for 1 day he ate two bananas, a small bowl of boiled rice, not more than 200 ml, boiled or stewed, vegetables in palm oil, not more than 300 grams. He, unlike Enki, drank plain filtered water. And that's all.
Surat-Ji, was thin, with swarthy skin, his black eyes that burned brightly stood out. He had a bride in his homeland, but this did not stop him from hitting and flirting with local beauties. Thanks to his knowledge and a certain charm, the beauties reciprocated him. And he boasted of new beauties and his bride.
"Well, how did you decide whether to go or not?" Enki's bass sounded again. The remaining were also Asians. Acquaintances.
"Let's go, what to expect! They will sort all the places, then you will need to wait in line for about 20 minutes! " a crowd of 7 people, leisurely step went to the small market "Place the maintenance of the Tigers." According to a story told by a market guard, two cups of instant Maggie noodles. That during the time of the "Great Mughals" here on the very spot where the bazaar was now, there were enclosures where 20 Bengal tigers were kept to entertain the ruling dynasty. True or not? Failed to find out.
A cobblestone street led from a campus. Walking on them with no habit was difficult. Dull concrete walls towered along the sides of the street. In some places covered with green moss. It was unusual to see that the tops of the walls were covered with shards of glass that stick out like peaks. Sometimes they hung the remains of the skeletons of some birds.
It was evening, a refreshing breeze blew from the mountains, which brought some coolness into the summer heat. In New Delhi, it would now be +39 degrees Celsius. Stuffy and could. But in this cozy city, near the residence of the ruling elite, there was the most pleasant air temperature. As the Russians say, "velvet season." The most comfortable to stay.
The street made a smooth turn, going to a wider one, where already high concrete fences were replaced by beautiful, forged, European-style fences, entwined with ivy. The houses were all different, from concrete two-story boxes, to typically Austrian houses with a red-tiled roof.
Motorbikes and mopeds scurried along this street. From the western side, the fence passed into a beautiful private garden, where some tropical fruit trees grew. Part of the branches hung on the street and belated pedestrians, sometimes jumping in place, ripped ripe fruits. They resembled an orange lantern, so typical of the culture of Japan and China. And inside was some kind of oily and viscous fruit.
Slowly, the night was approaching the city. It quickly became dark. A small town at the foot of the Eastern Himalayas. More specifically, Shivalik Hills. There was no urban lighting in the city. Dark. Only flashes of headlights of Tata trucks and SUVs of the same company illuminated the exit onto a two-lane road. There were no sidewalks. The roadsides were lined with red brick on one side and yellow on the other. Exit from the inner street of the quarter, began with a small intersection.
Typically for Asian countries, it housed a small bazaar. At the intersection, there was a small bench on the western side, where a local fisherman sold fish at a speculative price of 1 kg of fish cost 25 rupees, while the real price was only 18. The old man knew where to place his bench. The quarter was a student quarter, it housed several campuses of two universities, one research institute, and two companies for advanced training of engineering staff.
On the other side of the crossroads on the east side, there was an unauthorized site for local rickshaws. They were different from the New Delhi motto rickshaw. Motorcycles have lived their lives. Rotten bodies, roofs. The price for 10 km was from 22 to 25 rupees. But you could go two stops and get to the route motto rickshaw there the price was already 3 rupees. And the students did not want to ride the bus, it was not convenient to wait a long time, although the price was only 1 rupee. But these were not typical buses that residents of Vienna or Beijing used to see.
On the north side of the intersection was a large, cast-iron, painted red postal urn. Where the locals threw their letters. The urn had a red top and a black bottom. The remains of the material culture of the colonial time. Interestingly, on the street near the intersection stood a three-story mansion - a brigadier general. But in colonial times, he was friendly with the captain of the British troops. After gaining independence, the sergeant and captain became related. The sergeant's daughter married the captain's son. Now in the summer, grandchildren came to visit grandfather and grandmothers from London.
The quarter was unusual. It was a truly democratic country. There were luxurious mansions with squalid houses. The neighbors greeted each other politely. Which was also an amazing phenomenon.
On the south side, there was a small bazaar where they sold vegetables and fruits, and a little later they brought meat (goat 65 rupees and chicken 39 rupees). There were only seven small shops throughout the bazaar, in one of which sweets were made, in the other there was a telegraph and faxes with international telephones. In the third stationery, in the fourth they sold the famous super white rice, this was considered one of the best gifts from Uttar Pradesh. 1 kg of super white rice cost $ 10 per 1 kg. The rice was distinguished by a special texture, it was already peeled, it was not possible to meet third-party objects in it, like small nails or pebbles, not to mention lead shot. Rice had a rich aroma, fragrant, a little malleable taste, leaving a pleasant aftertaste.
A crowd of students turned to the north side, just there was an amazing, small family restaurant, in the open. It had only 4 tables. A small reed canopy. On three sides there is a small fence twisted of palm leaves. The restaurant itself was a little higher. On small hills. They were all built up in small houses and shops where they sold medicines, food, clothes, sporting goods.
Among the ten restaurants in which Enka often visited, the one to which the students came, in his opinion, was the most worthy. According to the evaluation criterion - Price-Quality.
Enka, invited himself. Therefore, to pay, the students did not need anything! It was also an unusual tradition for ShirAli, he was from a socialist system of values. There were other rules and traditions.
The restaurant was small. Clay floor. Everything is under the open sky. Four plastic, square tables, four chairs, at each table. White color. It is fenced on three sides by small fences, which burned out in the sun and acquired a light brown color.
At times, flocks of mongooses ran under the feet of visitors. Stepping off the brick sidewalk, Enka, heading the crowd, went along a small path to the hills. Near the restaurant, there was already a line of 5 people. All tables were occupied. So the students took a turn and each chatted about his own.
Shir Ali, looking around, for him it was all shocking. Unusual capitalist world. His neighbor Sunil-Ji, began to tell him that he was from the Pars family, his ancestors arrived in the country from Persia and he was proud that the Tata company is a Pars company.
Another student, Mitra, said that it was necessary to bring a Zenit camera, a good camera, you could sell it! That Russian textbooks on natural sciences could be bought at a second-hand book dealer, on Tolstov Street in New Delhi, near someone underground bazaar. Enka told everyone that in his country they bred deer for the meat industry, 100 thousand a year. All this ShirAli, located behind the Iron Curtain and undergoing ideological treatment in kindergarten and elementary school, seemed magic. He had never heard of this before.
While they chatted, it was their turn.
The chef was not familiar with Shir Ali. The cook was in a greasy T-shirt, the checkered cloth was wrapped around the waist. Black hair, bright black eyes, short stature, dark. Dexterously wielded, a large ladle, turning the noodles in a large cast-iron boiler. He fried the noodles, which at a little distance, his wife immediately cooked. She kneaded the dough, then left it to reach. I rolled balls from the dough, sprinkled with flour. And then she took the ball and threw it on the marble table. Every now and again. It was an exciting experience. After she stretched the dough.
Interestingly, the cook's wife was short, but with very powerful arms. Oriental beauty, with a gentle face and strong hands. Involuntarily, ShirAli, remembered the Russian proverb about "A Russian woman, with her hands and a burning house, will enter, and the horse will stop." Apparently, women were all especially mysterious and powerful creatures.
Like all Asian countries, the country of ShirAli was also a colony for 130 years. In historical terms, his country had independence from the 14th to the middle of the 19th century. And before that, the country's territory was the first part of the Persian Empire, then the Greek, after the Huns, Türks, the Tang Empire, the Arab Caliphate, for 175 years it was under the yoke of the Mongol Empire. And only with the advent of the great hero, she gained the status of an empire that conquered Persia, Central Asia, part of Tibet, part of Eastern Europe, Turkey. This hero is worth a golden monument in France. After the death of the hero who planned the campaign against China, the empire fell apart. But this is history, and here the first dish has arrived.
Shir Ali, knew how to cook, but the path to the real Chef was still far away. As his grandfather told him, you need to take the opportunity, travel the world, watch who and how and from what prepares. Learn, do not be lazy, learn the world, know yourself, look inside yourself. Try different dishes, evaluate tastes, maybe then, you are my grandson and you will understand what it means to be a real gourmet!
And here they brought the first dish. It was homemade noodles made from rice flour. Fried with palm oil and young soybean shoots, along with thinly sliced red carrots.
Shir Ali, first appreciated the design, he was none. Just piled noodles with vegetables. The view was not very appetizing. But the aroma was pleasant, it lured a person to try noodles. The noodles were elastic, the texture was dense, it was pleasant to tear with teeth. Vegetables and sprouts
complimented the taste, creating freshness in the mouth, but something was clearly superfluous in this dish. For the taste of ShirAli, oil would have to be taken differently. Palm was too rude for his taste. Now, if we add sesame or olive of the second extraction?
But here it seems ShirAli, just did not understand the traditions of different nations and their cooking products.
"And here is the second dish, try it!" Enka said with a look of the master.
The boy in the same dirty shirt as the chef cleverly arranged small porcelain, white, bowls. In which was red soup. Steam was still coming from him.
Not paying attention to students and the whole world around him, ShirAli focused on soup. He was unusual. Red color. On the palate, salty, bitter, spicy, mixing, they gave the dish a special piquancy. Aroused a feeling of fomentation, appetite! I wanted to drink more and more of this soup. He burned the larynx, tongue, stimulated the receptors responsible for appetite.
But when, ShirAli, turned his head to the kitchen, which was open to the eyes of the guests, he immediately regretted that he looked there. The magic of making soup was destroyed. It was not Gasspacho, it was the easiest way to cook soup. Wife finishing cooking noodles. I picked up a large tin can from the floor, a liter of 2. I opened it without even wiping it first with a can opener.
Without washing her hands, she removed a large spoon hanging from the canopy poles. Scooped out of a can, a red mixture. Apparently, it was tomato paste. Nearby stood a large aluminum pan. Water boiled in it. The wife just threw a couple of spoons of pasta into the pan, with the same spoon she stirred inside. Then she took out from somewhere, black peas - pepper, and threw about a dozen into the pan. The red pod of pepper also flew there. The woman is good again, all mixed up. As the brew boiled, she simply poured it into small bowls.
Everything is simple, industrial way, quick lunch. All foodies would faint, from the simple decision of making quick soup. This is not Gasspacho cooking for you.
Shir Ali was simply amazed. As simple as possible, cook the soup.
The students did not pay attention to this, they did not even relish the food, but simply eagerly swallowed it in order to quickly fill their stomach, get the energy they needed for night work.
The pilot project oars a heavy load over the heads of students. Its delivery was in 2 weeks. Therefore, they worked at night, sleeping only 4 hours a day.
This is clearly not enough for a person to be healthy. This also somewhat shocked the ShirAli. He is unaccustomed to such living conditions. 17 hours of work, 1 hour for the purchase of food and its preparation, and 4 hours of sleep. Sometimes students fell asleep right on the lawns near laboratories and divisions, as they lacked neither energy nor strength. But everyone was different. ShirAli's friend, Jos Agulyar from Makati City, was amazed at why the rest of the students were lying on their feet; he had enough 4 hours of sleep!
On the other hand, all the students looked bad. Their black hair was covered in places of gray hair. The faces were haggard, dry skin, panda eyes, frowning, sometimes angry. But now, a sip of life-giving tomato soup, and again you can digitize thematic cards all night, decrypt data from satellite images.
Crown dish. Momo. You will not find it in the southern part of the country, it is only in the northern part.
The same nimble boy brought visitors Chinese cups. These were white porcelain bowls painted with blue dragons, some kind of fancy flowers, and with a few hieroglyphs. But ShirAli could not read the Chinese letter, so he focused on the Momo themselves!
The name intrigued him! But in reality, everything turned out to be much more prosaic. These were the familiar Small-An cuisine - Dungan dishes of Manti. Only a little smaller.
And they were blinded differently. The dough base was pleasant, moderately elastic, the teeth tore it easily, inside was a broth, a little more salty than it should be. The minced meat was dry, with peppercorns, which indicated that the meat was not quite fresh. The cook added salt and pepper to it to change the taste and make it edible. Beef. And it would be better to add lamb, with onions, and buckwheat as a filler.
Well, as the Russians say - they don't look at the gift horse in the mouth. Free vinegar, sweeter than honey! Which means it's free, it's sweet!
But for himself, ShirAli realized that you can cook and quickly own food. The simpler the cooking, the more useful it is. But was it really so? Shir Ali had to find out for himself, only having received the necessary life experience for this!