I was once told that world’s best cuisine is Chinese (Sichuan province) followed by Mughlai cuisine and then comes French cuisine and wines. Anyone who has read Sayed Muztwa Ali’s famous books on ‘Deshe Videshe’, must have read the short story of a humbug, Mr. Know all, Englishman who came to a famous French restaurant along with his wife to savour French dishes for a belly full of le gourmet food! And he ordered blindly, ended up by finishing three bowls of soup and when his wife asked for the last item in the menu, came ‘toothpick’ (definitely not needed after swallowing soups). So, whenever I ventured into uncharted area of tasting different food, I always consulted waiter to have a general idea what I was going to eat! This is particularly needed when menu is in Spanish, or Italian, or Urdu in Latin script!

When I landed in Delhi, I started fantasizing about French food and once confided to a colleague of mine. I have enough time to search and find the best French restaurant in Lutyens Delhi. This is to eat and to get away from the work-sleep-repeat schedule I had gotten into—and I wanted to walk into dining room and be greeted by a tower of fruit so tall and so architecturally complex that I would be able to admire its beauty at eye level.

 Luckily, I was in a part of the world where luxury like that was within reach. There’s a constellation of pseudo restaurants around Delhi, a grouping that my friend, travelling with me, referred to as the “cream belt” until I threatened to stop speaking to him if he did so again. We went for three dinners: Le Bistro Du Parc, Defence Colony, Restaurant Rara Avis, Greater Kailash II, and Le Circue L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges, Leela Palace, Chanakyapuri, one after the other. Interestingly, my colleague and mentor Gulati Sahib’s brother was a manager at ‘Supper club’, Ashoka Hotel, Chanakyapuri. Sensing my taste on never tasted French food, Gulati Sahib offered me a treat at Supper club that may cost us nothing. They say sting is always at tail, I was asked to bring a ’Chivas Regal’ for the chief chef (During Morarji’s time in late seventies most bizarre thing delhiwalla did was to arrange drinks from Haryana). That request was costing me a small fortune of 1000/- (too much in that era, considering petrol was costing 5/- per litre, that means not much in those days!

My first stop was Le Bistro Du Parc, which, in the old-school traditional restaurant—three Michelin stars used to mean “worth a special journey”. Well, there was no fruit basket, but there was a towel warmer to clean my palms.
And then the staff brought a tray with a pretty little bread thing and a glass pitcher of pink-ish iced tea. We tore into the bread, which turned out to be a faintly orange-flower-water-scented brioche. The pink drink was iced tea spiked with strawberry vinegar, so that it had a sweet-tang thing going on without any sort of weird iced-tea dilution. The combination was intoxicating; I finished the brioche, drained my cup, and felt like a god.

DINNER #1: LA MAISON de Le Bistro Du Parc

Strange, as a bloody Indian, no maître du hotel came to ask me ‘what is my poison?’, though drinks were served to white skinned foreigners. (Typical Morarji bhai’s prohibition). I looked at menu and started to read loudly whatever french my Belgian Padre injected me in my college days! “Okay, then tell me what they are,” my friend said. We both paused, and then started cracking up. Then I

remembered Sayd Muztwa Ali sahib’s famous story. My three years of French-language education in college, long unused though, helped catch the words: iceberg, hazelnut, truffle, cream, and nothing much else. It didn’t matter what they were, because they were good: a tiny tomato on a skewer that was coated in some sesame chicken-esque shell, a little pocket filled with said hazelnut truffle cream, a strange rice-paper cup holding horseradish cream and trout roe and tufts of shredded iceberg lettuce. We finished our snacks and were lead into the dining room with half empty to fill up.
The dining room at Le Bistro Du Parc feels like one that could exist in Paris, Lyon, Monte Carlo, but with a touch of refinement that comes from the fact that you are virtually in France. The room was bright, but not awkwardly so. The tables are large, but the seats weren’t too far apart. It’s quiet, but you don’t feel stifled. The servers were all attractive and friendly and young-ish, and they wore suits that were classy and hip and how I’d like my imaginary of Bollywood actors to dress! Wise thing was this, that we consulted a waiter. And then the food started coming. First, a flower-shaped, flaky roll that had the heft of real bread but was clearly laminated in some way, served with butter. I peeled back layer after layer, buttering each one with delight, until the series of courses began to come out, ten in total. The opener was a strange dish of raw, pulverized cauliflower in a pool of bracing caper dressing, with thin shavings of a dark orange cheese over the top. It was like eating a salad dressing that had way too little oil in it, tart and intense and challenging in an appealing way. Forgetting the place where I was eating, I felt using my hands for the food rather than using forks! But, better sense prevailed, whether you want or not, one has to behave like a European ignoring the colour of his or her skin! Long live European sycophants!  Then the onslaught began in earnest. Mussels, crayfish, and a big oyster sat in a shallow bath of warmed parsley juice, draped with super thin shavings of raw root vegetables. A nest of cream with an egg yolk in the middle, scattered with black-truffled breadcrumbs, was lewd in its softness, its richness, it’s so obvious deliciousness. Tamarind lent a haunting acidity to a pool of cream sauce under a tidy little piece of sole. (Where from they sourced that French fish Sole! I wondered!) (One server’s job was to walk around with a handsome wood bowl filled with tamarind, proudly educating guests with whole tamarind pods. By the end of the night we had made fun of the Tamarind Man so sufficiently I started to feed badly. This was madness, where one turns from le gourmet to le glutton!)

The next course was an off-the-menu special sent out by the kitchen: Indian salmon (Hilsa) in sorrel sauce, a Le Bistro Du Parc classic, that manifested itself as a thin, pallid square of Hilsa, in a pool of white sauce that had wilted leaves in it. I sceptically went for a bite, as I brought it to my mouth, the salmon dropped from my fork and back onto the plate and sent an audible splatter of cream sauce all over the front of my dress. I yelled and blushed a deep purple, and focused on un-living that moment until I regained my composure, if not all of my dignity, and tried again. Hot damn! Humans, I thought to myself, are engineered to like something rich and creamy and bright and refined and sexy all at once. (Though, it was not as good as bhape Ilish) Scallops came next. They looked like potstickers, the tops lacy and crackly and stick-in-your-molars-y, the bottoms buttery and tender. Duck came crusted in spices, arranged among sculptures of turnips. A cheese cart was a cartoon of abundance. From it I ate Époisses so garbage-blood-laundry-detergent-y that it barely tasted as any food: it was perfect. Strange, not-so-delicious desserts followed: little packets of wet, thinly shaved vegetables filled with an almond cream, and then a coffee custard situation that was on the wrong side of weird. By then, I didn’t care. I was happy and full and blessed out. I climbed up into my Bike, drove away and called it a night. Well, it cost me a cost of 1000 bucks for two.

DINNER #2: Restaurant Rara Avis, Greater Kailash II 

The Restaurant Rara Avis, Greater Kailash II looked like a duplicated French country restaurant with an aura of imitating, with creaky, shiny wood floors that feels like a replica of a fake French country inn. I would call it MGM World, Chennai, if it wasn’t the exact sort of place that theme parks themselves were modelled on.
The hallway leading to the restaurant is lined with elementary-school class photos of Monsieur Jack Chirac. There are also open windows into the kitchen, where cooks make chocolates when it’s dinner time, and where unbaked croissants sit unattended-to when it’s not. I drank an espresso in the bar in the harsh light of day, underneath a black and white photo mural of famous people collaged together, with De Gaulle and a woman I assumed was his wife looming large at the corner. The thimble of coffee came with a plate of chocolates and cost 300 rupees. My sceptical uncle winked at me and said ‘what a rubbish they are offering being perfect “gentleman”! My aunt was looking at other guests and

twisted her nose when she saw a scantily clad a French lady! (Greater Kailash II was actually a walking distance from CR Park.) I wish I could say that the place transformed at night—that gaudiness turned into elegance, that the mural was wallpapered over like the embarrassing misstep it is. But life doesn’t work like that. We were the odd ones out in the Saturday-night crew of large French families, could be from diplomatic enclave and we were snubbed to an extent that would’ve been laughable if the meal wasn’t so expensive. It took over forty minutes to order a glass of wine, and begging for our water glasses to be refilled was a part time job for the entirety of the meal.

The fake-jolly captain recommended us split frogs’ legs as an appetizer, and then brought us two full portions instead. My appetite vanished into blue. Paying through nose and eating frog! We were so set up to hate the place that loving the food—which we did, for the most part felt wrong. But there is nothing wrong about lobster with vin jaune, nor a tureen of mashed potatoes that was positively lousy with black truffles. Grand-mère Rara avis famous chicken is justifiably regarded: the breast meat comes with mushrooms and tiny potato pancakes and soft, salty vegetables; the dark meat is compressed into a tidy roulade and served with a sauce so dark and thick and intense and savoury that it made me think that duplicate and copied French still had some style in cooking and presenting; albeit emptying my pockets!
We rushed through dessert—a hot-pink mushroom type marshmallow filled with cream, tiny strawberries, and strawberry sorbet—because we were thirsty and full and annoyed. What a combination of sorbet after eating so much with Nasik branded French wine!

DINNER #3:

 Le Circue,  Leela Palace,  Chanakyapuri

The exterior of Le Circue, Leela Palace, Chanakyapuri, twenty minutes from CR Park in evening traffic, looked straight out of the movie Ratatouille, or a freaky acid trip. A neon sign saying Leela Palace stands on top of a building painted hot pink and bright green, with illustrations of Roasted and inverted chickens and towering platters of things done up in gold, all glowing so bright and so brilliantly that I’m shocked you can’t see it from outer space! Maa, aapki kya leela!
When you walk in, and your pupils adjust to the glass and the gold and the lights bouncing off the gleaming plates and glassware and silverware, you realize, this is it. The servers are in tuxedos. The walls are covered in a thick, patterned wallpaper; the floor, a thick, patterned carpet. All the patterns are gold; the ceilings are gilded. The plates say Leela Palace and have picture, as well as illustrations of prancing rabbits and blooming flowers. To be sure, I patted my pockets if sufficient dough available or mistakenly I kept my wallet in my house! (There was no credit card in those days, and I was too poor to be given a diner’s card, those were for rich and affluent.)

And you’re very happy to be there, because dinner at Leela Palace is a blast. To start, I got the famous Mushroom soup—served in a ladle and capped with a gigantic dome of puff pastry—and the Crayfish. The Mushroom soup, to my surprise, had not an ounce of cream in it, and was instead a deep dark brown, filled with perfect cubes of carrots and meat, and thick with shards of black truffle. The crayfish gratin was deeply fried crayfish and creamy, and surprisingly light for something that undoubtedly has thousands of calories—a study in the glories of putting creamy things under a broiler, brown and bubbly and intensely flavoured. Then came the sole with noodles—another specialty—and the red mullet crusted with potatoes to look like scales, all in a pool of two sauces as artfully patterned as Leela palace wallpaper. Well, it is difficult to develop French cuisine in a day or two, my mentor Gulati sahib by this time started hollering at me telling ‘Bangladeshis are adventurist and eat anything like Chinese. Then he said come to our house your Bhabhi will give you much better Punjabi dishes than these rubbishes for which you are paying exorbitantly! Then, Dessert came from a choice of three carts, wheeled over one by one without explanation, until we were faced with rows of choices so varied and so ridiculously decorated that we panicked and got one of everything. (At least ten things.) Well, still yet to see the fruit tower to smash it, but there was nothing and with special order from me I finished with Dasheri mango. And that was the best whatever we pushed into our belly. Bye Bye Le Circue leela Palace! Full month’s salary went to drain. What an experience of French food!

My last venture into French cuisine: - This time it was Ashoka Hotel, at Chanakyapuri, the diplomatic enclave of New Delhi, a surreal place, an illusion, a place of haves and a place not for this haggard, penniless, rudderless, drifter & transgressor. I was a born simpleton and wanted to see the life the hard side of it. The pain, agony, near starvation did not stop me to see the true colour of life that gives me charm now at fag end or final phase of my life. I use to crisscross Chankyapuri at least thrice a week and all the time I use to feel that this is an artificial Delhi that nothing matches here from any part of India. In the world of Ambassador & Premier cars, one would hungrily devour through eyes the Lancias, Citroens, Opels were plying there at Panchsheel Marg to Shantipath. So, when I got invited to visit at Ashoka Hotel (ITDC) that was standing erect at the far end of the ‘Shantipath’. But being radical in nature, I was disgusted and along with Gulati Sahib reached there in my steel plant factory dress only. Body was stinking, unshaved face, shirt had lots of perforations (molten steel splashes caused them), simply a figure that no hotel would have allowed (rights of admission restricted). I parked my bullet in the parking lot only to find that I forgot to bring key for locking. And Ashoka Hotel was famous for car lifting crimes.

When I approached to hotel reception, the lady behind me twitched her nose but was surprised to my imitated clipped British accent when I asked ‘I would certainly appreciate your beauty but ignore badly decorated lobby of yours if you proffer an opportunity to guide me straight to supper club!! The lady was looking at my package and asked what it was? Oh! A small gift for Chief Chef Mr. Alex Mitter (Mitra)! As a guest of Chief Chef of supper club she did not have any alternative except to guide us to his office.

We were seated at a table for two. When asked what should we prefer to dine, my friend cum mentor Gulati sahib, before giving me any chance to answer, said that Mitter Sir, we had enough of French cuisine and like to eat something very Indian. Please send us some basmati, simple boiled rice and keema kaleja! Interestingly those items were not in the menu! Supper club of Ashoka Hotel only serves French and Chinese! But, Mitter Sir happily said he would arrange same. This was the time; I started looking the joint we have heard so much about. The seating arrangement is in mezzanine floor and music hands were down below. The song sung by the fatso lady was of ‘Shirley Bassi’. Surprised to see that the singer undulating with the music was none other than the great ‘Usha Uthup’? The internal decoration was shabby enough to please dhotiwallah politicians who would stay here free, dine free. The question of ambience was missing. Atmosphere was like a fish market. Some Iranian boys and girls were hollering. Along with hoarse voice of Usha Uthup, the scenario was appalling. Glancing to our next table, I found that Pakistan High Commissioner Mr. Abdul Sattar with his wife and daughter and son in law were seating and seriously consulting with Manager what they should eat! The modesty does not allow glancing what others are eating. But, strong scent of basmati rice and keema kaleja hit him straight to his brain. He demanded same items. Managers failed to convince him that we were guest of Chief Chef and these items are not in the menu, so difficult to bill. But he was adamant and went on demanding same food like a child when other onlookers were enjoying the commotion. He was ultimately served same food, not billed, as compliments from Hotel & India!

Despite of meagre sense of pleasing guests eating at supper club, aura of club in better prevailed sense was not that bad. The hall was absolutely acoustic compliant, sofas were good. Table was prepared with finesse to our approval. A large bowl of molten butter and toasts were kept there. Thanks to wet day, we were served the Rhône Valley wine. It was hard to beat for reds of real character and value, while Languedoc-Roussillon and the more obscure appellations of the Loire, southwest France and Provence are home to some delightfully quirky and individual wines, made both from the classic varieties as well as from rediscovered and revitalised local ones (Nasik). We preferred Loire valley sort. A long seep enhanced the internal spirit convincing that evening will be pleasant and memorable despite of shabby decorations. Anyway, if cost of chivas regal ignored then we were getting it free without being a sarkari dhotiwallah! This was followed by exactly roasted breast of a duck. Sliced finely dipped into molten butter, taste buds fully opened, we were experiencing sixth heaven. Cauliflower au gratin was of poor quality due to 1000 years old grated cheese, thus spoiled mood and courage of further French side dishes though washed down with finest of north western French wine! Then we were served our Indian/ Mughlai dishes. I waived all table mannerism and put my five fingers into the keema and ate with my heart out with basmati rice. There were at least 35 desserts displayed, but we were fully loaded and we had to excuse them. The evening was good and promising.

We bid farewell to Mr. Mitter and thanked him for wonderful food and treat, saying খুব ভাল রান্না (khub bhalo ranna)