Exploring the Intersection of Food, Culture and Identity

Italy, where the first McDonald’s outpost inspired the creation of the Slow Food Movement, now praises the burger chain for its authenticity….

Second in the India installments…..

First, a preface: I believe in evolution. I believe in innovation. I believe in one culture grabbing great ideas from another and running with them. I believe in one Holy, Catholic and Apostolic cuisine…C’mon, that’s what The Hyphenated Chef is all about!

That said…..I must declare that this — THIS — is not kibbe  (to quote the butcher.)

But it could be the beginning of…something.

Hot, sweaty and with the kid verging on a meltdown, we ditched our ancient Padmini taxi at the door to Mumbai’s Intercontinental Hotel and rode the elevator to the top floor for lunch. Called “Corleone,” the restaurant offered assorted pizzas and gnocchi, but also branched out with an array of  “continental” fare — Brie and Cumin Souffle, Cucumber Gazpacho, a mezze platter, and, what it called “Lamb Kibbe Tartare.”

The last time I ate kibbe in a developing country was in Syria and I came home with a hearty case of intestinal amoeba (I liked to say I was eating for 20 million.) But it was a professional risk I was willing to take (again.)

The bright white plate arrived with a loosely packed disc of ground meat. Beside it was dollaped spicy tomato sauce and a drizzle of what I at first thought was pomegranate molasses. But looks deceive.

One bite and it was clear something was up. The sauce was intensely spicy — which I could grant, maybe as a nod to harissa. Or even to Indian red chilis, the ones that they deep fry and eat alongside rice. YUM! Why not? But this sauce tasted strongly of oregano. Suddenly I am not in Mumbai or Morocco, but in Milan.

And then there was the texture. What was crunchy? Was it the burghul? And had the meat been…cooked??

The answer? Yes. It had been cooked.  

Okay, I grant you, some kibbe is cooked — kibbe asik (on a skewer), kibbe balls, pan kibbe. But this was kibbe tartare, right? Webster’s New World defines tartare as anything “that is ground up or diced, mixed with seasonings, and served raw.”  RAW.

Chef Tanai Shirali, who told me that he trained with Iron Chef Morimoto before coming to the Intercontinental, kindly indulged my curiosity. He told me that he had wanted to play with the concept of kibbe, interpreting it simply as minced lamb. There was no burghul. Not a grain.

And the drizzle? Balsamic reduction. Which was a clever — but in my book unnecessary — twist on pomegranate molasses. It’s India! Pomegranates literally drop from the trees here!

From a practical perspective I understood cooking the meat. In fact, I was surprised to see kibbe on the menu because I was shocked that this mostly vegetarian nation would have the stomach for raw kibbe. But then why call it “tartare?”

The “fusion” (Chef Shirali’s word) with French tartare happened because…actually, I’m still unclear on why. It did have some of the classical French seasoning: garlic, tomato, and mirepoix (celery, carrots, onion.) Which explained the crunchiness.

So bottom line: I didn’t care much for this dish. And I’m not quite sure how it got to be called Kibbe Tartare. That said, I do think the dish might provide a window on the evolving marriage of Indian and Western cuisines.

Think about American haute cuisine in the 1970s. Anything good had to be French. And very often it was better to import the “authentic” ingredients or use canned than to substitute something fresh and indigenous and adapt it.

My next trip to India is in about two years. I’m looking forward to trying Lamb Kibbe Tartare again — or whatever it evolves into.

“Ooo, yum, I love these, they’re Swedish,” my husband’s cousin says.

“Really? You mean, like puff pancakes?” I ask. We are standing on the rooftop terrace of a swanky Mumbai apartment building scarfing the little dumplings as part of the six-day wedding we’ve all come to attend. Yeah, the black, cast iron pan looks a bit like the dimpled cooker you can buy at Williams-Sonoma to make the Scandinavian treats. But as I survey the cityscape and feel the 80-degree December night waft past my skin, I’m skeptical. I think perhaps this particular relative has lived too long in California.

Which doesn’t stop me. The little puffs are moist, and supple, and they melt on my tongue, so I stand there making a spectacle of myself long enough for one of the aunties to join me.

“Kaku,” I ask, “what are these?”

“Pani yarram,” she says. Of course, I can see that from the handwritten sign that sits on the table.

“Yes, but I mean…are they Swedish?”

“Are they what? No, they’re from South India.”

Okay, so not Swedish. I tell her I taste banana. She speaks to the guy in the toque. “Yes,” she says definitively. “They are made from rice, banana and coconut, because in the South they have all these things. Swedish…” she shakes her head in disbelief as she puts another in her mouth.

All I can say is, somebody got the idea from somebody….