What is Real Cooking?

By Monica Bhide - Published 01.18.05

What is "real cooking"? Who is a "real" cook? I write about food for a living, I should know the answer to these seemingly simple questions. Yet, I am not entirely sure.

Each time I visit New York I look forward to trying the food at New York’Äôs legendary restaurants, but mostly to eat at the home of my friend. Vrinda is a highly successful investment banker, a bundle of confidence and a complete misfit with traditions. And she is not a cook ’Äì not a real one anyway (she repeatedly tells me). You know the ones, she tells me, who can whip up a gourmet dinner for twenty at the blink of an eye. The ones who can prepare rice ninety seven different ways and then have sixty five recipes for leftovers.

A few years ago my husband and I visited her for the first time in New York City. We arrived late morning and were greeted with the warmth of a blossoming friendship. Their apartment overlooked a gorgeous golf course and as her husband began glowing about the view, she retreated to the kitchen to cook lunch. I offered to help. She shrugged her shoulders, "It will be nothing special. Just sit and chat with me as I cook."

I watched her, casually at first and then intently. Meticulous and fast, she was cooking her food in traditional plain stainless steel utensils that she has brought with her from India. No nonstick pans, no Cuisineart, no late night infomercial knife sets in this tiny kitchen. She had, however, managed to nail into the counter a mean looking coconut scraper with a razor sharp edge.

Her mechanical gestures were almost repetitive, no wait actually they were precise. She has done this before many times, I thought.

Creamy yellow lentils simmered on the back right burner growling at the spices floating on top of them. Deftly she calmed them by pouring some oil. The back left burner had a large skillet with a bit of oil. She quickly began to sautˆ© thinly sliced onions in it. Then she added a generous helping of cumin seeds and the rice that had been soaking on the side. She sautˆ©ed it for a bit and then added water which she measured dubiously at the sink - one raise of an eyebrow at a time! Impatiently she tapped her fingers on the range. "Come on boil," she commanded. Ah ’Äì the roaring boil, it came fast as if to obey. A pinch of salt appeared from nowhere as did a squeeze of lemon juice. She covered it with a lid, reduced the heat and then turned her attention to the potatoes.

We talked as she diced. Again mechanical precision-- equal dices not a single miss. I wonder if she had ever noticed that my potatoes rarely were all the same size. Another pan went on the range and this time it was the mustard seeds that she wanted to tame. In went a few tablespoons of oil and then the mustard seeds. As if in defiance to the heat the seeds began to sputter and rebel. She sprinkled something that I could not see and then added a few whole dried red chilies. The room began to smell divine. Panic set it she began to look around frantically for something. The garlic! The garlic was needed before the spices began to burn. She found it, still crushed under the rolling pin and quickly scooped it up and added it to the pan. The potatoes went in next and following in quick succession were the ground spices. She talked up a storm as she cooked, not stopping to measure or taste or analyze. The potatoes were beginning to brown. She turned the heat down, covered the pot and turned to me. "Now," she said, "the salad."

We sat at the tiny glass table in the heart of the room. The men had disappeared on the pretext of getting some beer.

She came to the table with a large bowl of cucumbers, tomatoes, onions and cilantro. As she discussed the nuances of the stock market, the life of a commuter in New York, her rickety old neighbors and the pain of being away from family ’Äì she peeled, chopped, diced and assembled. All the tiny pieces went into a large glass bowl. A mortar and pestle, produced from under the table no less, was used to pound salted roasted peanuts, which then went into the salad. A squeeze of lime juice, a pinch of salt and it was ready. She covered it and set it in the refrigerator to chill. I must have been staring. Self consciously she apologized, " I am not a cookbook author like you," she said, "I just make these simple dishes. I hope you will like them."

The guys returned and we began discussing the prices of real estate in New York, a topic that never seems to go out of style. The tempting smell of tempering garlic and red chilies on the lentils bought us to the table, ravenous.

She had laid out traditional large steel plates and shining steel bowls for all of us. Indian made steel glasses, filled with ice water, glistened with condensed droplets on the outside.

Tempered lentils, cumin rice, mustard potatoes, home made yogurt, peanut salad and of course two types of pickles was lunch that day. We were about to start when she appeared from the kitchen - apron covered in dusted flour and hot chapaties (Indian griddle breads) doused with home made ghee (clarified butter) on a platter.

We ate with quiet reverence. Her table with the down home simple dishes, the well worn tableware and repeated insistences that we take seconds reminded me of my grandmother’Äôs dinners.

She would disappear every few bites to roast more breads and then reappear - sweaty yet hospitable. Her ingredients seemed to have fallen in head over heels for each other. The (now) empty serving dishes vouched for it.

The meal was over and we moved to the living room. The shades were drawn to keep the blistering August sun out. The luxurious cool breeze of the air conditioner dared the heat of the summer sun. The room smelled of home made bliss. We sat still embracing the peacefulness of the moment.

I turned to her and said, "I thought you said you can’Äôt cook?"

"I can’Äôt," she said nonchalantly, "this is a simple home made meal. This is not really cooking. You should see the way my friends cook ’Äì such lavish meals with gourmet curries and breads, exotic vegetables, now that is real cooking."

What is real cooking, I wonder.

Somewhere in that hot summer day hid the answer.

Monica Bhides's website.

© 2004 Bruce Cole. All rights reserved.