Crab it like a Bihari

Of all the chokhas in the Bihari cuisine, Medha Dutta Yadav makes a case for the kekda chokha, the most alluring of them all.

Growing up in back-of-beyond Bihar in the 80s, was an Alice-in-Wonderland time. At least in our house. For a Bengali household ingrained in Bihari culture (my father traced his Bihari roots back to zamindari, and 15 generations in the ‘litchi capital’ of Muzaffarpur, and my mother was born in the same city), everyday was an adventure. Dogs, ducks, birds, fish, a cow… my childhood home was nothing less than a zoo, peopled with countless souls. From my father’s college students, and my mother’s banks colleagues, to their odd circle of friends, everyone was always welcome at our place. There were steaming cups of tea and hot meals even when finances were tight.

With many Bihari friends and household staff, this rubbed off on our Bengaliness. The kitchen was the heart of the action. From a traditional maacher-jhol-bhaat (fish curry-rice) family, we seamlessly metamorphosed into sattu-poori-alu-bhujiya (stuffed parantha with gram flour and fried potatoes on the side), albeit with some good ol’ kosha mangsho (traditional Bengali mutton curry) on the side. Of course, the most prominent Bihari cuisine we adapted ourselves to was litti-chokha (roasted wheat flour balls stuffed with gram flour with an accompaniment of roasted and mashed veggies).

Ask anyone about the cuisine of Bihar and they would instantly say litti-chokha. Never mind that there is a variety of dishes available that can give litti-chokha a run for its money. You have the mother-of-fried snacks in the form of bachka (veggies, especially brinjal, coated in besan and deep-fried), bagiya (rice flour dumplings filled with either sattu, dal, or even a paste of green peas, steamed and had in a soup of tempered dal), the famous champaran meat (a spicy mutton curry guaranteed to cure you of a blocked nose), and of course thekua (a mix of aata and either sugar and jaggery, again deep-fried). A friend had once snootily called it ‘Bihari cookies’. Needless to say, she was never offered thekua again. There is also the gulgula (jaggery and aata pakodas) and pedakiya (what the north of India calls gujiya). Also, the sarso wali machli jhol (a spicy curry of fish made with garlic, tomato and mustard paste) and the almost-unknown Bihari kebab. Take my word for it, when I say it can beat your Lucknowi kebab any day.

Given the variety of dishes available, it is a surprise how ‘chokha’ became synonymous with Bihari cuisine. A close cousin to the humble ‘bhaate’ or ‘sheddho’ (boiled and mashed) veggies, a staple in Bengali homes, chokha naturally became a regular on our plates while I was growing up. Tangy, with a generous serving of garlic, onions and chillies, and a splash of mustard oil, it is the rustic simplicity of this dish that makes it appealing. From potatoes and tomatoes, yam, brinjal, spine gourd, to even something as unheard of as kekda chokha (roasted crab mashed with spices, herbs and mustard oil), just about everything and anything can be turned into the tantalising dish, should you be keen. My personal favourite is the parwal (spine gourd) chokha. Every time I make it in my Noida home, roasting it on the gas stove instead of an open coal fire, I feel almost guilty that I’m robbing it of half its flavour.

Baigan, aloo and tamatar chokha is, of course, the most common. Paired with littis, it is a match made in heaven. While this may be most popular, it is the kekda chokha that is the most alluring. Of course, it has its continental cousin, broiled and stuffed crabs with cream, but kekda chokha will leave you screaming for more unless of course, you have the delicate palate or the bland tastebuds of an Angrez.

The kekda chokha in our home has a very interesting story behind it. One winter morning, while the entire household was going crazy prepping for a big dinner, my father suddenly decided to serve kekda chokha. “It’s Lalu Yadav’s (then the Chief Minister of the state) favourite,” he said with conviction, countering my mother’s apprehensive look. Don’t ask me how he knew it was Mr Yadav’s favourite, but if my father said so, it must be true.

A sack of crabs arrived from the market. Now, these were not the fancy blue or orange king-sized crabs available at upscale city restaurants. These were red and tiny, humble country cousins. The sack was emptied in the aangan, the inner courtyard. Almost the entire household staff, driver and gardener included, was enlisted in catching the crabs and breaking off the legs. The crabs were peeled and roasted on a huge makeshift chulha, then mashed with various condiments and readied as starters. Needless to say, it was a hit and my father was surrounded all evening by friends eager to know how he got hold of the recipe.

If you’re making it at home, use the larger crabs — they are easier to peel, and come delivered already dead, which will save you the trouble of scurrying around your apartment kitchen with a pan.

Recipe Kekda Chokha

Ingredients
1/2 kg crabs
6-7 large pods garlic
3 green chillies, roughly chopped
1 small onion, chopped fine
12 tbsp chopped coriander leaves
2 tbsp mustard oil
Salt, to taste
Juice of half a lime
1 inch ginger, finely chopped

Method
Scoop out the crab flesh and roast it on an open flame. (You can barbecue it, if you have the equipment).
Once properly cooked (it should take roughly 10 minutes. Keep turning it around so that it is roasted evenly), mash it well using a mortar and pestle, or with a heavy ladle.
Roast the garlic pods.
Make a rough paste of the roasted garlic, green chillies and ginger.
Add to the mashed crabs.
Add chopped coriander and onion.
Add salt to taste.
Drizzle mustard oil.
Add lemon juice, if using.
Mash it all together, and voila, your kekda chokha is ready!

Medha Dutta Yadav is a Delhi-based journalist.

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