Leafy Greens, the Unexpected Star in a Bengali Kitchen
Bengali cuisine encompasses far more than just macher jhol, and much of it is green. Rukmini Ray Kadam takes us on a tour of her favourite monsoon green and how to make them.
In the tapestry of Bengali culture, where stories weave seamlessly with food, there exists a cherished idiom: Amar kothati furalo, notey gaachti mudalo. It signals the end of tales spun mostly amidst the rustle of the kitchen.
Reminiscent of times steeped in storytelling, multiple generations gathered around the hearth together, little faces aglow with the thrill of the tale, as grannies and mums finish meal prep! But the folly of youth, you see — not once did we pause to ponder why each narrative unfurled to the cadence of this peculiar phrase.
Truth is, this in itself is a testament to the revered place that ‘shak,’ or greens, hold in the heart (and kitchens) of Bengal's culinary landscape. Believe me when I tell you, Bengali cuisine encompasses far more than just macher jhol. The treatment of greens in our kitchens deserves just as much recognition.
‘Shak’ or greens hold a revered place in the heart of Bengal's culinary landscape
Notey — the one from the idiom!
Notey shaak or green Amaranth stir-fry is one of my favourites. It is almost magical how 3 simple ingredients can create such a symphony of flavours: garlic, nigella seeds, and dried red chilies dance in harmony, coaxing forth the essence of the greens. With a swirl of ghee and a mound of rice, this is a culinary crescendo that lingers on the palate
Dheki or Fiddleheads
The humble "dheki," or fiddlehead ferns are found in abundance in the North of Bengal, where I spent my formative years. Memories of winter markets filled with bushels of these delicate greens flood my mind; my mom was always so chuffed to score a bunch (or three). The coily heads are washed and stir-fried in hot oil with salt, green chilies and turmeric. Simple, humble, zero fuss! But it is only when Sangeeta, our cook came along that I tried a different iteration of dheki: one infused with the fragrant aroma of garlic, cumin, and coriander. The dish took on a depth of flavour that surpassed my childhood favourite immediately.
Pui or Malabar Spinach
In pui or Malabar spinach, we find a tale of love and longing, immortalized in the pages of Bibhuti Bhushan Bandopadhyay's pui macha. How fitting, then, that this tender green should find its place alongside plump shrimp in the divine alchemy of pui chingri. Succulent pui leaves are cooked in mustard oil while the Bengali panch phoron hum a familiar melody, painting a portrait of home. Golden fried shrimp add earthiness and texture, elevating a humble plate of greens into a culinary masterpiece.
Kochu Pata or Taro Leaves
My mother, with her keen discernment, harbored a paranoia that these leaves would make the throat itch. An apprehension she successfully imparted to us all. And so, kochu pata bata or taro leaves chutney remained an elusive delicacy, very out of reach.
It was not until an impromptu lunch at a friend's house that I finally tasted kochu pata bata — served with piping hot rice. It was nothing short of a revelation! Robust and nutty, with a hint of metallic tang on the palate, this is a dish I will never tire of.
The recipe is fairly simple. Forage or buy taro leaves and separate the leafy sheaths from the main stem. Chop, boil, discard the water. In a kadai, smoke mustard oil and cool it down slightly. Bung in green chilies, garlic and nigella seeds. And then, with an equal measure of nonchalance, bung in the taro leaves. Cook until the water evaporates, add salt and run it through a mixer. Or of course, if you have a shil-nora — a traditional grinding tool, grind your chutney there but much more satisfying texture. Although, do be warned that this is a bit of a work out.
Lau Doga or Bottle gourd Creepers
Lau doga, the crown jewel on the bottle gourd creeper has graced Bengali households for generations. In my house, the arrival of lau doga heralded the onset of Saraswati puja. It was lau doga ilish day!
The flavours are orchestrated in a bubbling pot of water. To this, pounded ginger paste and fiery green chilies are added. Then, with utmost care, tender leaves and stems from the bottle gourd are introduced. As the greens simmer in a fragrant broth, seasoned only with a pinch of salt and sugar, slices of hilsa are delicately laid over the bright green bed. A few drops of raw mustard oil, like liquid gold, are drizzled over the ensemble, for that subtle piquancy. Can you smell it already?
Pat Pata — Jute Leaves
Tender leaves of the jute plant are picked, washed and fried in a simple batter of besan, chopped chilies and salt. The secret ingredient is a pinch of baking powder in the mix. Some fry individual leaves, some make a rosette and fry a few together. There is nothing quite like it.
The taste is subtle yet flavourful, with a hint of bitterness that serves as a refreshing palate cleanser. Not the sharp bitterness of bitter gourd, mind you, but rather a warm, ginger-like bitterness that lingers on the tongue like a whispered secret. This my love, is the vada pav of the East. This and beguni!
Also dear reader, if you have accompanied me thus far, congratulations. You now have a glimpse into the vast expanse of Bengal's culinary landscape.
Perhaps one day, I will have the privilege of penning a book dedicated to these edible treasures, a love letter to the flavours that have shaped my palate and nourished my soul. But for now, as the final chapter draws to a close, I will bid you well in true storytelling fashion: Amar kothati furalo, notey gachti mudolo.
Rukmini Ray Kadam is a Mumbai-based blogger & designer, and the founder of Trumatter Living - a brand that brings the timeless charm of country chic aesthetics to modern city living. Know more at trumatter.in
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