Bloggy Howl, I have a Blog!

A sometimes serious, sometimes fun collection of my writings, readings and online activities...

Thursday, March 29, 2007

In a word, Flying Officer

Two words, you say?

Take the first letter of each word after the comma and you'll know what I'm saying.

This is in response to blogazoo's pathetic treatment of a complaint. For months, I have been trying to get their much-touted feedback on who is reading my blogs and why.

It worked fine when I spent hours surfing the blogs registered with them. It stopped working when I stopped surfing. The way I figure it, if it says "Free blog counter" it means free of obligation too, unless otherwise specified.

When I try to tell them I have a problem, I get a message that I've certainly done something wrong. Some nonsense about checking if my browser is javascript enabled. Right. It's javascript enabled for every site except their feedback page.

Fine. They can Fly Off.

Free also means I'm free to tell the world that they suck.

Deepak

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Sunday, March 25, 2007

Bachelor Recipe # 3: Butter Chicken

This one is so easy, I feel like a fraud telling you about it.

You'll need:
  1. A Pressure Cooker
  2. A pat of butter
  3. Legs
  4. Money
  5. Knife (optional)
  6. Scissors (recommended)
  7. Bread - 1 loaf or however many slices are left in the fridge
Here's how it works:

Leg it to the nearest supermarket and ask anyone you see of the opposite gender where the PARAMPARA masalas are.

They'll tell you. Trust me on this.

Go to the aisle they recommend and grab the packet that says "Parampara Butter Chicken".

On your way out, grab 250 gms of boneless chicken. It's right near the entrance. It's a science, I tell you.

When you get home, cut or otherwise decimate the boneless chicken into pieces that are no longer than the first two knuckles of your longest finger, whichever way you measure them.

Read the back of the packet of Parampara Butter Chicken.

You'll find instructions on using the packet to make butter chicken.

Follow the instructions.

Eat with bread.

Hint: The pat of butter recommended near the top of this recipe makes the Butter Chicken truly delightful, provided you remember to thunk it atop the Butter Chicken before you dig in with the bread. Or you can thwack it. Whatever gets your butter.

Deepak

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Saturday, March 17, 2007

Bachelor Recipe # 2: Egg Masala Canapes

Follow all steps in Bachelor Recipe #1, except roasting/frying the poppadum.

Instead, pile the whole mess onto as many pieces of toast as you can find. If your fridge magically has bread, toast it and repeat. Do not rinse.

Best is to go to the corner grocer (if in Dubai, call him via free local landline) and buy a hermetically sealed pack of toast (called rusk in the civilised world but no one told us) and then make a mockery of the seal.

Eat.

Can't forget that.

Deepak

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Bachelor Recipe # 1: Egg Masala Poppadum

Fast and furious recipes for bachelors (apart from "dial Smokin' Joe's"), to be applied at 2 a.m., when Smokin' Joe's and all other bachelor providers are fast asleep.

Ingredients:
Onion: The quarter lurking in the egg tray will do.
Eggs: 2 recommended, one will do if it's all there is in the egg tray - apart from the half or quarter onion.
Poppadum: Large recommended. Small will do if you aren' t too picky about how much a square inch of Poppadum accommodates. (If you are, go away, you're no bachelor).
Salt: They sell it in huge ole sacks of 500 grams at most supermarkets. Should last you six months if a true bachelor. About ten years if you're a summer bachelor (the poor sods who get respite from their wives once a year).
Pepper: See above.
Chili powder: The drunker you are, the more you need. Adjust accordingly.
Chaat Masala (optional): Unique to India. Use with care.
Coriander leaves: Whine a few from the married female upstairs.

Method ("Methodology" is extra syllables to make you look smart. We're on a lean, mean, bachelor strategy here):

Hard boil the eggs.
That means, put them in water so that the water just covers the eggs, then place the vessel on the stove, light it and wait for the eggs to start dancing. When they've danced for about five minutes, switch off the stove.

If you're female you'll already have chopped the onion while the eggs are boiling. If you're a true bachelor you'll have a drink while watching the eggs dance. When you switch off the stove, it's time to chop the quarter/half of onion that was occupying a whole egg slot in your fridge. This is actually a better strategy than the wives/girlfriends admit. You've had a drink watching the eggs dance and are now chopping the onion while the eggs cool. They would have chopped the onion while the egg boiled and would now be nagging you to quit whatever it is that gives you pleasure. I'd like to keep this blog "G" rated, please.

The eggs will still not have cooled yet (unless you were wise enough to drain the hot water in the vessel and replace it with cold water) so let's tackle the poppadum.

Roast it (recommended; easiest way to make them edible. Just light the smaller burner on your gas stove, place the poppadum on it and keep rotating it as it turns black) or fry it (no idea how this is done).

Keep the poppadum on a plate and go look for the remnants of egg your dogs have mercifully left you (what? you didn't know bachelors keep dogs?). Pile whatever egg shreds you can find, along with the chopped quarter/half onion, a pinch of salt, chili powder as desired, coriander leaves torn apart by fingers (since I forgot to tell you they have to be chopped too), pepper and chaat masala onto the roasted/fried (you actually managed to do that?) poppadum.

Squeeze a slice of lime (optional, since I forgot to list it as an ingredient) over the whole mess.

Eat.

Wake up tomorrow and forget this blog exists.

You'll be okay by 2 p.m., as usual.

Deepak

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Thursday, March 08, 2007

It takes me FOUR attempts to post

Get that, Google?

I don't care if you're taking over the world. You can't take over me.

Here's what happens when I try to post:

1. I try to log in. I'm told I need to log in with my Google account (which I tried to do in the first place)

2. I try my gmail log in name. No go.

3. I try my gmail log in name @ gmail.com (which has worked on certain blogs). No go

4. I try the name I first tried. It's a go.

Say it like it is, Google: we have to try four times before we can post. Makes everything simple. I'll just type nonsense the first three times and then type my username and password and I can get here. Quite a bit like yahoo.

Deepak

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Thursday, March 01, 2007

I miss my Irani chai

I do.

There are very few places in Pune that offer authentic Irani chai (tea) and they're rapidly having to sell out to Houses of Lights and Baristas and other big guys who pay them plenty of money to vacate their ancient, authentic timber-lined tea-houses in favour of glitzy, glamorous, monotonous places that make it clear you're sinning if you're just browsing.

Thing is, I'm not sure I miss the chai or the experience of the chai.

Kayani Restaurant, now the House of Lights, at Sarbatwala Chowk, Pune, was a prime example of what I mean.

Actually, the chai itself didn't draw me there. It was Ismael.

He was the waiter. And Ismael, the waiter, had standards. Regulars we greeted with loving abuse. Newcomers were ignored.

It took me a long while to get Ismael to call me a "baster". Although he did suffix it with "Chairman" in deference to my ability to control the motley crew of us who hotly debated the latest art endeavour over our endless cups of Irani chai.

"Baster Chairman aa gaya. Pundhrah cup chai tayaar kar" (The bastard Chairman has arrived. Get 15 cups of tea ready), he'd chant upon seeing me.

As a business model it was exquisite. Create an exclusive class of customers who enjoy whatever form of exclusivity you bestow upon them. I am convinced that Kay's, as we called it, thrived because we spent so much on chai just to get in Ismael's good books.

But all things come to an end. Not just all good things, ALL THINGS.

Kay's is gone forever, replaced by a glitzy House of Lights that's doing a roaring business supplying light fixtures to the nouveau riche.

I meet Ismael sometimes, surviving on the guilty largesse of past customers who remember his acerbic wit and wily grasp of customer relations.

He spends his days looking for old customers he can touch for a tenner. He spends his nights beneath the staircase of an old building owned by a kindly Parsi gentleman.

The owners of Kay's are happy, having traded their traditionally selected spot for pots of cash. Consumers are happy, with convenient locations providing the latest glamour accessory.

But Ismael is looking for people he used to serve in order to make his employer richer, to survive another day.

And I miss my Irani chai.

Deepak

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