Mumbai, India
If I am in a place, I want to eat the food of the place. Even—perhaps I should say, especially—if it means street food or cuisine from hole-in-the-wall restaurants. People always warn me of the potential for gastrointestinal disaster, but I am reasonably careful; eighty-two countries later, so far, so good.
During my last trip to Mumbai, when a friend suggested I try pani puri at Samrat’s, a restaurant she assured me any cab driver would be on a first-name basis with, I was all in.
Pani puri are thumb-size crisp dough balls filled with things like potatoes, chick peas, sprouts, mint, coriander, sweet chutney, and tamarind water. They can be sweet, savory, or both. And did I mention they’re fried?
Already hungry, I hailed a cab.
“You’re going to Samrat’s?” the driver asked when I told him my destination.
I said I was.
“Samrat’s,” he repeated, frowning slightly.
“For pani puri.” I hoped name-dropping a local snack would lend me legitimacy.
“Ok-ay,” he said, the drawn-out word conveying his dubiousness.
Twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of Samrat’s. The driver looked at me in the rear-view mirror.
“You are sure you want to go here?”
“Yes!” I said as I counted out the fare. I got out of the cab and started for the restaurant.
The cabdriver lowered the passenger window. “Madam! Wait!”
He hopped from the cab, oblivious to the horns blaring annoyance at his double-parking, and hustled to the sidewalk, where he handed me a small item. “Just in case.”
I looked down at what he’d given me. It was a pink packet of Pepto Bismo.
I stuffed it into my pocket and pulled open the restaurant’s door.
Inside, I found a spot at the cauldron where a man was assembling and distributing the pani puri, one by one, to diners, who ate them immediately before the puffed-up thin crisp collapsed.
“One, please,” I said.
The chef leaned close to me. “I have Imodium, just in case.”
I thought of the cabdriver. “I’m good,” I said, hoping I was.
As often is the case with a regional delicacy, the locals were slightly excited and amused to see an outsider consuming their bonne bouche. Some nodded encouragement. Others just grinned.
I ate three pieces of the fried “water bread.” In a word, yum.
The chef waved his spoon at me. “Still hungry?”
“I could eat a little more,” I admitted.
I expected another serving of pani puri. Instead, the chef signaled a waiter, who led me to a small booth. The fake-leather seats were patched with duct tape and the Formica top was chipped.
“A small snack, yes?” he said.
I nodded. “Anything vegetarian, please.”
Ten minutes later, plates of food started to arrive. As the tabletop filled, I wondered if he’d thought I’d said, “Everything vegetarian.”
Two dishes in, I gave up trying to remember the names. After four dishes, I unfastened the top button of my pants.
A half hour later, I’d managed to sample it all: crunchy, chewy, spicy, and mild, along with various sauces, chutneys, and breads of various kinds.
I passed on hailing a taxi to waddle back to my hotel, where I encountered an unhappy woman in the lobby restroom.
“I have…you know…” She held onto the sink’s edge with one hand and pressed the other against her midsection.
I grimaced in sympathy. “Maybe these will help.” I gave her my packet of Pepto Bismo.
She vigorously chewed the tablets. “I was so careful! The only places I ate were Chili’s and California Pizza Kitchen.”
“There’s a Chili’s and a California Pizza Kitchen in Mumbai?”
She nodded. “McDonald’s, too. I made a list of all the American restaurants before we left.” She regarded me with narrowed eyes. “Where have you been eating?”
“I’ve been eating—” I began, then stopped.
How could I tell her about the pink guava from the market, the cumin-spiced pancakes hot off a street stall’s griddle, the pani puri at Samrat’s? To her, eating any of those dishes would be as inconceivable as me ordering the daily special at Chili’s. (Does Chili’s even have a daily special? I don’t know; I’ve never been to one.)
“The hotel restaurant,” I said. “Every meal.”
I told her I hoped she felt better soon and walked back onto the street. There was more eating to do.
