Kathmandu, Nepal (Part 2 of 3)
Cooking classes, ladies in red, and a Garden of Dreams
On today’s menu: Nepalese cooking class with Kalpana.
An SUV showed up at the hotel, and we rode the mad roads to Kirtipur outside the Ring Road, granted they seemed slightly less mad because of the rain, with bikers covered in voluminous plastic ponchos, some with double holes for the heads of 2 passengers, all with clear plastic cutouts for the bike headlights. We recognized what turned out to be the suburbs of KTM, with its own shopping drag, schools, small temples and homes in hilly neighborhoods.
Getting off the car, we were greeted by a young man who led us down a narrow steep pathway towards his house, into a courtyard that faced a small homestay hotel and harbored two dogs. Kalpana, the young man’s mother, greeted us with a smile and welcomed us into her home. She spoke English well enough, and her son., whose English was very good, was there to assist and clarify.
Appetizer: Chai
We added milk and a mixture of tea and spices into a small pot and gave it a vigorous boil. The white milk took on the color and fragrance of the tea mix. Once done, we strained the drink into mugs — a warm caramel color with herby spicy notes — and fortified ourselves for the cooking ahead. One of the Nepalese etiquette rules: as a sign of respect, when handing an item to a guest — mug, fork, or note — the Nepalese offer the item with their right hand, with the left touching their elbow.
Entree: Dal bhat and Momos
Our meal preparation began with Kalpana showing us the different types of rice that she used in cooking: we would be making basmati rice to go with our meal today, but in her backyard — rice stalks visible through her window, blowing with the odd breeze — she grew medium grain rice. She mentioned that basmati rice was more expensive — NPR 3,600 per 20kgs versus NPR 2,200 per 25 kgs for the medium grain. Kalpana mentioned that for certain dishes, the Nepalese used another medium grain rice that was sticky (although nothing as sticky as the rice used in Korea or Japan). In measuring the right amount of water to cook rice, Kalpana put her hand into the rice pot, touched the surface of the rice with her hand, checked that the water came to below the first knuckle line of the middle finger. Every housewife who cooks rice uses a different water-to-finger-mark method. (From my mother, I was taught to use a pot wide enough to put my hand in and make sure the water line does not fully cover the nail bed of my middle finger.)
The basics of the other dishes to accompany the rice followed similar techniques: we first heated oil in a pot — ghee for the dal, mustard oil (a fragrant revelation!) for the chicken and greens, sunflower for the mung dal papadum — added whole spices (fenugreek or cumin), and then added aromatics (onions, garlic, ginger). For additional flavor, we added ground spices (cumin, turmeric, chili). I learned two things about Kalpana’s techniques: first, the whole spices were added to the oil and allowed to become black. At first, I thought I had burned them, but she insisted that I continue letting them cook longer. Second, after all the ingredients were added, she continued to cook the dish longer than I would have thought — if food got stuck at the bottom of the pan, she simply added water and scraped the food. As far as I can figure, doing so had the advantage of creating more sauce in the dish without burning.
One of Kalpana’s most important cooking appliances was her grinding stone, a large black slab of stone with a matching rectangular rock that was used as a pestle to grind ingredients — garlic, ginger, peanuts, sesame seeds, soybeans — to add flavor and thickness to different dishes.
After enjoying our lunch — rice, dal, chicken, curried potatoes and zucchini, sauteed greens, papadums, and a tomato “pickle” — we took a short break before getting down to making momos, the process of which was very similar to the way Korean mandu are made.
Throughout the day, the most precious thing was the connection with Kalpana and her son Sagat. Beyond the cooking, we shared stories about the many similarities between our cultures — respect for elders, wedding practices, modern social trends. We asked Sagat (ironically his name meant “sea” in Nepali) about his Nepali ethnic group — I think he mentioned his ancestors were warriors from Pokhara — and about his plans for the future. (He disagreed with that photographer yesterday who said that the shape of the Nepali flag referred to mountain peaks — he seemed to dismiss that connection and simply chalk up the shape to the customs of the ancient Nepali kings. We really must get to the bottom of this mystery.)
For dinner, for the third time, we walked to the restaurant down the street from the hotel: chicken curry, palak paneer, sautéed veggies, garlic naan, local draft beer.
***
We packed our bags, bid goodbye to the hotel crew — helpful and pleasant all — and took a taxi to another hotel on the other side of the Ring Road.
It was a huge place — several buildings, vast gardens, inviting pool. Inside reception, a large sunken area contained replicas of many stupas from Nepal’s history. However, the property looked tired, with old wood everywhere, mushy mattresses, flat cushions and pillows, a safe too small for my laptop — I had to use my meager mathematical skills and got my laptop inside the safe by using the hypothenuse with a couple of mugs. We felt transported to the old days of the raj (not a compliment). It certainly did not help that while we were having lunch at the restaurant, communication was challenging, and that several groups of workers were having loud powwows by the POS machine nearby because of what appeared to be some technical issue. N. and I went to reception and offered the manager our honest opinion and told him that we would stay for one night but cancel the rest of the reservation.
***
We walked toward the Pashupatinah Temple to get a glimpse of the Teej celebrations. As cursorily explained to us, Teej was a Hindu holiday celebrated by women in Nepal, in which they fast, make temple offerings for blessings for their families, and dance in celebration. It was tradition for women to wear red during this holiday.
The closer we got to the temple, the more ladies wearing red salwar kameez and red saris we saw. Everyone seemed to be in great holiday spirits. Before we even reached Pashupatinah, we followed a group of ladies in red to a smaller temple in which a veritable sea of ladies in red were sitting inside temple gates, singing hymns, while a priest waved a flaming stick with smoky incense — a puja. There was a very large golden calf looking over everyone.
Closer to the Pashupatinah, the streets nearby were still in a flurry of activities: fortune tellers clutched texts while women sat around him, listening raptly to their fortunes; men and women with dishes of flower petals and red power called on anyone who walked by and offered to mark their foreheads; a large cow was munching on corn while we followed the consequence of the corn’s digestion; enterprising vendors sold water, coconuts, snacks.
At one point, officers stopped N. from walking up a path. At first I thought it was because men were not allowed to enter the area, but it was because the walkway was for “ladies only”; he could walk in the main road instead.
When we arrived inside the gates of the temple, the puja services were over, but many ladies and their families were sticking around in the waning light, taking pictures and enjoying the end of a long day — for them the day had started at 4 am. We took the opportunity to take some pictures of the festivities.
***
We went down to breakfast, whereupon a veritable squadron of servers came to our table offering to help us with this and that; I suspect that they might have been notified we were the complainers. In the end, the restaurant manager approached like a prisoner to the gallows to make his apologies and offer us a free brunch, although I’m not sure what we were supposed to do with an offer of brunch during our breakfast on the day of our departure. I tried to be light about the situation and told him that we hoped our feedback would help him and his crew improve. (He did confess that yesterday’s brouhaha by the POS machine was due to a printing problem they had been trying to fix. Well, today, it was printing often and very loudly.)
After a workout at the gym — pull day and 2 miles cardio — we packed our bags and took ourselves to Thamel. The young man who checked us in guessed that N. was 64 — he obviously was bad at this game. The Japanese chef/hype man talked so much while we were waiting for the front desk printer to work — in Nepal printers seem cursed — that I think I got a mild headache.
Location, location, location.
The room is tiny — its width is twice the bed’s. But now we understand and appreciate why many tourists stay in this area — the convenience of walking to myriad restaurants and coffee shops without having to take a taxi in the infernal traffic inside the Ring Road cannot be overestimated.
We had an early dinner at a pizza joint closeby — it was quite good and we were grateful to eat something other than curry, dal-bat, or momos for once.
We took a quick stroll around the Garden of Dreams, which seems had once been the house of a wealthy guy in KTM who built the whole place in the 1920’s with bricks individually stamped with his own name (“Keshar”). Dressed up young people were busy taking photos for their Instagram.
***
From the early hours of the morning, N. woke up miserable with all the classic symptoms of food poisoning: fever, headache, diarrhea. After yet another bout in the porcelain throne, he needed a massage because his muscles were achy, or so he claimed. Needless to say, I did not have food poisoning, but neither did I have a great night’s sleep.
So I gave him nothing all day except for BRAT: bananas, rice, apples, toast.
As for me, I had breakfast at the hotel, lunch at the coffee shop around the corner — the same one that N. and I had gone to before — and dinner at the pizza shop, where they had a version of the nicoise salad, which I prefaced with an ice cream cone while waiting for my take out.
I only mention all my meals because the funniest thing that happened today was the fact that a father and son pair were sitting next to me at breakfast; they were already eating at the coffee shop when I appeared for lunch; and the were coming out of Room 701 on our floor, got on the same elevator, and later walked into the pizza joint while I waited for my salad to be packed for takeaway. Weird.
***
We walked to Thamel to the offices of our trekking company to finalize plans for our trek: we picked up a duffel for the overnight items, made our payment, and asked if there was anything else we needed to know.
B. didn’t exactly volunteer the information, but N. did bring up the issue of mosquitoes — very important to him — and that’s when he found out that he should be cautious of mosquitoes and leeches and dengue fever, oh my! So we went on the hunt for mosquito spray.
Before leaving this part of Thamel, we went for lunch at a bakery, whose reviews online turned out to have been grossly inflated — I ordered a protein smoothie bowl, which unfanthomably was served warm. Dinner was at a Chinese restaurant, which seemed run by a Chinese-Nepali clan of Muslim descent — Uyigurs, perhaps? (The young man, well, manning the grill was wearing a skullcap.) We had a surprisingly good meal: beef noodle soup, egg fried rice, cucumber salad, bean sprout salad. N. had quite a decent meal; his stomach held its peace.
As a nightcap, we took advantage of the free drinks card we were given on our first day and headed to the rooftop bar, which had a decent view, and had a couple of drinks while chatting with the young bartender there. (The title seemed a bit shaky since he called the kitchen downstairs to place our order — I guess they didn’t want to leave him alone on the rooftop bar with alcoholic beverages.)
He also had no idea about the reason for the shape of the Nepalese flag.
***
After breakfast, I went downstairs to the restaurant to get some writing done, and got a glimpse behind the curtain of hotel management.
First, Neeraj the GM had a meeting in one corner with what I guessed were three department managers. They sat down and discussed what I imagined were different aspects of the hotel — cleaning, checking in, food & beverage. Then, after dealing with the perennial stragglers who come down to breakfast exactly at the time when it officially ended at 10:30 am (it must be so irritating!), all the restaurant workers gathered at the far corner to confer with Neeraj the GM. He appeared to update, comment, chide, instruct workers on whatever necessary topics.
I hoped they discussed the issue of a distressing shortage of whole wheat bread and peanut butter.
***