Seduction of a Shakshuka
The first time I had a shakshuka was at a cafe in Bangalore. The menu said it had eggs and tomatoes, and it was cheaper than the eggs Benedict and the English breakfast. I got curious and ordered it. I was sitting around with friends, as we all poked fun at Swagat for being obsessed with a girl who, we thought, was out of his league by an entire galaxy. I also remember being distracted — constantly mulling over whether I ordered the right thing. It was such a risk. Was I being an explorer, or was I just cheap? Should I have stuck with the familiarity of hash browns and sausages?
My indulgence and love for food have gone hand in hand with my food insecurities. I am the guy who always orders a little extra for fear of running out, always the one devouring leftovers on a table — to the point of being called a Hausschwein by friends as we ate Knödel together in Freiburg. The innuendo didn’t affect me much. My love for food heals my wounds and comforts me during the darkest times.
The shakshuka arrived, and I had my eyes on it with the waiter still 20 meters away. I immediately knew that I had made an investment that will pay dividends for decades. I was corrupted by the messy orgy of eggs, mozzarella and tomatoes. It reminded me of an image of Jupiter’s surface that I had seen, replete with the cyclonic storms of eggs and cheese in a cloud of tomatoes. I don’t remember much of the remaining conversations that day as I put the cafe’s kitchen helpers to shame with the way I polished off the pan.
Last week in Berlin, as I woke up on a lazy Sunday — I had the urge to make my 40th shakshuka. After taking an oath of not shopping that day, I entered the kitchen with the hope of finding everything I’d need. My girlfriend yawned in the distance with what sounded like an experience of being raised from the dead, and I was filled with the determination to cook something that would make her feel alive.
I saw 3 eggs. But only 1 tomato. The universe was at it again. I saw some parsley and coriander, staring at me like fallen trees with seductive greenness. There are always onions and garlic in my kitchen, so I knew it was all going to be good at least, if not smashing. I have served countless meals, and have seen countless x 2 eyes look up intoxicated at me soon after people take a bite out of whatever curry I have made. But deep down I often felt like a cheat because I know that the magic is largely owed to the onion and the garlic — my 2 most trusted compadres. A Buddhist monk stays away from onion and garlic and rightly so — they are intoxicants and they fuel desires!
Riding on the support of O&G, I looked around — I was missing a liquid base. And then I saw it! Smiling at me from the back end of the shelf was a transparent jar with a green lid. And in it was a liquid as white as a fresh bathrobe in a Marriott room.
Coconut milk! I am willing to bet good money that every time someone suggests ‘coconut milk’ in cooking, the most common response is ‘why tf not’. The climax of this hunt came swiftly, as I remembered a block of TomYum spice sitting on a shelf right behind the back of my head. This was going to be a “Coconut Tomyum Shakshuka” and the world will have to accept it!
