“Is that a real owl?”
“Who calls a fox Puss-Puss?”
“This (onion
“Plum and cardamom fool… No fooling us, lady, it’s just cream, probably cheap store-bought cream, and canned plums.”
This sarcasm — coming from a group of amateur chefs gathered in the living room of a fellow contestant they’ve never met before — could be scripted, given that it’s from Come Dine with Me , a televised series. A series that I still watch online after BBC Entertainment pulled the plug on its Indian viewers in 2012. I can’t say what appeals more: The diversity of menus, the sense of adventure in breaking bread with strangers at another stranger’s dining table, the dissection of the host (on A-Z and more; from sartorial skills, ventilation to the hand wash in the guest washroom) or comedian Dave Lamb’s wry commentary (often credited as the true reason behind the show’s success across the world). I discovered the sadist in me through the countless episodes I hogged. I secretly enjoyed the jabs, I giggled when a Leicester resident’s Mughlai lamb biryani looked moth-eaten. I uncorked a bubbly when a diner slammed his host for serving cheap wine.
However, when it came to hosting strangers — it was an idea that came from a friend’s friend (a fellow foodie and sadist) — in my apartment, I beat a hasty retreat. I love a laugh, dearly. But to be laughed at? No, thanks. Especially without the incentive of prize money (£1,000 is what the winner of each episode gets; in post-Brexit figures, it’s still above ₹80,000). And what shook my sadistic side is one explosive episode from January this year, in which the diner who got the least points asked the winner — a rather pleasant, harmless woman, methought — to “get off” his “property”. The awkward silence in that room invaded mine. After 40 deep breaths, I blocked that friend’s friend’s number, in the fear of being baited with food and booze.
But it takes all kinds to make the world. That’s why there are chefs who have thrown open their house to strangers. All for the love of food. In 2014, Cordon Bleu graduate and food blogger Shaheen Peerbhai, along with chef and entrepreneur Jennie Levitt, started hosting meals from their apartment in Montmartre, Paris. A bottle of wine, entrée, main course and dessert — along with delicious nuggets of information on food and all things fine. Peerbhai and Levitt were not the first Parisians to offer meals in their apartments, but the raving reviews were certainly of a kind.
“Food connects people. People build memories around food. People pick up nuances from conversations, activities around the dining area. And when presented beautifully, food tells stories. Maybe that’s why people sign up for an experience that takes you to an unknown person’s house for a meal,” says Devina Dutt, an arts writer and editor from Mumbai. A Punjabi with a strong affinity for Bengali vegetarian fare — thanks to a Kolkata connection — Dutt was a happy woman the day she dined at Priyadarshini Gupta’s apartment in Versova. A corporate-turned-chef, Gupta, 45, borrowed notes from the days she watched her grandmother in the kitchen to create a Bengali thali that goes beyond the usual posto (poppy seed paste), bhaja (anything fried) and machher kalia (fish in a rich tomato-onion gravy). One of the two Bengali menus she recently curated is a tribute to her ancestral home in Dhaka — the house her father lived in till he was 11. Gupta’s other Bengali offering — Kitchens of Kumartuli — is inspired by the festive lunches that bonedi baaris (old money) of north Kolkata enjoyed during Durga Puja.
A foodie from the time she can remember, Gupta didn’t always like playing the host. “As a young girl, I liked cooking for myself. I would cook chicken my way. In my postgraduate years I turned a party chef. I would be slogging in the kitchen while my friends were downing cocktails in the living room... And I didn’t seem to mind it,” says the TISS alumnus. “From being a foodie to offering pre-booked meals to strangers at home, it’s been quite a journey. The other reason for offering this form of dining is the phenomenal cost of setting up a restaurant in Mumbai. This is the closest I can get to owning one,” she adds.
Having said that, Gupta admits that the thought of inviting strangers home is not free of problems. “You don’t want any unpleasantness, awkwardness or bad behaviour. You need to ensure that your guests get along. And you also need to think of your own security. Nobody wants a stalker in the guise of a foodie,” she says. Her guests, so far, have come through platforms like Authenticook and The Gourmet Factory.
Auroni Mookerjee, 28, doesn’t favour approaching such platforms for the pop-up meals at his Bandra apartment. “I have been to many pop-ups, not in the role of just a diner though. I’ve been there as a critic, as a friend, as a learner... And I was okay with the risk of taking in strangers as dinner guests,” says the former ad-marketing professional. The recipes for his Grandma Mookerjee pop-up (gazpacho, grilled prawns, bell pepper salad, croutons, chive oil — prawn cocktail reinvented; fungi and red wine ragout over a buttery and creamy Pecorino polenta, for example) are his takes on food he has grown up with. “Thanks to the foodie in my genes, I have been able to experiment across cuisines.”
And it is this food-lover in him that is disappointed when there is no feedback from diners. “It’s always nice to have people come back, with friends or family; but there have been cases where I haven’t had a toot from people I worked hard to feed. My wife and I have even designed our home in a way to add to the experience, so we’d rather not have a guest who is undiscerning,” he says.