Culinary legacies lost

Puneetinder Kaur Sidhu

In a few months from now, one of the earliest restaurants in Shimla will cease to exist, except in the realm of sepia images and lingering nostalgia. Easily as popular a draw to The Mall as the Christ Church, Baljees withstood the vagaries of time for nearly 65 years since its inception in 1954. Last year, following four decades of legal wrangles, it lost the will to fight rising costs and mounting bills. Over this period, many generations of Shimlaites have gorged on their paper dosas, chana bhaturas, gulab jamuns and other mithais. Countless others have stopped by at this old school eatery for cucumber sandwiches, a pot of tea, some chatter, and an exchange of ideas. Yet others swore by the Chinese food at Fascination, the restaurant they added in 1972. Regulars were on familiar terms with the long-serving staff. All that is set to change; Baljees will soon be a mere footnote in Shimla’s culinary history.

The fate is shared by several iconic eateries across India. The year 2015 saw the downing of shutters at two other legends within a few months of each other. Little more than a corridor adjacent to the Jehangir Art Gallery in Kala Ghoda, Café Samovar had a dream run when it opened for business in 1964. Their modestly priced fare — notably mint tea, keema paranthas and boti roti rolls — was a rage. Helmed by an exuberant Usha Khanna till she was well into her eighth decade, this Bohemian haunt also kept its date with Hindi cinema. Reel life found a shy Amol Palekar wooing Vidya Sinha here in the 1976 classic, Chhoti Si Baat. In real life, Café Samovar is where Amitabh Bachchan is believed to have taken his future wife Jaya Bhaduri on a first date. Sadly, thanks to a long-battled eviction order, romances will no longer blossom in its once vibrant space.

Equally distressing was the going out of business of Delhi’s oldest sweet shop. When Mughal Empire was crumbling, Lala Sukh Lal Jain, a sweet-maker from Rajasthan, arrived in Delhi. He went door-to-door sporting a big brass tray on his head, announcing his arrival by the tinkling of a bell. So fresh and so delectable was his sohan halwa, he soon acquired a pushcart, and in 1790 graduated to a shop in Chandni Chowk. That’s where it stayed for 225 years. Having assuaged the sweet tooth of many a nobleman, wealthy merchant, Prime Minister, and President during its existence, Ghantewala was forced to call it quits thanks to changing tastes and legalities, yet again. For Dilliwalas, who unfailingly flocked here for a taste of their delightful desi ghee goodies, it was akin to losing a loved one. 

Given how much we squabble about heritage nowadays, how could we allow our living heritage to wither and die? As a food-loving people, shouldn’t we be making a concerted effort to resuscitate some of these culinary greats?  Or are we happy to relegate them to archival existence? Because the next time you yearn for some crisp, nut-laden sohan halwa from Ghantewala, the closest you’ll get is a glimpse of the shop’s likeness in the 1954 film Chandni Chowk. Tastes different, don’t you think?