How to Eat Street Food in India without Regret

I’m not even sure how we signed up for this, to be honest, since everyone we spoke to warned us about water, ice, raw foods, vegetables, dairy, ill-cooked meats, general poor hygiene — in short, eating in India.   One friend told us not to ever trust even a 5-star hotel’s water.  Drink only beer, she said.

“Yak biryani.  This is the best place in the city.”  Robinson digs in, merrily.  Biryani is a rice dish cooked with vegetables, clarified butter called ghee, and spices and, in this case, yak meat.  “

Robinson, whose portly physique betrays his love of a good meal, sets down a plate with three forks.  He has a proper British accent with a lilting stiffness.  He rattles off his list of accomplishments which include author, double Ph.D.,  global expert in Islamic calligraphy and sacred music, art critic, farmer, foodie and sometimes tour guide. 

“Whatever else you do in India, this night will be the one you remember,” he promises.

The narrow passageway of the Muslim quarter spills to a street chockablock with food stalls.  Fried, grilled, steamed, or poured, the food preparation gets the front stage.  Robinson pointed for us to squeeze past a massive vat of rice,  and sit on a tiny linoleum-topped table.

The voices of digestive doom enter my head.  Is that rust or old food?  Do I have hand sanitizer?  What have I touched tonight? Am I committing intestinal suicide on my honeymoon?

“Don’t worry.  They cook the meat for 24 hours so it’s incredibly tender and flavorful.” He shuffles the rice until he finds a trio of ingredients to show us.  “This is the secret.”  I see cloves, black pepper, and green chiles.  

My brain is looking for a reason not to eat this.  Rice has to be safe, right?  I take a forkful of rice the piquant of chile melding with clove and ..is that cilantro or mint?  I’m too stressed at my digestive dilemma to fully enjoy the dish.  Robinson pushes the yak meat toward me expectantly.  Moment of truth. 

“You must try the meat.”

I eat but I still can’t taste.  It’s chewy.  It’s meat.  Fear. 

My ambivalence remains after biryani as we stop at a cart making popcorn.  The vendor swirls around the corn in sand, burning over a hot coal fire.  He scoops a proper serving and hands it to me in a newspaper cone.  I surreptitiously wipe my hands with an alcohol swap purchased on the advice of the Costco pharmacist (“It’s surgical.  It’ll kill anything,” she said.) and start eating with my hands.  I press another swab into Harry’s hands.  Still.  The popped corn is smokey and sultry.  Safe, right? 

We drive to Chandi Chowk a district of shops and food stands in Old Dehli.  We eat a backward meal, sweets first, because our earlier Sufi adventure has put us on the wrong side of town for Robinson’s typical street food tour.  

Next is halwa, a warm pistachio cashew sweet crumble soaked in ghee and sizzled on a massive iron pan for hours.  Harry takes his first bite slowly and his next ten as fast as he can.  Decadently rich with butter, its soft but with enough bite to move it away from pudding.  All hesitation has left us.

Sweet yak milk is next.  The vendor pours the hot drink in elaborate arcs, moving it from one vessel to another with a grand ritual.  He finishes by pouring our serving into a clay cup, India’s version of disposable serving ware.  The vendors’ ritual has cooled the drink so we don’t burn our mouths.  It’s warm and soothing, like a liquid creme brulee with a sweet froth instead of a burnt crunch. 

The spice markets are still open and the pepper, cloves, garlic and turmeric mound in color piles ready for purchase.

“The prices are good here,” Robinson jokes needling our Western sensibilities. “And they always throw the flies in for free.” 

We walk through the layers of aromas hot oil frying chiles, toasting breads,  sweet syrupy crisps, crossing from one side of the street to the other trying not to be killed by the motorized mayhem around us.

Another corner.  Robinson orders us a dal kachori, basically, a fried wheat puff stuffed with lentils and spices.  We dip it into a tamarind sauce. The coriander, mint, and chile find opposites attract as we taste the sweetness of the tamarind dancing with the spice.  Plus, it’s piping hot.  We dip into the other sauce, green chile and mint for added heat.  The tamarind sauce wins.  Robinson loads my dish, no going back now.  I’m having seconds.  

Lemon soda, called Banta, is next, but this isn’t LaCroix or flavored.  We are handed an old-fashioned soda pop bottle with a pressurized marble ball on top. Robinson asks for ours half salty, half sweet, a combination that makes the sparkling lemonade into an elevated mocktail.  Swalty, sweet and salty, should be a word.  Why isn’t this a word? #makeitswalty 

Our Delhi street food tour is not uncharted territory. The next food stand, Gali Paranthe Waliproudly presents its Tripadvisor stars.  We slip past the men tending a wood fire and tending to a stack of ready to fry bread.  I pull out my Costco alcohol swabs.  Robinson has informed us we will be eating with our hands.

We are served a large metal plate with an array of pickles (spicy rough sauces which we call chutneys), sweet tamarind, okra, and mint-chile,  plus a potato and peas curry and a mashed pumpkin dish I quickly inhale.  Robinson orders us a few of the parantha, stuffed bread quick fried in ghee (clarified butter).   I’m not sure of what he’s ordered.  Cauliflower, I think.  Potato, for sure.  This is pure comfort food, gluten-filled, chewy, hot and greasy.  We add the other compliments to our own level of burn. (Interestingly, I find Indian hot easier than Mexican hot). He presents us with a final doughy gift.

“Guess what this is?” Robinson says.  The paratha is sweet and creamy, like a treat for a child.  I could imagine this like French toast, stuffed pancakes or something like that. My first guess is cheese. My second is cashew nut.  Much of what we have eaten in the last few days have cashews. 

“Condensed sweet milk.” He’s happy to have stumped me.  “Now, ready for dinner?”

This is not the first time we have heard these words after stuffing ourselves with Indian snacks.  Our Indian hosts could have been Jewish mothers in another life. Harry protests.  We have eaten more calories in the last two hours than we ate in the week prior to our wedding but I acknowledge that our trip to India was not about asceticism.   Just a bite, I say.  

It’s close to eleven when we walk into Al Jawahar, a three-story, Muslim-owned “non-veg” establishment.  We, again, are the only Western faces we see among the tables of families and friends and have gotten used to being stared at.  The waiter is brusk as he slaps down a paper-thin roti, big enough to use as a napkin.  Here come the chicken korma in a cashew-tomato gravy, the kebab, fresh off the skewer and the winner of the evening, lamb chops aka Burra kebab.  Searing hot, perfectly cooked, seasoned with chiles, cumin, and other spices  – no garlic or onion here since this is a Muslim restaurant.  This is part of India’s Mughal tradition.  Mutton and chicken are on every menu. 

Robinson keeps ordering.  Another plate of biryani for the korma.  Another chicken dish, just to try.  Stomachs distended. We call enough.  He packs up what we won’t — no, can’t — eat.  Clearly, he is a bit disappointed in our abilities to eat like an Indian.

But wait.  He’s ordered one more thing.  A traditional sweet rice pudding dessert called phirini or kheel.  We have to taste it, he says.  We do. Robinson finishes it and wraps up the clay dish for me to take home as a souvenir.

In the car, we hear him whispering into his phone.  We catch a word or two, something about a woman waiting for him across the city.  The clock has just ticked past midnight.  His appetites still have not been sated.  He leaves us with a wave, still on his phone.  His adventure in mid-motion.

We slump in our seats headed back to our hotel, safely buckled into our van, our hand wipes nearby, still unsure if we are safe, but more willing to believe that in India, safety misses the point of being here.