On my way to work every morning I drive past the branch of a well known sweet shop. Most days it is not too crowded – not between 9:30 and 10:30, at least – and I can see right through the store to the back shelves, where the chips and assorted other crunchies are stacked. And, in front, on open flames, a man sits before a large pan of hot oil or ghee and fries up batch after batch of brilliant orange jalebis, dunking them straight from the fat into vats of clear and sticky sugar syrup. Using another ladle, he lifts them, dripping sweet liquid, out into a large perforated dish to drain. And, almost as they are set down, they are bought up by eager customers, to eat hot and fresh on the way to work, or as a delicious breakfast with hot puris, warm milk or fresh cream.
When I was rather younger, we used to buy fresh hot jalebis from a small shop in South Mumbai. It was set in the depths of Navy Nagar, at one end of the city, just beyond which was a research establishment where Father often did his computer and library work and Mother and a very young me roamed the grounds or, when I was older, walked and argued about everything from food habits to dance styles to wardrobes to marriage. On the way home, we would stop the car close to the huddle of small shanty-shops and dive into the tiny alleyways to get to the sweetmeat seller and have a hot bagful of the yummies bundled up to take home. When I did my stint at the institute as a research scholar, I walked along the sea-promenade by myself, thinking my own thoughts and wondering idly whether the jalebi man would still be there. And, to my delight, I found that he was, and managed to take some home a few times. There were never any leftovers.
A jalebi is a delicious sweet fritter - for lack of any other appropriate description – that is a disc-like tangle of hollow flour-dough tubes that become filled with syrup as they soak. Since they are deep fried, they retain their crispness for a long while even when they are drenched. The syrup may be flavoured with rose water or with saffron, perhaps a touch of nutmeg and a soupcon of cardamom. The dough can be left au naturel - in which case the jalebis come out of their various baths a gentle pale gold colour - or with food colouring added - which makes them bright yellow or vivid flame orange.
Eating a fresh jalebi is a matter of drip and lick dry. But there are techniques that can minimise any of the turgid sap falling in sticky beads down your favourite shirt. The basic rule: Pick up a flat tangle and look for a loose end; there will be one. Either break it off – which means two hands sticky fingered – or bite into it. Hold the rest with the open end directed into your mouth, or upright away from your clothes. You can, if you are not finicky about making somewhat rude noises, suck on the end, to pull more of the syrup into your mouth. Then keep nibbling away at the rest of the web, making sure to keep any potential drips directed away from your clothes (you can lick the sweetness off yourself, but getting it out of your shirt is not the easiest route to travel unless you are close by a washing machine). While there is nothing yummier than a hot jalebi, an unblistered tongue feels better, trust me, so get your optimum biting temperature right.
Today the sweet shop I drove past every day was very crowded, with people buying like mad to celebrate Raksha Bandhan, the festival when sisters and brothers bond more than they do otherwise. And there were at least three separate jalebi makers hard at work, frying up piles of the bright orange tangles. I thought fondly of my adoptive brother, as long and as tangled, sometimes, as a jalebi with his long limbs and convoluted logic. But if you want to find your way to the best in the city, if the venerable gentleman and his establishment still exist, look for the small shop in the warren of Navy Nagar….
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