Even while sunset flares spectacular above the horizon, the superb arc of Malvan’s beachfront bears an abandoned aspect. No shacks line these impressively broad sands. No restaurants, beach umbrellas, touts or massagewalis. No deck chairs either. And if you feel like a cold drink, there had better be one tucked into your pocket.
Still, you walk, as the evening breezes pick up the cool off the waves. Just yards into the distance, past a dense scrum of trawlers, the magnificent silhouette of Sindhudurg fortress glows warm in the fading embers of daylight. Shivaji had this formidable island redoubt built in 1664; it still remains inaccessible all through the monsoon. Now its distinctive ramparts fade invisible into the night. Dinnertime is come.
Malvan gets only a thin stream of visitors, mostly Maharashtrian day-trippers. Part of the fun is meant to be a meal of typical Malvani seafood, so several restaurants nestle deep in this seaside town’s grid of narrow streets, lined with lovely, tiny wooden buildings. Few cars penetrate here in the evenings. For roughly an hour after sunset, a mild buzz of activity picks up: young children pedalling bicycles in the middle of the road, locals doing their rounds, and everywhere cows, waiting expectantly for treats at each vegetable vendor and chai-shop.
Staple The Malvan thali is the order of choice at Ruchira’s. (Photograph from Outlook Archives)
But by 8 pm, the streets are empty again. At Ruchira’s restaurant, dangling lightbulbs barely fend off the shadows. But there’s no need to pore over a menu, because there’s only fish available, four kinds plus rich red fish curry. You can order the lot and eat steadily for an hour—as I do—for the same price as a couple of sandwiches at Mumbai airport. Super-fresh and mouth-watering, with the distinctive solkadi as a chaser, Malvani flavours are primary and uncomplicated, built on coconut, kokum, mild Kashmiri chillies and less than a handful of other spices. The only thing that really matters is the freshness of the fish.
The paramountcy of the piscine in Malvan’s culinary culture becomes apparent at dawn the next morning, when I trudge steadily through the sand towards a raucous crowd—that had gathered on the same beachfront where not a soul wandered at sunset the previous evening.
Coming closer, I see at least 400 people thronged together for the morning fish auction, probably more than everyone I encountered in the town’s streets the evening prior. Fat silvery mackerels are the main draw, as also squids and prawns, and the local favourites: tarle, pediye, saundale and kaapi. To one side, I notice someone dragging in a brace of gleaming, gorgeous specimens of what are generally called “red snappers”. In the markets of Mumbai, these are highly prized, but here they lie abandoned. Eventually, the fisherman resignedly dumps them into a plastic sack. No sale.
Those forlorn Tambso (the fish’s name in Konkani) still weigh on my mind as the taxi noses steadily through the narrow Malvan streets, heading uphill to join the highway to Goa, where too, I recall, many fish species were once considered only fit for fertiliser. It took a profound opening up for the marketplace to change; a process that hasn’t manifested in Malvan to any appreciable extent. Both the town and its cuisine stay largely untouched by the global influences that are still transforming much of the rest of the region.
It’s only a matter of time before this gorgeous stretch of coastline feels the impact of change, however. Driving swiftly from its laidback charms, it takes barely 40 minutes to connect to NH17. No more bullock carts and bicycles, we’re in thick among the giant buses and suvs. As the cab rolls into Sawantwadi, just this side of the Goa boarder, there’s no denying that we are back in the 21st century.
For centuries, this small kingdom was embroiled in struggles between the powerful forces seeking to dominate the region: the Adil Shahi sultans of Bijapur, the Portuguese, the Marathas and the Mughals. From the 19th century, though, it was firmly under British control. That colonial influence is clearly evident in the architecture of the unexpectedly interesting royal palace, which features a particularly impressive durbar hall. Once the site of grand receptions and multi-course ceremonial banquets, the room is now used by expert Ganjifa painters, keeping alive an ancient tradition.
Visions of antiquity are quickly replaced by anxiety as we tear across Goa’s border, towards the capital city, Panjim.
Paddy fields and coconut groves give way to multi-storey concrete buildings and industrial estates. Billboards advertising penthouse apartments, luxury bathroom fittings and premium imported automobiles now line the highway. Over the past decade, Goa has reeled from an onslaught of unplanned, often illegal mining and real estate development. The pressure on this tiny landmass is clearly building to a point of no return.
From the highway, much of the territory seems comprehensively urbanised already, a city-state in all but name. Once we zip by the market town of Mapusa, it’s a long blur of indistinguishable medium-rise buildings all the way to Panjim, into the old neighbourhood of Altinho, home of Fatima Silva Gracias, historian, writer, and a terrific home cook. Last year, she released Cozinha de Goa, a passionate survey of the complex, confluential culinary history and traditions of the state.
Gracias tells me that Goan food is profoundly globalised, with Portuguese, Arab, Malay, African and Chinese influences on top of the same base of Konkan ingredients and tastes that predominate in Malvan. But, “it is not just Goan food that was transformed due to the European encounter that started here in 1510”, she says. “In fact, the food of India itself was permanently altered.” She reminds me that chillies, potatoes, tomatoes, corn and many other New World ingredients entered the subcontinent via Goa. That the Portuguese introduced yeast-leavened bread, and even chhana, base to many essential Bengali sweets.
Gracias had just returned from Mumbai after attending the birth of her grandson. When he’s old enough to experience his culinary birthright, she tells me, she’ll make him a caldinho, a mild Goan curry that could not be more different from the one I slurped in such quantity the night before in Malvan, despite being based on the same two primary ingredients: fish and coconut. Hers uses finely diced onions and tomatoes, and a paste of ginger, garlic, turmeric, green chillies and jeera, with a dash of tamarind pulp or juice. It’s green, where Malvan’s was red, sweet where the other was tart.
Appetising Chris Agha with one of Sublime’s creations
This energetic young chef typifies what Goa’s opening up has brought to the state. He is the son of the late actor Jalal Agha, and grew up in-between India, Germany and the US, before studying at the reputed Culinary Institute of America and training at a top Californian restaurant. He started Sublime several years ago, in a pleasant garden location just minutes from the main tourism strip.
Many excellent and committed young chefs from all over the world live and work in Goa, Agha tells me. And what’s more, “the cheapies are now on their way out once and for all”. His restaurant’s clientele is now relatively adventurous and well-heeled and counts among its members an increasing component of locals.
And there’s plenty of choice among the seafood: tuna pepper steak with anchovy sauce, ginger-battered calamari with apricot chutney, fish steamed in banana-leaf with coriander-peanut pesto.
But we’re here to redeem the Tambso. Sublime’s snapper comes encrusted in a mix of imported Japanese Panko breadcrumbs and crumbled organic corn chips, accompanied by a red-pepper coulis, young asparagus, and a Peruvian-inspired salsa made from sweet potatoes, pomegranates and mandarin oranges. “It’s a completely, totally whacked-out combo, but it makes sense on the plate and on the palate.”
As swinging jazz fills the night air, I find myself becoming really hungry again. The plate appeared a vision of perfection, the colours swirled, the ingredients piled just so. The fish was delicious, pillowy soft, set perfectly against a terrific, unusual crust. A distinct residual hint of corn married the flavours marvellously. Just what I had been waiting for, the exclamation point at the end of my journey.
Fatima's Caldinho
Ingredients
2-3 pomfrets (white), 1 coconut (grated), 2-3 tsps coriander powder, 4-5 green chillies, 2-3 tsps cumin powder, 1 tsp turmeric powder, 8-10 garlic cloves, 1/2 inch of fresh ginger, 2-3 onions, 1 tomato, salt for taste
Method
Clean, cut (into slices) and wash the pomfrets. Salt and keep aside. Cut onions and tomatoes in small pieces. Saute onions and tomatoes. Add turmeric, coriander and cumin powders. Add the ginger-garlic paste and green chillies cut length-wise. Extract milk of coconut (by putting some water and grated coconut in an electric mixer). Remove extract and mix ingredients. Then let it cook. When the mixture starts to boil, add the fish and a little salt. When the fish is cooked, turn off the flame. Serve with Goa bread or boiled rice. Seer fish can be used in place of pomfret.
Caldinho curry can also be prepared with bottle gourd or cauliflower.
The author is a widely published writer and photographer
