Vada Pav Masala Online

Vada Pav Masala Online

vada pav masala online in Shrihari Masala. I first heard about vada pav when I started work in Mumbai years ago. It sounded intriguing, but with my unfortunately western-acclimatized palate, I was terrified to go anywhere near it. It looked meanly at me every time I worked up enough nerve to be in the same room, and that lurid red chutney and the spiky green chili seemed to be aiming directly at my spice receptors, the extra-sensitive little nibs that lurked in my mouth, eyes, nose and various parts of my digestive system.

One day, a merciless and determined rakhi brother took me to a local eatery where the specialty of the house was vada pav — also misal, Piyush, sabudana khichdi and dried amla as a mouth freshener, all typically Maharashtrian, native to the State and peculiarly Mumbaiyya in flavor, presentation and degree of fire. I was pushed into a seat at a Formica-topped table, my bottom plunked down hard on an excruciatingly clean and hard bench and an order rapped out to a hovering waiter in immaculately fluent Marathi.

A few seconds later, plates started scattering over the table in front of me. And the smells that wafted straight into my nose got my mouth watering with anticipation. I reached over for the vada pav, a pillow of soft white bread enveloping a patty that seemed to be potato with some added bits and pieces. A bite later my mouth, nose, and eyes began to water. There was some confusion too — that single bite held magic and evil, joy and great grief, all in one complex package.

In that one morsel, there was the heaven of softly cooked potatoes dancing delightfully with melting onion, sparks of ginger and garlic, and coriander leaves. And then there was the hell of spiky chilies, their calm green color belying the devilish heat and indelible burn that followed their arrival on my tongue. The soft comforting blanket of the bread in which this mélange was enclosed helped for a brief few seconds and then the chutney kicked me smartly in the tonsils, the red chili, garlic, and salt stabbing directly at the pain synapses. “It has to be spicy, idiot,” my brother said cheerfully as I mopped my eyes and wiped the sweat off my forehead. Yes, the fire helped, most of all in directing a baleful glower at the man sitting across from me.

The vada pav is an extremely popular vegetarian fast food sold on sidewalks, and in starred restaurants all over the city. It is cheap, hot, filling, and, in comparison to so many other dishes that are classed as ‘fast’, nutritious — starchy, energy-rich, and not too greasy.

The vada is made of boiled and crushed batata, or potato, which is mixed with spices, herbs and onions, chilies, ginger and garlic, and shaped into a patty, dipped in a coating of gram flour or besan with spices and then deep-fried in very hot oil. This is inserted, piping hot, into a fresh pav, or unsweetened bun.

Credit for creating this Mumbaiyya staple is often given to Ashok Vaidya, a snack vendor who set up his stall just outside Dadar station, a major commuter hub in the metropolis. Vaidya reportedly came up with this recipe in 1971 to appease the hunger of the rush of commuters who wanted a snack they could carry and munch on without needing implements or cleansing wipes. He served it up with a fiery red chutney that could include coconut, peanuts, chillies, garlic and tamarind pulp.

As with anything that is a huge hit — be it food or films — imitators leaped on to the bandwagon. Every food stall outside every school, college, mall, or office building started developing its own variation. Fusion played a huge role — the conventional Maharashtrian snack acquired collaborators from all over the world: There was soon the Schezwan vada pav, with Chinese influences that perhaps the Chinese would never recognize, but the local eating public knew and loved; cheese vada pav, which included a nice scattering of grated processed cheese that melted deliciously and coated teeth and potato alike; Jain vada pav that catered to religious sensibilities and eliminated onion, garlic and potatoes (what is left, you may ask); and a luxury version that came with cashew nuts, raisins, and the occasional and startling syrupy maraschino cherry.