When was the last time you ate something at a street vendor’s stall in Mumbai and wondered what the story behind the dish was? I bet, you wouldn’t even have thought about it. In a city that has to offer a wide array of culinary variety, right from a Rs 10  nimbu paani to a Rs 25000 three-course meal, not many seem curious about the history behind the food that they savour on a daily basis.&nbsp;

Mumbai’s street food perhaps has the widest range of delicacies that you can possibly sample in 233 sq. miles of area. It’s a culinary universe packed onto a set of little islands. Holding true to its cosmopolitan reputation, the city’s street food, too, has various identities and avatars. Perhaps the most popular street food dish in Mumbai would be the Pav Bhaji. A spicy, soupy, crunchy mixture of vegetables, pan-fried or  Tawa fried in a unique mixture of spices, served with two or three portions of the city’s famed laadi pavs, soaked in butter and chaat masala – this combination is a delight for any avid foodie. Nowadays, the humble Pav Bhaji, which was often served in stalls or small vendors in humble nooks and corners of the city, has now taken on a national and even an international identity, served with toppings ranging from mozzarella cheese to grated paneer to mushrooms. It has even evolved in some places to become Pav Bhaji pizzas. You name it, and the Pav Bhaji has an avatar ready to match your palate!&nbsp;

But there are a very few people who would know about the humble beginnings of this now popular fast food item. In fact, in all probability, Pav Bhaji can be called the first South Asian dish to be associated with the term ‘fast food.’ While many wrongly associate the origins of this dish to Gujarat, it was actually conceived as a necessity by the womenfolk of 19th century Mumbai chawls. The Pav Bhaji’s birth was actually born as a makeshift fix rather than invention. In the late 1800s when Mumbai’s cloth mills started flourishing, they created a huge workforce of labourers who would toil hours in a day. These labourers would often go hungry because they would get very little time for a decent bite, as they were tirelessly working to fulfill the growing demand of Indian cotton in European markets. The workers would leave early and come back late from their respective shifts, leaving their wives with very little time to prep a decent meal to pack for their men. It was out of fulfilling this necessity of ensuring that the man of the house keeps the machines running without going hungry that the street food of today, the Pav Bhaji was born. 
 
The woman of the house realized that in order to provide the nutrition on a thin budget, a quick fix was required. A wide range of vegetables, including carrots, potatoes, cabbage, green peas, onions, or whatever else was available in their little chawls would be cooked in a peculiar mix of different powdered spices (which is a staple in Maharashtrian households) and packed for lunch with bhakri – a nutritious flat bread prepared from millet dough, similar to roti but more coarse in texture. Surprisingly, the pav was introduced, much later. The homemaker could then be at peace about the health of the bread-winner of the family while preparing a meal in no time.&nbsp;

Today’s version of  Pav Bhaji, however, rose to the fore sometime in the late 70s when the dish gained fast popularity amongst the Gujarati community in Mumbai with added elements like butter, cheese and various chutneys catching up with time. But the basis of the modern dish – a crush of potatoes, tomatoes, onions, green peas and at times cauliflower or broccoli – remains the same till date. The simple food wonder has helped many families – who still set up little roadside stalls serving the dish - put their children through decent education and have good lives. &nbsp;

So, the next time you are pampering your taste buds – be it at Tardeo’s Sardar Pav Bhaji, at CST’s Canon Pav Bhaji, or at any other such famed localised brand – don’t forget to tip your hats to those simple women of 19th century Mumbai chawls, who laid the foundations of this modern-day culinary wonder!&nbsp;

(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed above are the personal views of the author and do not reflect the views of ZMCL)

When was the last time you ate something at a street vendor’s stall in Mumbai and wondered what the story behind the dish was? I bet, you wouldn’t even have thought about it.

When was the last time you ate something at a street vendor’s stall in Mumbai and wondered what the story behind the dish was? I bet, you wouldn’t even have thought about it. In a city that has to offer a wide array of culinary variety, right from a Rs 10  nimbu paani to a Rs 25000 three-course meal, not many seem curious about the history behind the food that they savour on a daily basis. Mumbai’s street food perhaps has the widest range of delicacies that you can possibly sample in 233 sq. miles of area. It’s a culinary universe packed onto a set of little islands. Holding true to its cosmopolitan reputation, the city’s street food, too, has various identities and avatars. Perhaps the most popular street food dish in Mumbai would be the Pav Bhaji. A spicy, soupy, crunchy mixture of vegetables, pan-fried or  Tawa fried in a unique mixture of spices, served with two or three portions of the city’s famed laadi pavs, soaked in butter and chaat masala – this combination is a delight for any avid foodie. Nowadays, the humble Pav Bhaji, which was often served in stalls or small vendors in humble nooks and corners of the city, has now taken on a national and even an international identity, served with toppings ranging from mozzarella cheese to grated paneer to mushrooms. It has even evolved in some places to become Pav Bhaji pizzas. You name it, and the Pav Bhaji has an avatar ready to match your palate! But there are a very few people who would know about the humble beginnings of this now popular fast food item. In fact, in all probability, Pav Bhaji can be called the first South Asian dish to be associated with the term ‘fast food.’ While many wrongly associate the origins of this dish to Gujarat, it was actually conceived as a necessity by the womenfolk of 19th century Mumbai chawls. The Pav Bhaji’s birth was actually born as a makeshift fix rather than invention. In the late 1800s when Mumbai’s cloth mills started flourishing, they created a huge workforce of labourers who would toil hours in a day. These labourers would often go hungry because they would get very little time for a decent bite, as they were tirelessly working to fulfill the growing demand of Indian cotton in European markets. The workers would leave early and come back late from their respective shifts, leaving their wives with very little time to prep a decent meal to pack for their men. It was out of fulfilling this necessity of ensuring that the man of the house keeps the machines running without going hungry that the street food of today, the Pav Bhaji was born. The woman of the house realized that in order to provide the nutrition on a thin budget, a quick fix was required. A wide range of vegetables, including carrots, potatoes, cabbage, green peas, onions, or whatever else was available in their little chawls would be cooked in a peculiar mix of different powdered spices (which is a staple in Maharashtrian households) and packed for lunch with bhakri – a nutritious flat bread prepared from millet dough, similar to roti but more coarse in texture. Surprisingly, the pav was introduced, much later. The homemaker could then be at peace about the health of the bread-winner of the family while preparing a meal in no time. Today’s version of  Pav Bhaji, however, rose to the fore sometime in the late 70s when the dish gained fast popularity amongst the Gujarati community in Mumbai with added elements like butter, cheese and various chutneys catching up with time. But the basis of the modern dish – a crush of potatoes, tomatoes, onions, green peas and at times cauliflower or broccoli – remains the same till date. The simple food wonder has helped many families – who still set up little roadside stalls serving the dish - put their children through decent education and have good lives. So, the next time you are pampering your taste buds – be it at Tardeo’s Sardar Pav Bhaji, at CST’s Canon Pav Bhaji, or at any other such famed localised brand – don’t forget to tip your hats to those simple women of 19th century Mumbai chawls, who laid the foundations of this modern-day culinary wonder! (Disclaimer: The opinions expressed above are the personal views of the author and do not reflect the views of ZMCL)

Blog: The humble origins of Mumbai's popular snack - Pav Bhaji

My parents are products of the old city of Bombay, now Mumbai. By old, I specifically mean, Girgaon - the cultural, political and culinary hub of the old town. A treasure chest of the city’s original seven islands. While my family can certainly not afford to live in the area which is now referred to as ‘SoBo (hip for South Bombay)’, ‘town’ and other such funky names, the stories of their childhood they shared with me have always intrigued me about the old city. Food is a major connecting factor. My mother's eyes light up at the mention of Gupta Bhelpuri of Girgaon and there is a spring in the steps of my father when I tell him I was at Yazdani sipping a chai or at Kyani gorging on an aamlet pav (Mumbai lingo for Omellete with buns).&nbsp;

Both these joints are the last of a dying breed of Irani cafes famous for their chai, bun maska and baked goodies. My parents fondly tell me how the food culture was simple and filled with quality. They of course talk of the good old post-independence years, when they grew up eating at joints that were culinary hubs. My father reminisces his culinary love affair with Yazdani. He describes in detail about how the smell of fresh bread at Yazdani bakery would make him stop in his step and how the aroma of their trademark chai made him postpone many a business meeting.

The humble bun maska and chai are beyond just a simple snack for Mumbaikars who understand what it feels to stretch the day in budgetary constraints. It’s in their DNA. Making sure that the quantity is filling, the venue decent and cost in check is so crucial for someone like my father who had it tough, while making sure I had a comfortable life.

He often described in detail, how after a tough day looking for jobs or small-time gigs (my father was a struggling actor back in the 70s), a bun maska &amp; chai is all he could afford and along with his friends, they would converse, agree, disagree, argue, laugh and just forget failures and disappointments that plagued him during the day. So after a conversation with him, where he passionately spoke about one of his chai sessions with his friends at Yazdani in 1970, I decided to take a stroll down the old Horniman Circle area (that still makes me giggle). &nbsp;

I have a friend who does poetry and we have this unspoken pact where we take off every weekend exploring the now-forgotten areas of the city which were once talk of the town. Bakeries, restaurants, junctions, places of worship, docks...we literally go out of our way to find out when was it that these places or their food got forgotten. This gives us an opportunity to come out of our cages and just know the city a bit better, perhaps taking a lesson or two on the way back home. So off I went him in search of this culinary romance that my father so emotionally narrated. We had an image in our mind, as we were looking for this bakery. A nice carved wooden entrance, colonial exterior, beautiful wooden tables and chairs, all this because of multiple visits to Kyani near Metro Cinema, which still holds on to some of that British era feel. &nbsp; 
 
<img alt="Old Bombay" data-entity-type="file" data-entity-uuid="e28a354c-0b40-41e3-b7b0-c8126827a029" src="//cdn.wionews.com/sites/default/files/inline-images/Bun2.jpg" />

But when we saw this place, we were sadly surprised. Almost dilapidated, surrounded by xerox and mobile shops, the bakery seemed like a lonely old prostitute – who in her mind has a lot to offer, but has no takers. A few people sitting inside on what seemed like old school benches clearly didn't appreciate the place or its food. The colonial-era bread making machine though was still able to churn out hot freshly baked bread loaves and buns and that aroma of the chai seemed exactly how my father had described it. That was all the invitation that we needed. That bread machine was perhaps the last bit of the structure's soul keeping it going.&nbsp;

We attempted to speak to the old man sitting at the counter. But he was as grumpy as this place looked. There was so much that I wanted to ask him about the place and the life that it had lived. Attempts to strike small conversations fell on deaf ears. He too, it seemed, had become a part of the structure’s misery.

I sat down with my friend on the rickety bench, biting into our bun maska and its cousin, the brun pav or as Maharashtrians call it, kadak pav. Hard and crunchy on the exterior and as soft as the bun inside. It was like that this bread was born to be paired with the chai. We ate and drank, our eyes searching and ears thirsty for some old soul who would share a story. But we had to leave empty handed. The chai and the bread was the only good part of the visit.&nbsp;

Later that evening, as I returned home, I told my father about my visit. "Does it still smell the same?” he quickly sat up on his bed and inquired like a curious child. "The chai and bread does", I replied. His excitement turned into a clearly visible sorrow on his face. Perhaps it finally dawned on him that 1970 was a long time ago. &nbsp; 
 
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed above are the personal views of the author and do not reflect the views of ZMCL)&nbsp;

My parents are products of the old city of Bombay, now Mumbai. By old, I specifically mean, Girgaon - the cultural, political and culinary hub of the old town. A treasure chest of the city’s original seven islands.

My parents are products of the old city of Bombay, now Mumbai. By old, I specifically mean, Girgaon - the cultural, political and culinary hub of the old town. A treasure chest of the city’s original seven islands. While my family can certainly not afford to live in the area which is now referred to as ‘SoBo (hip for South Bombay)’, ‘town’ and other such funky names, the stories of their childhood they shared with me have always intrigued me about the old city. Food is a major connecting factor. My mother's eyes light up at the mention of Gupta Bhelpuri of Girgaon and there is a spring in the steps of my father when I tell him I was at Yazdani sipping a chai or at Kyani gorging on an aamlet pav (Mumbai lingo for Omellete with buns). Both these joints are the last of a dying breed of Irani cafes famous for their chai, bun maska and baked goodies. My parents fondly tell me how the food culture was simple and filled with quality. They of course talk of the good old post-independence years, when they grew up eating at joints that were culinary hubs. My father reminisces his culinary love affair with Yazdani. He describes in detail about how the smell of fresh bread at Yazdani bakery would make him stop in his step and how the aroma of their trademark chai made him postpone many a business meeting. The humble bun maska and chai are beyond just a simple snack for Mumbaikars who understand what it feels to stretch the day in budgetary constraints. It’s in their DNA. Making sure that the quantity is filling, the venue decent and cost in check is so crucial for someone like my father who had it tough, while making sure I had a comfortable life. He often described in detail, how after a tough day looking for jobs or small-time gigs (my father was a struggling actor back in the 70s), a bun maska & chai is all he could afford and along with his friends, they would converse, agree, disagree, argue, laugh and just forget failures and disappointments that plagued him during the day. So after a conversation with him, where he passionately spoke about one of his chai sessions with his friends at Yazdani in 1970, I decided to take a stroll down the old Horniman Circle area (that still makes me giggle). I have a friend who does poetry and we have this unspoken pact where we take off every weekend exploring the now-forgotten areas of the city which were once talk of the town. Bakeries, restaurants, junctions, places of worship, docks...we literally go out of our way to find out when was it that these places or their food got forgotten. This gives us an opportunity to come out of our cages and just know the city a bit better, perhaps taking a lesson or two on the way back home. So off I went him in search of this culinary romance that my father so emotionally narrated. We had an image in our mind, as we were looking for this bakery. A nice carved wooden entrance, colonial exterior, beautiful wooden tables and chairs, all this because of multiple visits to Kyani near Metro Cinema, which still holds on to some of that British era feel. But when we saw this place, we were sadly surprised. Almost dilapidated, surrounded by xerox and mobile shops, the bakery seemed like a lonely old prostitute – who in her mind has a lot to offer, but has no takers. A few people sitting inside on what seemed like old school benches clearly didn't appreciate the place or its food. The colonial-era bread making machine though was still able to churn out hot freshly baked bread loaves and buns and that aroma of the chai seemed exactly how my father had described it. That was all the invitation that we needed. That bread machine was perhaps the last bit of the structure's soul keeping it going. We attempted to speak to the old man sitting at the counter. But he was as grumpy as this place looked. There was so much that I wanted to ask him about the place and the life that it had lived. Attempts to strike small conversations fell on deaf ears. He too, it seemed, had become a part of the structure’s misery. I sat down with my friend on the rickety bench, biting into our bun maska and its cousin, the brun pav or as Maharashtrians call it, kadak pav. Hard and crunchy on the exterior and as soft as the bun inside. It was like that this bread was born to be paired with the chai. We ate and drank, our eyes searching and ears thirsty for some old soul who would share a story. But we had to leave empty handed. The chai and the bread was the only good part of the visit. Later that evening, as I returned home, I told my father about my visit. "Does it still smell the same?” he quickly sat up on his bed and inquired like a curious child. "The chai and bread does", I replied. His excitement turned into a clearly visible sorrow on his face. Perhaps it finally dawned on him that 1970 was a long time ago.  (Disclaimer: The opinions expressed above are the personal views of the author and do not reflect the views of ZMCL)

Blog: Forgotten culinary treasures of old Bombay

One of the fondest memories of my childhood were the early morning inter-school cricket matches at Mumbai's iconic Cross Maidan. This venue was special for me as a budding cricketer because the square boundaries were short on either side and it was a batsman's paradise. It would generally mean that if the wicket was good, any team batting first would pile on the runs. But piling on all those runs meant that one would need to fill up the old gas tank to its capacity. In maidan cricket lingo, the gas tank would refer to one’s tummy. Fortunately, the Khau Galli, Mumbai's very own eat street, was right next to the ground. 
 
I distinctly remember this old man who would place a humble wooden table and sell nothing but soft buns sandwiched with fresh butter and jam. As I passed the entrance of the maidan, where he would usually set up his stall, a smile from him was like an entry ticket on the field, without which my day would be incomplete. His routine while setting up his bun maska stall, was much like a batsman prepping himself mentally to go out in the middle to fend off a spell of hostile fast bowling. A tall lanky figure, he would walk briskly with a spring in his step, which hid his age, otherwise clearly visible in the wrinkles on his face. He would take out his foldable wooden stool, which looked like it would give away any moment. But perhaps it had carried the weight of this man’s life and livelihood for a long time. Then he would reach into his huge cloth bag, and out came the freshly baked buns! 
 
<img alt="BUn Maska" data-entity-type="file" data-entity-uuid="c87759d9-6059-424d-89c4-05057fcd6866" src="//cdn.wionews.com/sites/default/files/inline-images/Mumbai1.jpg" />

At times, the batsman batting nearest to his stall would get distracted at the aroma of the freshly baked bread, which mingled well with the moist maidan essence. And then like a skillful batsman negotiating a battery of pace bowling, the man would use his butter knife with precision, to create a work of culinary art – perfectly sliced buns with the right amount of Amul butter and some jam. Not too little, not too much! For only five rupees, any batsman eating the bun maska, could lead the charge against the opposition till the lunch break.

The bun maska, though humble, is a culinary icon which is an integral part of the old city's food culture. A piping hot cutting chai and a bun maska to start the day is a routine without which many Mumbaikars would have a restless day, almost as if something was missing. One can easily find small tables set up outside most Mumbai railway stations selling the bun maska for a humble sum. But none of these have the character and grace of the bun maska that you get at the city's traditional Irani cafes. The aroma of freshly baked buns with melting butter and the Irani chai was enough is enough to kick start the day on an optimistic note. A good Irani chai can actually make your worries disappear and an unassumingly sumptuous bun maska with it is just the push one needs to get the day going.

Mumbai's romance with Irani cafes goes back to the 19th century when Zoroastrian immigrants from Central Asia opened up bakeries and cafes, marking the start of a never-ending romance with Mumbaikars. There were around 200 notable Irani cafes across Mumbai in the 50s, and now only a handful remain. Breathing their last, these colonial joints known for their unique bun maska, kheema pav, mutton samosas, pastries and other mouth-watering delicacies were the talk of the town. One such Irani joint was Grant Road's B Merwan &amp; Sons. Their mawa cakes are to die for. I remember my father getting up as early as six in the morning during summer vacations to make sure that he got to the bakery all the way from Kandivli so that he could manage to get me fresh cakes by the time I was up. 
 
<img alt="Cafe" data-entity-type="file" data-entity-uuid="c1b641f7-198a-4375-bdbf-7c8441f09b48" src="//cdn.wionews.com/sites/default/files/inline-images/Mumbai3.jpg" /> 
 
The term 'to sell like hot cakes' would perhaps have started from the Merwan bakery because those cakes with their soft spongy interior and christmasy cardamom after taste would sell out by nine. One can still grab a chai and mawa cake or a mutton puff at the bakery, but the glory days have been over for a long time. The hustle and bustle of the 20th century that gave these Irani joints its identity is long lost in today's coffee shop culture. Simplicity, perhaps, has no takers. I still pass the bakery whenever I am in the old city and one glimpse of it's crumbling pre-independence architecture still woos me. The Victorian-style carvings at the entrance, the century-old wooden gates are still a tease. The typical 60s advertising with posters on the bakery's exterior and the large font announcing the menu are all there, but it's not the same anymore. Something seems a miss

 
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed above are the personal views of the author and do not reflect the views of ZMCL) .&nbsp;

One of the fondest memories of my childhood were the early morning inter-school cricket matches at Mumbai's iconic Cross Maidan. This venue was special for me as a budding cricketer because the square boundaries were short on either side and it was a batsman's paradise.

One of the fondest memories of my childhood were the early morning inter-school cricket matches at Mumbai's iconic Cross Maidan. This venue was special for me as a budding cricketer because the square boundaries were short on either side and it was a batsman's paradise. It would generally mean that if the wicket was good, any team batting first would pile on the runs. But piling on all those runs meant that one would need to fill up the old gas tank to its capacity. In maidan cricket lingo, the gas tank would refer to one’s tummy. Fortunately, the Khau Galli, Mumbai's very own eat street, was right next to the ground. I distinctly remember this old man who would place a humble wooden table and sell nothing but soft buns sandwiched with fresh butter and jam. As I passed the entrance of the maidan, where he would usually set up his stall, a smile from him was like an entry ticket on the field, without which my day would be incomplete. His routine while setting up his bun maska stall, was much like a batsman prepping himself mentally to go out in the middle to fend off a spell of hostile fast bowling. A tall lanky figure, he would walk briskly with a spring in his step, which hid his age, otherwise clearly visible in the wrinkles on his face. He would take out his foldable wooden stool, which looked like it would give away any moment. But perhaps it had carried the weight of this man’s life and livelihood for a long time. Then he would reach into his huge cloth bag, and out came the freshly baked buns! At times, the batsman batting nearest to his stall would get distracted at the aroma of the freshly baked bread, which mingled well with the moist maidan essence. And then like a skillful batsman negotiating a battery of pace bowling, the man would use his butter knife with precision, to create a work of culinary art – perfectly sliced buns with the right amount of Amul butter and some jam. Not too little, not too much! For only five rupees, any batsman eating the bun maska, could lead the charge against the opposition till the lunch break. The bun maska, though humble, is a culinary icon which is an integral part of the old city's food culture. A piping hot cutting chai and a bun maska to start the day is a routine without which many Mumbaikars would have a restless day, almost as if something was missing. One can easily find small tables set up outside most Mumbai railway stations selling the bun maska for a humble sum. But none of these have the character and grace of the bun maska that you get at the city's traditional Irani cafes. The aroma of freshly baked buns with melting butter and the Irani chai was enough is enough to kick start the day on an optimistic note. A good Irani chai can actually make your worries disappear and an unassumingly sumptuous bun maska with it is just the push one needs to get the day going. Mumbai's romance with Irani cafes goes back to the 19th century when Zoroastrian immigrants from Central Asia opened up bakeries and cafes, marking the start of a never-ending romance with Mumbaikars. There were around 200 notable Irani cafes across Mumbai in the 50s, and now only a handful remain. Breathing their last, these colonial joints known for their unique bun maska, kheema pav, mutton samosas, pastries and other mouth-watering delicacies were the talk of the town. One such Irani joint was Grant Road's B Merwan & Sons. Their mawa cakes are to die for. I remember my father getting up as early as six in the morning during summer vacations to make sure that he got to the bakery all the way from Kandivli so that he could manage to get me fresh cakes by the time I was up. The term 'to sell like hot cakes' would perhaps have started from the Merwan bakery because those cakes with their soft spongy interior and christmasy cardamom after taste would sell out by nine. One can still grab a chai and mawa cake or a mutton puff at the bakery, but the glory days have been over for a long time. The hustle and bustle of the 20th century that gave these Irani joints its identity is long lost in today's coffee shop culture. Simplicity, perhaps, has no takers. I still pass the bakery whenever I am in the old city and one glimpse of it's crumbling pre-independence architecture still woos me. The Victorian-style carvings at the entrance, the century-old wooden gates are still a tease. The typical 60s advertising with posters on the bakery's exterior and the large font announcing the menu are all there, but it's not the same anymore. Something seems a miss (Disclaimer: The opinions expressed above are the personal views of the author and do not reflect the views of ZMCL) .

Mumbai's romance with Irani cafes and bun maska is fading away

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Zee News Rajasthan

Editor

Ishan Choudhary

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