in praise of sardines

In praise of Kashmir: chai, Kashmiri style

Every morning at the crack of dawn, the first order of the Kashmiri day is to light the coals which will heat water for the samovar, the ornate spouted vessel which holds the family tea. What kind of tea, or chai, the family makes seems to divide along sectarian lines, Muslim or Hindu. The two teas couldn't be any more different from one another. Their uniqueness also beautifully illustrates the regional nature of Indian cuisine. Today, I will share recipes for both types of Kashmiri chai.

But first, I have to get something off my chest. As my favorite local slam poet, Shailja Patel, is fond of pointing out, chai is not "a beverage invented in California." The Hindi/Urdu word chai simply means "tea."  "Chai tea" is a redundancy. Uttering the phrase "chai tea latte," the drink sold by Starbucks/Tazo®, should be a criminal offense. The three word phrase, strung together from the languages of three countries with unique culinary traditions, is a symbol of all that is wrong with globalization. Starbucks describes its drink as a blend of "exotic spices and comforting vanilla." The flavor bears more resemblance to a pumpkin pie than to the bracing cuppa sold by every chaiwallah at railroad stations throughout India. (Don't get me started on the "chai eggnog soy latte" I spotted on the Starbucks website).

Kahva

If you were to peer into the samovar in a Hindu pandit's kitchen, you may be surprised to discover green, not black, tea leaves. There is also no milk in this tea, which goes by the name kahva (also spelled kahwa). Kahva is usually served sweet and is infused with crushed almonds, green cardamom and sometimes cinnamon. On rare, very special occasions, a few strands of saffron may be added as well.

As a green tea drinker and a fan of anything with cardamom in it, I was extremely excited to learn about this lighter alternative to masala chai. I talked to a Pakistani halal butcher/grocer in town to find out what variety of green tea is used to make kahva. Kashmiris call it "Bombay tea," but in the tea trade here it is known as "gunpowder," named after the way the more mature tea leaves curl up into pellets when dried. The tea, grown in Sri Lanka or China, is available in any store that specializes in Middle Eastern groceries, where it is simply labeled "green tea."

I enjoyed the uplifting combination of flavors and plan to make kahva often, especially during the winter months. It makes an excellent post dinner digestif as well. I have not yet tried the kahva with saffron, as my wife doesn't care for saffron.

Sheer chai

Judged on appearance alone, it would be difficult to tell apart the milky tea favored by the majority Muslim population of Kashmir from the iconic railroad station masala chai. Both are made with black tea, milk and, sometimes, spices. One taste, however, and you'll know you're not in Delhi. Sheer chai or noon chai (noon is Kashmiri and sheer is Persian for milk) is salty, containing no sugar. For this milky brew, Kashmiris use a type of tea similar to Darjeeling called pahari (literally "of the mountain"). When Hindu pandits make sheer chai, they typically add a masala of some combination of green cardamom, ginger, cinnamon, black peppercorns, poppy seeds, and crushed almonds. Traditionally, tea makers also add a pinch of baking soda, which turns the tea a pinkish color.

Although I admittedly disliked the saltiness and the chemical flavor imparted by the baking soda, I may feel differently if I were sipping this after a trek through the Himalayas. The Tibetan peoples who dwell in neighboring Ladakh (technically a region within Kashmir) favor a similarly salty brew. They infamously include a dollop of rancid yak butter in their tea.

All of these teas and spices are included in the Kashmiri Cooking Kit (more than $60 worth of spices, food and recipes ), my donation to Menu for Hope II.

As a bonus, the winner of my prize will also receive the ingredients and the recipe to make masala chai, as taught to me by N's Bollywood socialite aunt. Aunt Geeta renowned throughout Mumbai (Bombay) for her masala chai.

Click the button below to be taken to the donation page where you can buy a raffle ticket for yourself or, as Sam of Becks & Posh suggested, as a gift to others on your holiday shopping list. Remember, whether you win or lose, all of the money raised will be donated to UNICEF to aid the victims of the massive earthquake that struck Kashmir in October. Thank you.

The complete recipes for the two Kashmiri-style chais are found below the jump!

WBW #15: Samsara, Verna's Vineyard Syrah 2004

There's good news and bad news about my entry for this month's Wine Blogging Wednesday, hosted by my pomegranate-loving fellow Bay Area blogger Fatemeh of Gatronomie. Fatemeh urged us to discover a wine with such a small production that only 250 cases or less were produced.

First, the good news. The sales people at Ferry Plaza Wine Merchant led me to a beautiful syrah made in southern California's Santa Barbara County. There were only 60 cases of this wine made.

The name of the winery, Samsara, could not be more appropriate, as today is El Día de los Muertos, the Aztec/Mexican day to remember the deceased . In Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism, samsara refers to the endless cycle of birth, death and rebirth that humans are stuck in until they manage to free themselves and attain enlightenment. The word samsara, then, tends to have a slightly negative connotation, unless of course you are marketing perfume or, apparently, syrah.

But anyway, back to the wine. This specific bottling of Samsara came from the 2004 vintage. Winemaker Chad Melville used syrah grapes from Verna's Vineyard, which is tended by his brother Brent. He then blended them with a small portion of white viognier grapes (8%), let the grape juice ferment naturally, aged it in 30% new French oak and bottled it unfiltered.

Yes, yes. What is the nose, the body, the finish? What aria do you hear playing upon the first sip? For God sakes, just tell us what this limited production beauty tastes like?*

Did I mention there was bad news? The wine was just released yesterday. I, ever the procrastinator, saw it at the wine shop this afternoon.

I struggled with the quandary of whether I really wanted to plunk down 36 bucks for a California syrah from last year's vintage that weighs in at 15.2% alcohol, rush home, pop the cork, pour myself a glass, snap a photo, write some drivel about how it could use about 5 to 10 more years of age and press "publish."

After a long, ponderous 2 minutes of deliberation, I decided to give it a pass.

I consider myself a connoisseur of cheap wines, by which I mean interesting and unusual wines from lesser known appellations that retail for, at most, $25. In my experience, most of the wines that fit that description come from Europe, not California.

In addition, as a chef and home cook, I prefer wines that pair well with food. For the Mediterranean style cuisine I typically cook, this means I prefer wines with good acidity and moderate (i.e. normal, reasonable) levels of alcohol. Although I did not sample the Samsara syrah, I view its relatively high level of alcohol as a red flag (yes, I am aware that there are many syrahs on the market that top 16% alcohol, and 15.2% is not that high for a California syrah).

But it really boiled down to one question. Why would I risk $36 on a California syrah when I know that for a comparable sum of money I could have a bottle of Vieux Télégraphe Châteauneuf-du-Pape or a Domaine Tempier Bandol from the amazing 2003 vintage, either of which will dance with my grilled lamb or rib-eye like Fred Astaire with Ginger Rogers?

*According to one taster, the wine "literally coated [his] glass and intense aromas of blackberry, spice, iodine, and savage notes jumped from the glass. A very structured wine with plenty of firm acidity." Sounds good. I probably would like it, especially with another 5 or 10 years of age.

WBW13: Banyuls and chocolate, why the classics are classic

With Clotilde as the host of this month's installment of Wine Blogging Wednesday, the pairing naturally had to be wine with chocolate (let's be thankful she didn't choose to go with zucchini...and hope I never propose sardines!).

I had the best of intentions when the theme was announced. I would bake Clotilde's velvety, nearly flourless chocolate cake and host a lovely soirée of trained culinarians and oenophiles, asking each to bring a bottle of some libation they thought would dance perfectly with the complex tastes and aromas of chocolate.

Instead, over the weekend my friends and I made an impromptu escape from chilly San Francisco in search of sun and sand. Clotilde's melt-in-your-mouth chocolate cake was sacrificed, replaced by s'mores, tri-tip and corn-on-the-cob grilled over a campfire. Although many bottles of wine made the trip, none were of the sweet dessert style.

Well, here it is, nearly 11 pm on Wednesday in California. In Paris, the sun is rising on a new day and I have yet to post my contribution. Fortunately, I work well under deadline (actually, I don't seem to work at all unless I have a deadline), so I've managed to put together something and with luck I'll get it in just under the wire.

I set out this afternoon (did I mention I'm a procrastinator yet?) across the Bay to Berkeley in search of a bottle of Dolç de l'Obac, a sweet red dessert wine that I had tasted back in July at the Costers del Siurana winery in the Priorat region of Spain. According to my tasting notes, I thought the wine, made mostly of garnacha (grenache in French) would go great with chocolate. Unfortunately, I came up empty-handed at The Spanish Table, which had run out of their supply until the holidays.

Because I hadn't recently won the lottery, I decided to forgo the Spanish Table's vast inventory of vintage port dating back to the middle of the last century. Instead, I headed to my favorite importer of French wines, Kermit Lynch. Surely the brilliant wine minds of KLWM would dazzle me with a suggestion for a clever pairing (by this time, it was already 5:00, so they had better be quick about it, too).

Quick they were, but perhaps lacking in innovation, proposing a bottle of Banyuls. "That's nice," I proffered, "but obvious. Don't you have anything more...interesting?" "Sometimes," the wine expert replied, "there's a reason the classics are classic. There is no better partner to chocolate in our store."

They handed me a bottle of 2003 Banyuls from Domaine La Tour Vieille (just $14 for 500 ml!), made by Cantie and Christine Campadieu just across the Spanish border in the French town of Collioure. It turns out that this vin doux naturel is made in nearly the same way and with the same grenache grapes as the Catalan vin dolç that I had originally set out to find.

My next hurdle was to find a rich chocolate cake. I headed back across the Bay and, miraculously, found a parking spot in front of my favorite San Francisco pâtisserie, Tartine. I couldn't decide between the miniature chocolate cakes called friands and the chocolate pot de crème, so I bought them both.

With no longer enough time to make dinner, I picked up N and we headed out to a restaurant. Home by 10 pm, we sat down to dessert and, finally, tasted the goods. The Banyuls did not disappoint. The color is a beautiful garnet and the body is not as syrupy as your typical dessert wine. Though it is fortified with a bit of brandy, the alcohol content, 15.5%, is not much higher than a California sangiovese I had over the weekend.

With one sniff, I instantly understood why it is such a successful accompaniment to chocolate desserts. The aromas of raspberry, coffee, mocha and, yes, cocoa waft out of the glass. Then, the crucial taste and, yes, this does indeed work very nicely. It went especially well with a luscious spoonful of the chocolate pot de crème that had been topped by a juicy raspberry.

Sometimes, there's a reason the classics are classic.