A Breakfast Table in Bandra.
For the past sixty years, my grandfather has eaten the same breakfast every single day: bread with butter, dunked in milk with bits of malai or clotted cream, and half a cup of chai. Fastidious in all aspects of life, his day begins at the break of dawn and is marked by the breaking of bread.
I remember my grandfather in baggy cotton shorts and old polo shirts which loosely hang from his lanky body. His skin is dappled with pale pink spots from the vitiligo he developed as a teenager. At 7 a.m. sharp, he descends swiftly down the stairs and through the one-laned, unpaved street that is Bazaar Road nodding to a few familiar faces and setting a brisk pace. The journey to the bakery is five minutes by foot and made with a sense of urgency.
At 7 a.m., the bazaar is only beginning to awake. A few vegetable vendors are claiming their stake alongside the contested road, pitching brightly colored umbrellas over woven baskets filled with fresh produce. Behind them, most small shops remain closed, guarded by metal rolling shutters. From the balconies, up above, windows can be seen opening--women in long cotton nightgowns peeking their heads to see the scene below, offering their morning salutations to neighbors in opposing balconies.
The scene changes as we approach the bakery. First, a sweet, buttery smell hits our noses, and then we see a lively crowd congregating around the bakery counter. Men and women, Catholics and Mohammedans, young and old are all in friendly competition for the freshest of goods, shouting their orders to two men shuffling to and from a dark room in the back. My grandfather unflinchingly inserts himself and shouts, “Garam pav do, bhaiya.” He is asking for hot bread. His orders vary. There is the karak pav or gutli pav, a family favorite, with its golden, crispy exterior and soft, light interior. There is also the naram pav which remains soft and light throughout. When the house was filled with three generations, between six to eight large, karak pavs were purchased. Each pav, less than twenty-five paisa. Now in his old age, for himself, my grandfather purchases two naram pav, or soft bread rolls. He pays three rupees for one pav.
Bazaar Road seen from the balcony, September, 2017.
At 7:15 a.m., my grandfather arrives back to the shade of his second floor apartment and the ritual continues. Breakfast is eaten in the living room, to the rhythmic sounds of a whirring ceiling fan punctuated by the occasional honks of rickshaws and scooters, on a low-rising glass coffee table. From a flimsy plastic bag, surfaces a warm parcel wrapped in newspaper and tied with white string. It is carefully unwrapped, each pav gingerly torn apart, partially cut into slices, and placed onto snack plates. For each plate, there is a steel saucer filled with milk and floating bits of cream. Teacups brimming with steaming, milky chai are thrust into empty hands or squeezed between plates. A plate of seared and salted green chillies is passed around. Tall aluminum containers emerge from a wooden cabinet, each containing an assortment of Gujarati deep-fried snacks such as gaathiyan and chevdo. “You need something crunchy, salty, tasty to eat with the pav,” my grandfather says. Between 7:30-7:45 a.m. breakfast is finished. By 8:00 a.m. the table is cleaned, and the living room prepared for the day.
Breakfast with my grandparents, Bandra, July 2019.
The origins of pav are easy to trace. Brought to India by the Portuguesse, the bread has become a beloved staple in Bombay households and streetside eateries. Pav does not discriminate between rich and poor. It is essential to iconic Bombay favorites such as the vada pav and pav bhaji. The origin of karak pav eaten with malai or clotted cream is more difficult to trace and specific to Bandra. My grandfather cannot recall how the dish came to be a household breakfast staple. His sister tells me that Bandra in the early 1900s was predominantly Catholic--converts from the Portuguese reign-- and bakeries selling pav were in abundance. My great grandmother fed a full house of five daughters, two sons, and a husband a daily breakfast of pav. Economic in her operations, she skimmed the fat off boiled water buffalo’s milk-- to be used for chai and yoghurt--and offered it as a spread for the pav. Thus came to be the malai-pav breakfast my family relishes.
My grandfather has lived his entire life within a seven mile radius of his home in Bandra, moving between his home and his pharmacy in Byculla which for years he owned with his younger brother. Vacations and trips to see relatives were rare encounters and even after his two children moved thousands of miles away to the United States he only made the trip thrice to see them. Routine and order are essential to his way of life. Meals set the routine, regularly marking the passing of time. Through raising a young family, marriages, protracted illnesses, and deaths, his breakfast routine remains unchanged. “It is practical. Easy to make in the morning. Tasty,” he tells me.
While breakfast anchors my grandfather’s day, it anchors my family to a place and people oceans away. Recreating the breakfast ritual of pav with malai is no longer a utilitarian practice, but a tribute to our shared history; its preparation, a meditation and window into our memories. At twenty-four, my newlywed mother moved from her home in Bombay to Akron, Ohio to begin a doctorate program. This move marked the beginning of her quest to find the perfect Bandra pav and remain tethered, in some form, to her home.
Each bread purchase was benchmarked against the mythical pav from Bandra. Baguettes were similar in their crispy crust, but too dense and tough to chew. Sourdough was too fermented and sour. Dinner rolls were most comparable in form, but were sweet and turned gummy in the mouth.
Closest to the Bandra pav, was the bread my mother made in her trusted bread machine on special occasions. Bread flour mixed with yeast, salt, and water were placed in a clunky white box the night before; the timer set for 8 a.m. Next, in a small steel vessel, heavy cream was brought to a gentle simmer until a thick layer of fat formed around the rims and top. Hours later, we awoke to the warm smell of fresh bread. So good was the bread machine bread, that she gifted a machine to each relative who knew the Bandra pav.
Our breakfast table was a negotiation between Indian and American identities. For years, we slathered the bread with the Land O’Lakes butter made from cow’s milk, while reminiscing about the salty, water buffalo butter produced by the Indian brand, Amul. We used Bonne Maman jams, and often swapped savory Indian snacks for Cape Cod potato chips and chai for pour-over coffee. Still, the ritual remained: slice the bread, slather with butter and sometimes jam too, dunk in a saucer filled with cream boiled the night before, and eat. During our childhood summers, my brother and I frequently spent time in Bandra. Each morning, we hung our heads from the balcony railing, watching the bazaar come to life, and waiting for my grandfather to arrive with the mythical, magical pav.
As new Indian grocery stores have popped up in our small southern town, our selection of Indian imports has grown, including the beloved Amul butter. A growth in Indian populations has even led to demand for Indian bakeries selling iterations of pav. But now, we prefer my mother’s famed bread machine bread. It too is a part of our history.
Three weeks ago, on a sunny Saturday morning in Somerville, MA, my roommate invited me to taste a loaf of bread fresh out of the oven. It had a golden, crispy crust and a soft, steaming interior. In taste, it was a hybrid of the Bandra pav and my mother’s bread machine bread. I slathered it with Kerrygold, dunked it in half and half, and devoured it whole.
A breakfast table in Somerville, MA
Potato chips offer a crunchy contrast to the creamy, malai-pav. Chai spiced and sweetened cuts through the flavors, cleansing the palette.
Recipe for malai (clotted cream)
Ingredients:
⅓ cup milk
1 cup heavy whipping cream
Directions:
Bring to a simmer for 15-20 minutes. Stir. Refrigerate overnight.
Recipe for pav (Adapted from Pinch of Yum, Miracle No Knead Bread Recipe)
Ingredients:
3 cups all purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoons salt
½ teaspoon instant yeast
1 ½ cup room temperature water
Directions:
Mix together all the ingredients. The dough should barely come together. Add a few teaspoons of water if necessary. Cover with plastic wrap and let rest, overnight, for 12-14 hours. I find that the dough rises in 10-12 hours if the house is hot and humid.
Set the oven to 450 degrees. Place a large, empty Dutch Oven in the oven to heat for 20-30 minutes. It should be very hot! Meanwhile, remove the dough. It should have risen considerably and smell yeasty. Gently sprinkle the dough with all purpose flour and shape into a round. If making pav, use a pastry cutter or knife to divide the dough into eight equal parts and shape into rounds. Carefully remove the hot Dutch Oven from the oven, and line with parchment paper. Arrange the dough and bake covered for 30 minutes. Remove the lid, and bake for another 10 minutes until a golden crust forms.
Recipe for green chillies
Ingredients:
3-5 Anaheim peppers (these are green and long, but not spicy)
1 teaspoon vegetable or canola oil
1 teaspoon fenugreek seeds
Salt for taste
Squeeze of lemon juice
Directions:
Bring oil to heat in a small, shallow frying pan. Add fenugreek seeds and quickly sauté until they become slightly reddish. Add sliced peppers and flash fry for one minute. Remove from heat. Sprinkle peppers with salt and a squeeze of lemon juice.