Reliving the Raj

Press, 2 September 1986, Page 16

Reliving the Raj

Food & Fable

by

Dayid Burton

Almost 40 years after the British quit India, the ghost of the Raj lingers on at the Darjeeling Planters Club.

Like the whole of the Darjeeling hill station, this club was built at the height of Britain’s involvement in the Darjeeling tea industry, which still survives to this day, albeit in a reduced form. The last British tea planter departed in 1972, but the club continues, with an Indian membership, as if they never left.

A huge armoured Maxim gun, the very symbol of British imperial might, guards the entrance to the club, a large rambling wooden building with verandahs running along the entire length of both its two floors. From a cane armchair you can

contemplate the majesty of the Himalayan skyline across the valley, culminating in Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world.

Would it be possible, I asked the club secretary, for us to have a meal, a quiet browse in the library, and perhaps a game or two of billiards? “Yes, yes” he replied impatiently. “But first,” he added with an air of self-importance, “it is obligatory to furnish application for temporary membership.” He handed me a yellowed and much mildewed form, 50 years old at the very least, which inquired, besides the usual questions, whether civilian or military membership was required, and to which recognised London clubs the applicant belonged.

Then he led us down a corridor lined with tiger skins, English fox-hunting prints and mounted bears’ heads, into a vast room filled with over-stuffed armchairs and sofas, with blazing fire-places at either end. Around the walls was a series of faded framed watercolours, depicting Englishmen in khaki pith helmets with Jong spears, in the various stages of a tiger hunt. I paused at one showing a hunter being tossed from his horse, backsidefirst into a stream. “That one’s a ripper, eh?” commented a tall Indian with a perfect Oxford accent, standing warming himself in front of the fire. He was fortyish, urbane, handsome, with wavy hair greying about the temples and the beginnings of jowls and bags under his eyes. He was clutching a tumbler filled almost to the brim with brandy. Would we care to join him for a drink, he asked, and pressed a button on the wall to ring for the butler. An ancient Nepali appeared, resplendent in a white tunic with brass buttons, with a tray of “brandy-panis” — tum-

blers of brandy mixed with boiling water — and a chit for the man to sign.

We chatted on for a good half hour, about the walks we had been on around the district, the horse races at Calcutta, the absence of decent Scotch whisky in India, and his frightfully jolly way of playing golf, which involved having a drink after every hole. Then, realising we had not been introduced, I asked him his name.

At this point the club secretary, whose head all this time had been darting silently and very nervously back and forth from one speaker to the other as our conversation had progressed, spluttered into his drink. His eyes widened and a look of abject horror spread over his face. “But ... but,” he hissed at me sideways through his buck teeth, “dammit man, don’t you know? This is the Maharajah of Cooch Bihar!”

Later we adjourned to the dining room for dinner. Though there must have been seating for 100 in that room, we were the only guests. Around the walls were framed photographs of various Himalayan mountains and group portraits of past club officials, solemn Brits with handle-bar moustaches and knee-high boots.

The table was impeccably laid with silver cutlery on a starched white tablecloth, with a menu neatly typed out and placed in a

silver scallop shell-shaped holder in the centre of the table.

We began with some excellent fried fish, freshly caught from a nearby mountain lake. For the main course there was a dish of beef, an old Anglo India favourite.

Beef Vinthaleaux

Cut up 1 kg of a cheap cut of beef (e.g. shin beef, braising steak) into large squares. In a dry frypan, assemble the following spices, which preferably should have been ground freshly, either in a coffee mill, a blender, or with a mortar and pestle: 1 dessertspoon ground chillies, 1 t ground coriander, % t ground cumin, 2 cloves, a few whole peppercorns,, a, pinch of cardamom, 1 stick cinnamon. Heat the spices in the frypan and toast for a minute or two to allow the flavours to mellow. Add to the beef along with 3 dessertspoons crushed garlic, 2 dessertspoons chopped root ginger, % * salt and y 3 C vinegar.

Mix well and leave the beef to marinate for 24 hours. Stir from time to time.

Heat 4 to 5 T ghee (substitute butter) and add the ' meat mixture. Cover and simmer over a very low heat for two hours, stirring from time to time, until the meat is tender.

For dessert we were served a rather peculiar version of Creme Brulee, after which we retired for (what else?) a nightcap of brandy.