A Ī 21 BL saturday, april 13, 2019 takeaway _ Who moved my croutons? The disappearance of a bag of this crunchy treat stirs memories of an affair that started with humble tomato soup

conversation about them would at toasting bread and cutting it into cubes, I salad that makes a delicious deviation from have sufficed. But what I got instead was not really invested in the art of crouton the recipe to include croutons seasoned with was a gift of croutons. making. basil. These were not the “deep fried to Then came Ainsley Harriott’s olive oil and One evening, I was daydreaming about al Aa stern brown, glistening with fat, creating an rock salt croutons that a visiting fresco dining. The next, I mourned the oil slick in the soup” variety. But I must admit cousin brought as a gift. The dis- unspeakable gap between day- to loving that kind too, with the wistfulness tinctive note of the oil re- dream and reality. I returned and retrospective embarrassment of first love. minded me of my trips to home from work to dis- My first fine-dining experience was as a Spain, of tostadas with cover that my family had child. My uncle and aunt took me to a restaur- aceite de oliva con ajo, been at the croutons. ant that was far removed from the Udipi hotel garlic-infused olive The croutons I had where we used to buy ‘parcels’ when my army oil. It brought to hoarded so carefully of cousins invaded our weekends. This was mind the region became an accom- also unlike the leafy drive-in restaurant that where one nursed a paniment to evening had the brownest dosa and coffee in chipped glass of sherry at tea. I didn’t stick white cups. noon in the womb- around to hear any This was a posh, air-conditioned place. like darkness of a bar, more, in case there was I tasted tomato soup for the first time that with only Andalusian any dunking involved. evening and the croutons left an indelible, oil- tiles and vintage posters Accustomed as they are stained impression on me. of flamenco dancers and to mass-produced biscuits, My mother soon acquired a recipe to cook matadors for company. would my family’s palate ap- tomato soup that was flavourful, nutritious As I held the packet of preciate the hint of garlic and the and easy to prepare. However, the croutons croutons from another land, I base note of olive oil? Did they were a different story. First, one needed bread dreamed of another self, a paral- Could they try rolling realise it was called crouton? that wasn’t too soft and didn’t crumble easily. lel life where, in my open kit- Q Could they try rolling the exotic the exotic word in (It would be a decade before I discovered that chen, friends bring in their their mouth, and word in their mouth, and savour stale bread, usually the heel of the loaf, had glasses of wine, and rest against savour it as they it as they uttered it, instead of the perfect texture.) Then, it had to be cut into the edge of the clean counter- uttered it chomping down on it, and cubes, deep-fried and placed on a newspaper top. A window overlooks the dredging up a close-sounding for the oil to drain. It was telling that I didn’t garden where there is no place name of a decorative plant? find these croutons very different from the for frivolous decorative plants. The leftovers would go the way ones at the restaurant. If anything, the process Instead, I grow my own produce R of the rusk — the biscuit tin, un- of making them at home demystified restaur- — plump tomatoes, voluptuous aubergines, wittingly left open, softening golden cubes of ant fare for me. lissome okra and a host of herbs. I rustle up a crunch into a texture not unlike sawdust on Years sped by. I was now married, and had simple meal, and we dine al fresco on the ter- an eraser. Eventually, the very idea of croutons travelled abroad, where I graduated to relish- race, speaking of books, music, art, travel and, would die a miserable death — ashes to ashes, ing baked croutons. But apart from attempts of course, food. We feast on wine and Greek dust to dust, chef-designed croutons ming- ling with crushed Bourbon biscuits. A worse fate awaited the pack- aging that I wanted to save for culinary tips from the chef himself. It was found in the garbage bin with the dregs of two-day-old sam- bar splashed on the hand- some, smiling face of chef Ainsley Harriott. I reconciled to the yawning gap between fond fantasies and reality. The kitchen is still not my turf. The tropical hu- midity of my city — along with mosquitoes, the day’s washing hanging overhead and eavesdropping neigh- bours — is not conducive to al fresco dining. I live out my fantasies on my trips abroad, where I rent homes with outdoor dining spaces, and hit the su- permarkets for all the croutons I can eat. Back home, I make do with pass- able ones — cubes of stale bread tossed with olive oil, salt and dry herbs, and toasted in the microwave until they crisp up. To my family, I’d like to clarify — once and for all — that croutons are not just pieces of fried bread. Or the decorative plants from your youth.

istock.com saritha rao rayachoti is a Chennai-based writer