A quick question: What is the one line that inane filmstars love to mouth every time they visit Kolkata? You have five seconds…(it’s actually very simple) Ok, time’s up. It’s their love and fondness for one of the city’s oldest exports — the mishti doi. From cricketers and filmstars to visiting socialites, a bhar of doi (bhar is the Bengali word for the earthen cup where it’s served) is what’s topmost on their list of things to do in the city. What is it about the sweetened red curd that all Bengalis swear by? To discover the answer, one misty morning, I found myself explaining my cause to a very suspicious owner of a sweet shop in central Kolkata. “Yes, I had spoken to Prabir babu, and he had given me an appointment for this morning.” “Yes, I had spoken to him last week.” “Yes, I am actually from a newspaper, it’s called the Indian Express.” Finally after numerous explanations, I am given the permission to enter what could only be Santa’s workshop for a sweetaholic like me: the kitchen of Shaila Sweets. And I was going to make mishti doi. The process, Dilip Sen, the proprietor, told me is complicated. First, 60 litres of milk is brought to boil. To it 18 kg of sugar is added slowly. The mixture is then stirred till it turns red and then poured into earthen containers and cooled. Then some shaaja (curd that’s kept aside for the setting) is added. Walking towards the kitchen, I was ticked off for straying near the walls. “Stick to the centre, the sides are slippery,” Sen said. The kitchen was a revelation, big and empty. Most of the workers were in the inner chamber arranging sweets on trays that are being sent to the shop. In a corner of the antechamber, stood a man, stirring a huge cauldron of milk. He had been doing it since early morning and the mixture by then had already turned red. “Now we will pour it into the earthen pot after which we have to let it cool. The temperature has to be perfect when the shaaja is added. If it’s either too hot or cold, the doi will not set properly,” Sen told me. Taking the ladle in his hand he dipped it in the milk and poured it into the pot kept near the edge of the urn. “Make sure there’s froth on top. Only then will you get that creamy layer on the doi. Pour the milk from here,” he said, indicating a height that’s an absurd twenty inches from my head. I gulped. I picked up the heavy ladle and staggered under the weight but tried hard not to show my discomfort (and they use just one hand to pick it up). Scooping up some milk, I tried hard to pour it into the vessel. “Look where you drop it, it’s hot,” yelped my photographer. I managed to pour quite a decent amount, the rest splattered back into the urn. “Ok, try again,” Sen said. And I did, again and again, each time becoming more proficient at it. Scooping up little amounts in the ladle, I managed to make a generous amount of froth in each vessel. Finally I was told it’s enough. Sweating profusely (how do they stand in the tiny room for hours in summer without a fan), I emerged from the shop, thinking, “Thank you very much. Henceforth I shall stick to eating.”PS: It’s bad manners to boast. But I have got to admit that it was the best doi I have tasted in my life. I have a bright future in this industry.(Pragya Paramita is a feature writer in Kolkata)
