The Divine Breakfast for the Unapologetic and Reckless
The Divine Breakfast for the Unapologetic and Reckless
Kachori Sabzi in Banaras
It is 11 am, we have overslept, and I stumble out of the car into Kachori Gali, excited but also a little scared. Dining in Banaras is not an easy task. Banarasis are known for excess affection, short tempers, and unlimited servings. The oldest city in the country is indulgent with their cuisine.
Everything is fried, sugar coated, and almost every place is an all-you-can-eat.
“You’ll be fine,” my friend grins at me. I can’t be so sure. Kachori sabzi is Varanasi’s favorite breakfast. A kachori is flaky, fried bread usually served with stuffing, but is eaten differently in every part of the country. Here in Banaras, kachoris are eaten as a part of a two-piece breakfast, and they will tell you it’s the best way. The dough is spiced and rolled into small breads, deep fried and fluffy. For breakfast, it is served hot with sabzi: usually a curry of pumpkins and potatoes.
As I exit the car, I am greeted by two tall men who recognize me from when I was fifteen years old. I came here a lot as a kid, in sweltering summers, hiding behind my father and refusing to eat. “Should I sit inside?” I ask nervously, and before he can answer, I know I have made my first mistake. “INSIDE? Why would we put you inside, where no one can see!” he roars at me, smiling widely. I apologize. He tells me I must eat ten kachoris at least, and I whimper in agreement.
Ram Bhandar Kachori wala is one of the many breakfast merchants on this street. Kachori Gali, literally meaning the Street of Kachoris, can be trusted with any of its vendors, but my family has stayed loyal to him for years. The man is surrounded by his sons, all recognizable by the same strong jaw. How many, they ask me. Three, I say. And they laugh.
It is soon 11:30 am and I am on my fourth kachori. I believe I have had enough. Heads not vigorously as I beg and plead to not be fed more. “It’s been ten years!” one of the other men says, and I say no, it’s been two. And there it is, another mistake. If Banarasis hate anything, it’s the reduction of exaggerations. I apologize again, and know I’m going to have to eat more.
Kachori sabzi is usually followed by jalebas, which are the traditional jalebi but bigger. Jalebis, flour rolled into circular shapes, deep fried and coated with sugar and saffron, is a beloved sweet throughout the north of India. Jalebas are the same, but bigger. Jalebas can go tragically wrong, but the ones here are perfect. I stare at the jaleba before actually eating it and get desperately sentimental to no one’s surprise but everyone’s amusement. I tell the men at Ram Bhandar about the indulgence of this city and how I fell in love with it as a kid.
It is through their cuisine that you can tell Banarasis are boundless. They are unapologetic, reckless, and poetic. Mixing pumpkins, flour, and fried dessert into perfection is not a feat that can be ignored. I eat four more kachoris. By now I cannot even stand, but there is applause. They are pleased. I am ecstatic. This breakfast, like the air in the holiest city in the world, is simply divine.