Flour Water: Delicious or Not So Much?
Flour Water: Delicious or Not So Much?
Sattu in Calcutta
The Calcutta air is still cool in the early mornings; summer is a few weeks away. The morning walkers are beginning to gather around their favorite stall, waiting for freshly fried kachoris (bread) and aloo sabji (potato curry). Their banter is fun and loud, old friends sipping sweetened tea from cups made of earth.
But this is not what I am after. Not right now.
I am looking for a glass of sattu, or roasted gram flour mixed with water and churned into this delicious concoction that fills my stomach and cools my mind. Extremely popular in the eastern state of Bihar, sattu must have wound its way through the city’s migrant population.
I don’t have to look too hard to find the sattu man. In this city, my heart’s desires are almost always fulfilled.
Often potbellied, the sattu man is usually found at the intersection of tiny lanes, standing or sitting next to a stall covered with light brown sattu. The sattu itself comes either loose or in plastic, branded packets. The choice is yours, and once you make it, all you do is stand back and watch.
It’s worth watching. The sattu is measured on a balancing scale, and then slid into this metal churning pot. Next comes the water from an earthen pot; one glass of water, then a little more. And then the man will churn, and churn, adding some salt, cut green chillies, and diced onions into the pot. If you are lucky, you will also get a dollop of green chutney and some freshly squeezed lime.
When he feels it is ready, he pours me a glass, and I take a sip, or two, of the brown, powdery drink. I feel the bite of the onion and the chilies floating on the surface, and that subtle tang of lime. The sattu itself tastes, well, a bit dry, and slightly sour.
I take another sip, feeling the sattu rush to my belly, filling it, cooling it. I pause and take a look around.
A rickshaw-puller will join me soon, an old customer who knows what he wants. Nearby two old men on an old wooden bench continue to smoke their cigarettes and share a newspaper. On the other side of the road, the bread omelet shops begin to sizzle as the bright yellow taxis fill up the city’s streets.
I’m almost done now; there is still some sattu remaining at the bottom of my glass. I stick my glass out, and the sattu man dips into the earthen pot, and pours a little water into my glass. I twirl my glass, watch it swirl, and then gulp it down.
The air is no longer cool, and the sun no longer friendly. Soon, I will be sweating in the warm, humid air. But right now, I don’t care.