I come from a family of hardcore foodies -- Mom is a trained chef, Dad spent 40 years in restaurant management and hospitality, and I've got a big Italian family Italian to boot -- so it shouldn't have come as any surprise to me that one of my absolute favorite activities here in India would be exploring the country's diverse and rich food culture. More specifically, I have fallen deeply in love with India's propensity for street food. The US thinks it knows what street food is, mistaking bourgeois $12 falafel sandwiches served out of swanky, decorated food trucks for an American version of the category. But this so-called "gourmet," hip food truck food completely contradicts the key components of street food culture: affordability, authenticity, atmosphere.
Street food shouldn't try too hard -- it should be classic, accessible, simple yet mind-blowing in its execution. It shouldn't need fancy purees or garnishes to cover up an otherwise boring menu item and raise the price a few extra bucks, or an over-the-top, brightly colored food truck to attract customers. A real street food vendor is the guy operating out of a tiny metal shack on the side of the road, or the woman who serves meals on paper plates out of a run-down flat bed truck parked along the highway. Despite the roughness of these settings, little nameless joints like these seem to enjoy a constant influx of hungry customers. People know that they've come to the right place not by following a twitter feed or the lure of some brightly colored branding, but by following their sense of smell, and the rest of the hungry crowd.
Much as when I find myself in some rickety form of transportation, be it auto-rickshaw, public bus, or motorbike, the times when I get to indulge in street food are some of my favorite, and often they are when I am most completely aware that I am, in fact, smack dab in the middle of an Indian metropolis. This isn't a dream, this is the real world, where people eat off little foil plates while standing next to a wobbly ceramic table on the side of the road during the long, dusty, exhausting commute from work to home. Men hurriedly slurp scalding chai from tiny porcelain cups before hopping onto motorbikes and racing off down the highway into the sunset. Children munch on sticky jalebi, wiping their grimy hands on the newspaper in which the sweet is served. Cars rush past, dogs bark and beg for a morsel to eat, the clang of metal utensils scraping on frying pans competes with the incessant honking of cars and buses. Smoke fills your lungs, rife with crushed chili particles, causing you to choke momentarily and your eyes to well up with tears. It's messy, it's loud, sometimes there are smells drifting over from the jungle or the alleyway nearby that are far from appetizing -- but it's loads of fun.
The neon signs and colorful string lights of Indira Nagar, my neighborhood, twinkle and mingle with the warm pink of the setting sun as I fill my belly with spices, potatoes, fried dough, sweet chai, and smoky curries. For half an hour or so, I'm just any other local girl out for a late-evening snack with her friends. I know which flatbed truck serves up the crispiest dosas, and how to find the hidden jalebi cart among the amassed army of samosa and chai stands. Some of the vendors even know me -- that one American girl who lives in the neighborhood, who seems to have an insatiable hunger for Mysore Masala dosa. On these nights I'm suddenly I'm aware that this is my neighborhood, these are my people, this is my city, even if only for a few months. Maybe I don't completely belong here, but I definitely know where to get the best chaat in town. In a country where snacking is an integral part of everyone's day, I'd say that's pretty darn close to being a local.