Once she had even entered a beauty contest. She got past the first rounds and was thought to have a good chance of winning. Until she – the silly cow – had a moment of madness during a bathing costume photoshoot: when the photographer asked her whether she had ever modelled professionally before, she replied, ‘Not with so many clothes on.’
Chez Huwyler was a well-respected establishment and would make a good impression on her CV. But only if she stuck it out longer than the usual few months. Half a year; a whole one would be even better.
On the other side of the tram, opposite her, sat a man between thirty and forty. She could see him staring at her in the reflection of the window. Each time she turned her head he smiled at her. She took a well-thumbed free newspaper from the seat next to her and barricaded herself behind it.
Maybe she should try to start from scratch again. She was only twenty-eight; she could still start a course. She had her secondary school certificate, which meant she could go to art school. Or at least sit the entrance exam. Photography, or even better, film. With a bit of luck you could get a grant. Or some other government assistance.
Her stop was announced. Andrea stood up and went to the farther door to avoid having to pass the staring man.
Okra was cooking in a pan with green chillies, onions, fenugreek seeds, red chilli powder, salt and curry leaves. The thick coconut milk was still in a bowl by the stove. Maravan had decided on okra as a vegetable because of its English name: ladies’ fingers.
The pathiya kari was a female dish, too: it was prepared specially for breastfeeding mothers. He had simmered some poussin meat in a little water with onions, fenugreek, turmeric, garlic and salt, added to this broth one of the spice mixes from the previous night – coriander, cumin, pepper, chilli, tamarind paste – brought the whole thing to the boil, then taken it off the heat, and covered it. He would heat it up again shortly before serving.
The male element of his menu was a dish of shark meat: churaa varai. He had mashed a cooked shark steak with grated coconut, turmeric, caraway and salt, and put this to one side. In an iron pan he had fried some onions in coconut oil until they were translucent, added dried chillies, onion seeds and curry leaves, stirring until the seeds started jumping, and taken the pan off the heat. Shortly before serving he would reheat it, add the shark-and-spice mixture, combining everything thoroughly.
These three traditional dishes were Maravan’s proof that he knew how to cook curry, and an excuse for the other things he was creating on the side. He would make small, manageable portions and, as his one homage to experimental cooking, serve them with three different airs – coriander, mint and garlic foams – and curry leaf twigs glazed in nitrogen.
Maravan owned an isolation tank in which he could store liquid nitrogen for a short period. It had cost him a fifth of his monthly wage, but it was an indispensable aid for his culinary experiments and his efforts to outshine the chefs at the Huwyler.
What this dinner was really about, however, was the courses in between. Each one contained Ayurvedic aphrodisiacs, but in new, bold preparations. Instead of dividing all the purée of urad lentils marinated in sweetened milk into portions and drying these in the oven, he mixed half of it with agar. Both halves of the purée were spread on to silicon mats and cut into strips. The half without the agar was dried in the oven and twisted into spirals while still warm. He let the other half cool down and then wound the elastic ribbons around the spirals, which were now crunchy.
Rather than serve the traditional mixture of saffron, milk and almonds in its usual liquid form, he used cream instead of milk, whisking it into an airy mixture with saffron, palm sugar, almonds and a little sesame oil, and then put three heaped plastic spoons of the saffron and almond foam into liquid nitrogen, for just long enough to form spheres, which were frozen on the outside and soft inside.
He would serve them with sweet saffron ghee, which he spread on to strips of honey gel topped with threads of saffron, and then rolled them up. The saffron threads shone dark yellow through the opaque walls of these light yellow cylinders, which would be placed around the spheres.
He gave a new structure to the mixture of ghee, long pepper, cardamom, cinnamon and palm sugar. He mixed still water with the palm sugar, reduced this by half in the rotary evaporator with the spices, added alginate and xanthan gum, allowed the air to escape from the bubbles and made little balls with the portion spoon. He placed these in a mixture of water and calcium lactate. Within minutes the balls were smooth and shiny, and he injected a small amount of warmed ghee into each one. He quickly turned them to make the prick close up again. The balls were kept warm at sixty degrees. They were for dessert.
To go with the tea, he had prepared three varieties of sweetmeats, all made in the traditional way, of course, and all proven aphrodisiacs. He extracted the liquid from a pulp of sali rice and milk, and made a thick paste together with chickpea flour and sugar. He then added almonds, sultanas, dates, ground ginger and pepper, and worked it into a pastry, from which he cut little heart shapes. These were then baked and finally glazed with red fondant.
Maravan had steeped some dried asparagus in water, puréed it with the wand mixer and extracted the essence using the rotary evaporator. This essence was then combined with ghee and algin, and when the mixture had thickened he shaped it into little asparagus spears whose tips he coloured green with chlorophyll.
Taking the most popular Ayurvedic means of stimulating sexual arousal – a simple combination of ground liquorice, ghee and honey – he had created ice lollies by making patties, inserting wooden sticks, decorating them with chopped pistachios, then freezing them.
At twenty to seven he took a shower, changed and opened all the windows in his flat again. The only thing to smell of food should be the food itself.
5
On the short walk from the tram stop to Theodorstrasse 94 Andrea was approached by a junkie begging for money, accosted by a dealer and propositioned by a driver. She would book a taxi for the journey home, even if it was still early. And it would be early, she was absolutely determined about this. The moment she entered Maravan’s flat she would tell him that she had almost not come because she was feeling so unwell.
In the stairwell it smelled as it always did in blocks of flats around this time of the evening. Here, however, the smell was not of meat loaf, but curry. On the first floor, two Tamil women were standing in the half-open doors to their flats, nattering away. On the third floor, a young boy was waiting on the landing; when he saw Andrea he disappeared into his flat, looking disappointed.
Maravan was waiting for her at his door. He was wearing a colourful shirt and dark trousers. He had just showered and was clean-shaven. He held out his long, slim hand and said, ‘Welcome to Maravan’s Curry Palace.’
He showed Andrea in, took the wine, and helped her out of her coat. Candles were burning everywhere; just a few spotlights here and there provided some more sober lighting.
‘The flat’s not nice if there’s too much light,’ he explained in his Swiss high German with a Tamil twang.
In the sitting room, a table no more than twenty centimetres high was set for two. The seating was provided by cushions and blankets. On the wall was a domestic shrine with a lit deepam. In the centre of the shrine a four-armed goddess was sitting on a lotus flower.
‘Lakshmi,’ Maravan said, making a gesture with his hand as if he were introducing another guest.