Flying into Bombay from sub-zero New York, we stepped out of the airport terminal into our families' arms and felt the warm, moist air settle around us in a welcoming embrace. It was 1 AM, and there was still time for our back-home ritual.
My husband and I got into our respective parents' cars and drove south through the island city, to Santosh Sagar, a tiny, basic eatery near our Malabar hill home. Even at that hour, crowds of cars hovered as waiters rushed to take and fill orders, an Indian version of a drive-through.
The irresistible aroma filled our nostrils and our mouths watered as we sat around a plastic table on the pavement, impatient in the gentle sea breeze until the waiters brought us our little steel plates, steaming hot.
All of us - two families, eight people - had the same order, pav bhaji. No home cook can achieve this dish, nor can a fancy chef. It belongs to the streets of Bombay. The bhaji is spicy, buttery and tangy - a chunky mix of tomatoes, legumes and vegetables, mashed and cooked on a giant griddle. It is served with a side of lime and a slab of pav, a cushiony white bread that is saturated to its pores with salty, rich, yellow butter and toasted in the juices of the bhaji.
We squeezed lime into the bhaji and broke bread together, spooning bhaji over the pav and eating with our hands, savoring the complex, robust flavors of our city as they burst harmoniously in our mouths, over and over again.
