Foodie

I used to be a foodie. Reveling at the thought of a square meal, wondering what dinner would be during lunch and planning lunch during breakfast.
Then hostel happened. In the midst of unidentifiable fried objects and the occasional worm wriggling it's way out of the aforementioned UFOs I lost my appetite, love for sambar, and a distaste for garlic rasam. As I slowly regain my taste buds, oodles of weight and that happy contended look that only comes from eating food that can, in twenty years, give you a heart attack. So chronicled below are some of the gastronomic excesses that I've indulged in over the past couple of months.
The usual disclaimers apply as does a profound regret that I don't take pictures of my food.
In no temporal profile or order, first up - Punjabi by Nature. Gol guppas with Absolut peppar aside this place I think has the best local fare for the worst possible price. While as expensive, if not more than the urban dhabas at Pandara Road, PbN scores over them as it serves alcohol. The Galouti Kabab, which as rumour would have it was created for a Lucknowi Nawab who was either edentulous or had a full set of snappers that he was just to lazy to use, is understandably a dish of the rich and famous of an era gone by. Lamb meat that's been tenderized and then pounded to oblivion to create a kabab that melts in one's mouth. Like swiss chocolate, only richer. The kabab itself is delicately spiced with saffron. Explains the price but also the total satisfaction that follows it's consumption. The Dal Makhani is by far the best I've had. It's a tough call between Bukhara and here but since Bukhara was too long ago and the people who fed me then are too far away I think we'll give PbN an edge. And it's not just the fat that makes it taste good. The butter chicken should be had for the gravy and not the chicken, again wondering if the folks at the Habitat Centre's Dilli-o-Dilli do a better job. Overall, recommended if rich, if not then still recommended once in a lifetime. a
Karim's. If one has to take the metro across Delhi to get paperwork done at the University and the train passes below old Delhi, an urge almost magnetic causes one to hop off on the way back at Chawri Bazaar and follow the mass of humanity to Jama Masjid and thence to Karim's. For those of you who've read Wells' Time Machine, Chawri Bazaar is like the future only flipped. The wendols live above and occasionally saunter down 30 feet or more to the metro station and thankfully haven't yet started kidnapping young nubile things. But that apart a quick rickshaw ride from the station to Karim's and Mutton Biryani and Mutton Korma is the way to go. The prices are reasonable while the quantity appears lacking. But nay, never let the initial sight disappoint you since the end result is the usual sated expression. Any food there floats in a lake of fat. And makes life worth living. The rice itself is heavenly. No added colour, just plain rice and a chunk of meat. Unlike the biryanis down south (Hyderabad included) the major flavour is of the meat itself and something else they add that I haven't been able to identify. Again, worth your while and now that the metro goes close enough it shouldn't be too much of a problem to actually get there.
Finally there's this hole in the wall in RK Puram called Nazeer's delicacies. I haven't been there and till now all transactions have been over the telephone. But that is sufficient for him to send over tangri kababs and sheeks in half an hour. The tangri needs a special mention. A large leg of a bird, or the leg of a large bird miraculously stuffed with kheema and raisins and cashew nuts. And the meat is moist and tender and that special centre just makes the 25 bucks I spend on it worth while. The sheeks too are suspiciously beefy, which so far north is a surprise. Beef or not that too should be tried.
On a quick last one, the Habitat Centre had a bengali food festival the last time I went there and they gave me this steamed fish wrapped in a banana leaf. Don't know what it's called but sure liked it enough to believe that fish can be eaten.
So what's left? I still need to try the Chicken Lababdar at Moti Mahal in the M Block market, I need to try fish at Ploof, non Mughlai UP cuisine at Nand Lal Dhaba and maybe a couple more that I can't quite remember. Till then, bon appetit.

MMM

As life dawdles along at a pace mostly set by forces out of one's control, we attempt to blog again. We'll kick things off with the usual quote from the QDB.
In our anal retentive manner here goes :
So this doctor goes to the bank and when asked to sign a cheque reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rectal thermometer. He begins to attempt a signature when he realises his error and mutters, "Damn! Some asshole's got my pen."

That one done with, a random saunter through the campus in the intolerable heat of this afternoon found yours truly in front of a Littmann stall. The makers of probably the world's best stethoscopes are offering a small discount to buy more such acoustically enhanced devices. Turns out that there's a new one in the market. An electronic one. With noise cancelling. Like the Bose headphones I've spent half my adolescent life drooling over. Noise cancelling stethoscopes had to be the last straw till further perusal of the brochure revealed that one can record up to 6 tracks of heart sounds. Then they can be beamed across using IR or some such sperm immolating radiation to a computer. Then the sounds are converted into a phonocardiogram and played back at half speed or double or just analysed by the software. Of course volume controls are present as are soft ear pieces and the trademark Littmann diaphragm. Just when I was thinking that they couldn't do much more...
Read it all.

That's just about all we have time for but before we go here's the parting quote.
Since the invention of the Internet, the rotation of the earth has been primarily fueled by the spinning of English teachers in their graves.

Adios and kudos to technology.

Darwin Revisited...

I remember many moons ago having dealt extensively on the laws of Darwin and how simple observation of turtles, mutant or otherwise and the fact that de-tailed rats did not beget rats in detail it was decided aboard the Beagle off the coast of the Galapagos that stupid people ensured our survival by killing themselves in the absurdest of manners. The Darwin Awards.
And many moons ago I also remember waxing eloquent on the sorry state of an auto driver who had a bottle stuffed where the sun apparently didn't shine.
In a strange amalgamation of these two we present two absolute cretins who graced the Emergency last night.
Names have been kept confidential since I don't remember them but with all due respect for privacy you pervs don't get to see any pics.
Ladies and Gentlemen, if you've all digested your meals I'd like to present exhibit A.
Moron child of the decade. Was playing at a car repair shop with other moron children of the decade. So these representatives of the not-so-full-decks decided to fool around (like they were capable of anything else) with the high pressure air hose. Threatened, hopefully in jest, the initial moron child, with introduction of the hose where, you got it, the sun don't shine. Now I think it was survival instinct that made the protagonist of this story get into some kind of scuffle, which ended with him developing a rent in his scrotum. Just the skin. Now this bit of the skin is continuous with that of the anterior abdominal wall the deeper layers are not and are attached in and around the groin. So if this layer is inflated at 60 psi, in a matter of a few seconds moron child develops subcutaneous emphysema that freaks everyone in Casualty out before someone decides to take a good history.
So ends story one... nothing exceedingly untoward, the boy recovered and is under observation. but like dealing with the mafia, a slip could have landed the hose in deep shit. And the boy.
Exhibit B is a tad more stupid.
But before we launch into the gory details of this expendable specimen of the race one has to ponder why is it that we as surgeons, and on a broader scale as doctors subjected to events and people who force us to keep a straight face when all we want to be doing is rotfl. Much as I detest that word, it does manage to describe what we'd like to be doing, in the most insensitive manner and thus bringing the hounds of hell on ourselves.
Exhibit B was wheeled in to Casualty and placed in a discreet corner, not 20 minutes after exhibit A's spectacular entry. This one at a glance appeared to be your average peri-pubescent imbecile with two legs, a penis and what appeared to be a toilet brush sticking out of his nether. On closer examination we found he had 2 legs, a penis and a toilet brush (with the handle in the inside) sticking out of his nether. Turns out that his friends told him that it was a fun thing to do. Loosely translated, of course, from "mazaa aaega".
A great mind once said that stupidity is a problem that'll solve itself if we took the safety labels off of everything.
A greater mind said that every new and improved idiot proof product will give rise to an new and improved idiot.
On a complete aside a small voice says that the chom problem is just about beginning to take care of itself.

Dry Spells

No jokes.
Flashes of inspiration apparently come at all times, rather at any time. When least expected. And when there is no paper or pen to jot down the thought in an anal retentive way and speaking into a phone to record the elusive idea is a consummation I haven't devoutly wish'd for yet.
So as I was waiting for an Oncologist friend with a ward full of high profile cancers and thus a rather unpredictable schedule, I found myself seated on a pavement, helmet in hand. Having carefully juxtaposed myself between two dessicated betel stains on the sidewalk, I figured this could be a long and boring wait before we actually got off to watch 300.
Again.
No more movie raving and glorifying what I now call aesthetically appealing violence and bloodshed. I am a surgeon. Gore doesn't disgust me, at least not as much as Bush does. Make what you want of that cruel pun with substantial innuendo (it's bringing up rather disgusting interpretations every time I read it.)
There are things about Delhi I like. The Metro, the food (except when someone tried passing off some buffalo meat as tenderloin), the fact that if one has enough money to run the air-conditioner and refrigerator for 6 months and a heater and electric blanket for another 6, how women are out with summer clothing, the fact that I can get a vascular instrument set at 2AM and an extra ventilator or a contrast CT.
And there are others I dislike. A large percentage of the people, referring patients to SJH due to a lack of beds, fat men in tight flashy clothes, signs that one should not spit here - in English (why?) and hindi (what's the point?) surrounded by the aforementioned dessicated paan stains.
And there's stuff that I'm not sure about such as Dry days. Very ambivalent am I.
Alcohol in any form is only sold via government stores in Delhi. So every gazetted holiday (72 this year I think) there is no booze sold. The Government also randomly assigns dry days where one can't get a beer even at restaurants. Pre-elections is a good example. Delhi was dry from 5PM on the 3rd to 5PM on the 5th. And on Good Friday and today. Today to apparently allow people to count votes in sobriety. So that left 5 hours between 5 and 10 on the 5th where everybody decided to get drunk, fall off an assortment of vehicles, assault each other with a battery of weapons and land up at casualty making my night miserable.
The downside of course is that I can't obviously drink on such days unless I drive to Faridabad, Gurgaon or Noida. The good bit is that there's a statistically significant reduction in the influx of cases on such days.
Have been listening to Shine by Take That. Don't judge me. Listen to the song. Mike (I think) Owen's fronting them this time around. Welcome change.
For a parting bit of entertainment read this. And then this.