The Real Real

 

South Bakersfield and I’m on the wrong side of the railroad tracks again. I’m not lost and I didn’t take a wrong turn. It was a deliberate choice to come here. The smattering of dhabas that punctuate this broken stretch of road home to trucking companies, taco stands, and skeezy bars brought me here. The magnetism of roadside dal, paneer, and curry is a potent, epicurean draw.

In my blue collared shirt, green club tie, and mustard-hued dress slacks, I’m an anomaly here. Moving amongst husky fellows in oily jump suits, leathery farm hands, and dark, exotic men chattering away in Hindi, I feel like I’ve breached exclusive space. Like I’m not good enough to be here. Or perhaps it’s the opposite. I realize how egotistical that might sound, but I don’t know how else to explain the social discomfort from the flipped script. But no one gives me the side-eye. I’m invisible. And even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t really deter me. I’m on a pilgrimage of sorts, a personal Kumbh Mela to the sacred river of genuine Bharati eats. 

I inadvertently drive pass my destination and have to make an illegal U-turn to get back to it. Even though it is immediately roadside, Apna Dhaba is easy to lose in the crazy-quilt of truck yards and auto-wrecking companies. I wheel into the tiny parking area and take one of the four spaces that front the dining area – eight wooden picnic tables sitting beneath an aluminum canopy adjacent to a cramped trailer that serves as both host stand and kitchen. The menu, in the form of kaleidoscopie images splashed across the side of the trailer includes Daal Makhni, Saron Da Saag, Matar Paneer, Black and White Channe, Aloo Gobi, Kadhi Pakora, Paneer Bhurji, Chicken Tikka, Tandori Fish, Goat Curry, Butter Chicken, and more. 

At the window, an older Sikh gentleman with chocolate skin, friendly eyes, a salt white beard, and azure turban greets me. The contrast of colors is striking. He’s an exotic National Geographic portrait come to life. His wife-cum-chef who is dressed in traditional attire shares his limited space and does all the hard culinary work. Later, I come to realize that she’s the reason this place exists. She’s the inspired genius. Her husband is simply her pretty-faced prop. 

I order Samosa Chaat with a side of Garlic Naan. There’s a bit of a language barrier but he understands. Do I want one or two naan he asks? Three? I suspect he’s asking because one is not normally sufficient. I go with two. “Here or to go” he queries. Here. He looks perplexed but nods approval and scribbles my order on a small pad. $14 is the bill. No tax. He just rounds to the nearest whole dollar.

I claim an empty table and wait in the oppressive Central Valley heat. It’s mid-August and the temperature in the shade is about 95 degrees. Four 20-somethings are gabbing away in a foreign tongue at the table next to mine. A different, turbaned gentleman now emerges from the back of the trailer and approaches them. They speak in an unfamiliar and excited dialect. One of the youngsters gets up and comes to my table. He’s the translator. He asks if my order is for here or to go. I reaffirm I’m eating it here. I want the whole experience – the simple wooden tables, the unfamiliar people and language, the intoxicating smell of cumin, cardamom, and clove, the uncomfortable heat. They say you eat with your eyes, but in truth you also eat with your ears, nose, tongue, and fingertips. Something essential is missed when you retreat to the sanctity of your home or automobile deaf, dumb, and blind to eat alone. So I stay. The message is conveyed and the gentleman disappears again behind the trailer.

My order is brought and placed before me. The Samosa Chaat is presented in a nine inch aluminum tart tin. The dish centers on a split samosa slathered with chana masala and garnished with chopped purple onions and cilantro. It’s hot, aromatic, and hearty. The flat naan is wrapped in foil which belies its enormity. It is fresh, garlicky, and delicious. My order of two now seems excessive, even gluttonous. 

One could say that I was deprived as a child. I didn’t have the opportunity to sample Indian cuisine until much later in life. It wasn’t that my family lacked the requisite adventurous spirit to try new things. In fact, mom as a self-taught cook was quite willing to experiment with a variety of ethnic dishes like chile rellenos, enchiladas, sweet-and-sour pork, beef-and-broccoli, and chicken teriyaki. But we lived in an ethnic food desert. That’s a bit of an over-statement, but mysterious spices like turmeric, fenugreek, garam masala, and amchoor did not occupy space on the spice aisle at the local supermarket. And we had no interaction to speak of with folks from other countries or cultures. Everyone looked like us and ate like us. So what mom was able to put together wasn’t terribly authentic. It was a more Americanized version of the real thing. 

It wasn’t until I moved away that I discovered the soul-satisfying taste and aroma of Indian fare. Where previously it was almost impossible to find this type of cuisine, suddenly I was surrounded by Punjabi dishes such as tandoori, fiery vindaloo curry from Goa, street food from Mumbai, and strange sweets from the east. Bollywood, Namaste, Karma, Lal Mirch, and Indian Haweli were all within spitting distance. My dining options from the Indian subcontinent were deliciously dizzying. Yet ironically, they were not any more authentic than what was available to me as a youngster. At least according to my Indian neighbor. 

Sudipto hails from Kolkata. On weekend afternoons, I’ll see him and his family returning home from temple dressed in their best, brightly-colored finery. Shortly after they arrive home, the tantalizing smell of his wife’s cooking will creep over the fence and into my home making me regret that I didn’t marry a Bengali girl. Sudipto and I have talked about the food of his country a number of times. When I query him about the authenticity of what we have at our disposal locally, he smirks and tells me that none of it is authentically Indian. 

One day I asked him about Apna Dhaba in South Bakersfield. His eyes lit up and he grinned. Although he had never been himself, he had heard of the place from a number of his compatriots. They all spoke glowingly about it. He then confirmed what I suspected all along had to be true. It is the rare real deal. Its rustic cooking, lack of pretense, austere setting, and irresistible offerings are enough to cause even a skeptical native like Sudipto to acknowledge its authenticity and legitimacy. 

I take comfort in that. Because in an era where much of what we experience is contrived, this obscure little outpost in the heart of California’s agricultural belt is refreshingly genuine. It isn’t some concept dreamed up by investors and foisted upon us as authentic. It is unabashedly real. Real real.