Ten Biryanis

(Jabarjass)

Bhai Ibrahim had come back to Mauritius with his boss Ajum Ghoolam Hussain, after having spent ten years roaming the world, Bombay, Karachi, Colombo, Singapour etc, with the rich entrepreneur. The latter had recognised the intrinsic qualities of the young Mauritian, and had decided that he would look after him properly. First, he would find a bride for him, and then he would start him off in a business of his own. In those days, employers took a fatherly interest in their workers.

There was a run-down eaterie in Rue de la Corderie called Hotel Chand, which had seen better days, but as the old man Chand was getting too old, the business was creaking. Ajum Ghoolam Hussein helped Ibrahim, who had ended up as steward to the household of the millionnaire businessman, and had learnt everything he needed to know about haute Indian cuisine and catering, to buy that “hotel”. On the boat he met Gheevalla who was from a long line of bandharis, whose ancestor was given the name Gheevalla by no less than emperor Aurangzeb himself. He had run away at fifteen to join a circus, and after a drunken night, he inexplicably found himself on the Mauritius-bound steamer. When Bhai Ibrahim decided to go into the restaurant business, Gheevalla was a godsend, but he had two conditions: First, he never cooked biryani in a kitchen. Biryani, he claimed, needed to breathe fresh air and be cooked in a proper degh, alfresco, or it is unfit for human consumption. So Ibrahim cleared the courtyard, built a small hearth at the centre, and erected a structure able to have a tarpaulin sheet spread at the top in case of rain. And obviously he never used anything but ghee in his preparations.

With the quality of the fare he offered, Bhai Ibrahim made a success of the business, and in no time at all the hotel so-called regained its position as the most popular restaurant in Port-Louis. There was nothing fancy about it, people came in, ordered what was on offer, paid fifty cents for a full-sized biryani, found themselves a seat at the table, or ate on their knees sitting on a soap box, emit a burp of satisfaction, and off they went. Years later, long after it had closed, people would talk about the quality of the Hotel Chand biryani. You had to go all the way to Char Minar in Hyderabad to taste anything comparable.

This is a story about how Bhai Ibrahim’s biryani acquired its prestige. Gheevalla’s culinary genius was no doubt the most important factor contributing to this, but as in every enterprise, word of mouth proved vital. Shortly after the new owner moved in on the premises, the many traders and small shopkeepers within a small radius of the place, which was right in the middle of the commercial centre, began using Chand for their meals, and within weeks, the big importers of rice, grains and and oil, textiles and hardware followed suit.

Abu Carrim was the son of probably the richest of these merchants, and he was known as a man about town. A jovial bon viveur with a good head for figures_ aye those figures too_ reputed to have gained and lost a fortune on horses. Regular as clockwork he’d show up at Chand’s everyday as the St Louis tolled noon, and he’d stay a whole hour there. But more importantly, another client was Jabarjass. He was a masseur who made a packet by going round the businesses of the knights of industry of Port-Louis, known to be constantly plagued by sore backs and aching necks, and needed to have them indulged. They sit on their arses all day long, Jabarjass would say, counting their money, scratching between their toes, and that tires those poor rich bastards out. I can magic their pains away like no one else, for which they would reward me more than I deserve, he would chuckle, they swear I have magic fingertips. It was lucky for Bhai Ibrahim, because Jabarbass was known for his appetite. People like Abu Carrim, sometimes, having done justice to a full plate of biryani, might order a second one, but it was unknown for any of the patrons of Hotel Chand to need more than two.

Apart from Jabarjass, that is!

On a good day he would have three, and there were people who will swear to having witnessed him do justice to four. At the Hotel Chand, it must be said that Bhai Ibrahim believed in giving his patrons value for money. The rice was always the Bak-Tulsi, and he not only used the best beef, but they were big boneless pieces of eighty grams. The aloo was the best that Abu Sama imported. A biryani is nothing without proper spices, and chillies. All cooked in the best ghee of course. Gheevalla had threatened to walk out one day when Ibrahim was wondering aloud about using groundnut oil for roasting the aloos.

One day, Abu Carrim, having ordered a second helping, was watching Jabarjass struggling with his third. The man was sweating, and the businessman was teasing him. Your appetite’s shit today, Jabarjass, eh? The masseur threw him a sour glance. The day Jabarbass cannot swallow five biryanis, he said, the head of Pieter Both will topple over, I can eat ten. The fifteen or so patrons enjoying their biryani almost collectively choked with laughter on hearing this. Never, someone said, impossible, not ten, added another, he’s a big head and a big mouth … Abu Carrim the betting man never missed an opportunity to lose money.

‘Jabarjass, I bet you fifty rupees, that you cannot eat ten biryanis in one day!’

‘You might as well give me my winnings now,’ he began, but on second thought, he paused. I am minded to accept your bet, but I think you must give me a day’s reflection. If I take your bet, it will be late afternoon, six o’clock, tomorrow. He knows he can’t do this. He will surely lose his bet. He’s playing with his life. Overeating can give you a heart attack. These were the sentiments expressed by the attendance. He ain’t gonna show up, most people agreed.

But next day, at the stroke of six, Jabarjass turned up, as did Abu Carrim, and about a dozen or so others who having heard about the showdown had decided not to miss it. Abu Carrim gave fifty rupees to Gora Dustagheer, as did Jabarjass. He was going to be the arbiter.

Bhai Ibrahim himself brought Jabarjass the first plate. He looked at it scornfully, and said, ‘Bhai Ibrahim, your portions are getting smaller,’ and before the latter had turned back, Jabarjass had licked the plate clean, and called him to hand over the empty dish. The audience gasped. Bhai Ibrahim reappeared within minutes with a second plate, and the masseur rose, snatched it from him, and without even sitting down he plunged his greasy right hand in it, grabbed half its contents and committed it to his mouth. The audience gaped as they watched the speed with which he chewed. Sixty-three seconds, said Hamid who had a watch and had been timing the eater. Jabarbass took rather more to deal with the third helping, but deal with it he did, but he started sweating, and had to lean against the backrest of his chair, and was breathing raggedly.

‘You’re giving up?’ teased Abu Carrim.

‘Me giving up?’ sneered Jabarbass, spitting a big gob angrily on the floor. He was not a polished gentleman.

But he polished six helpings without passing out. He had paused a few times on the seventh, but had soldiered on. On the eighth, he began having difficulty breathing, and someone cried, “Pankhah!”, fan. A sympathiser found a a thick cardboard from the kitchen, used to keep the cooking flame alive, and rushing to the eater started using it on the fellow, and that seemed to revive him. The ninth plate arrived, and Jabarjass looked at it obliquely, like it was a cockroach. Never in the history of gastronomy had anybody looked at Gheevalla’s biryani with such seeming distaste. The audience held its breath. Was he going to push it away? Was he going to throw up? He made a move towards it, and hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath he seized it, sat down and took his jacket off, and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt.

‘Bismillah,’ he said, and began digging in. His eyes lit up as he swallowed the first mouthful. He was actually still enjoying it, but after the second one, he began to convulse, and collapsed, head into the half-empty plate. The audience gasped. Gora Dustagheer went to him, pulled his head up and wiped his greasy face. Jabarjass opened his eyes, looked dazed and started mumbling something incoherent, like, ‘Yes janab, I always do my kalma before sleeping.’ He is delirious, whispered someone unnecessarily. He looked around him, seemed not to know where he was, then suddenly a smile lit up his face. You’re giving up now, Gora asked him kindly, I think it’s best. Jabarjass tightened his fist, as if he was getting ready to bash the arbiter’s face in, but suddenly he smiled.

‘Back to business,’ he said, and with renewed appetite, he finished the ninth.

The audience had somewhat lost interest in the proceedings, but when the tenth plate arrived, there was fresh impetus for the sport. After the first mouthful, Jabarjass stood up, his eyes rolling, his body trembling, he crashed on the floor. He had fainted. A young client grabbed a jug and splashed its contents on the man on his back. As the water landed on him, he opened his eyes, looked angrily around, saw the young fellow with the jug. He sprang up, threw himself at the hapless chap, and was going to batter the life out of him, but Gora intervened, and pacified the angry wet man by explaining that it was done with the best intention. Bhai Ibrahim brought him a towel, and after drying himself, he attacked this last obstacle with new vigour. Strangely, he ate this without any great effort. When he had swallowed the last mouthful, the audience applauded, saying, ‘Shabash! Shabash! He’s the champion.’

On hearing this, Jabarjass frowned. ‘What’s the matter, Bhai Ibrahim? Are you trying to cheat me out of the tenth plate?’

But you’ve had ten plates already, chorused the whole restaurant who did not immediately pick on the fact that the winner of the bet was actually making a joke, for he had a quick wit.

Gora Dustagheer, all smiles came to him with the prize money, and before handing it over, he said, ‘Jabarjass, you had us worried after the eighth, we thought that was it.’

‘Never, I was one hundred and ten percent sure I’d last the course. I’m not an idiot, I’d not have risked my hard-earned fifty rupees unless I knew for sure.’

‘But how could you know for sure,’ sneered Abu Carrim, a bad loser, ‘no one could know that!’

‘Well, I checked first, didn’t I? I would not risk my money otherwise.’

‘Checked what?’ asked the attendance.

‘You know Hotel Khan in Route Royale? Their biryani isn’t like here, that’s where I did my test this lunch time. I had little difficulty putting away ten plates there, so I knew Abu Carrim’s fifty rupees were already all but in my pocket.’

This little episode, recounted all over the capital, was what turned the Hotel Chand into the premier eating place of the Indian Ocean.