Of course, some ultra-nationalists sometimes term us as infiltrators. Nobody is quite sure how I landed up in this country, man. How did a true-bred South American like yours truly—who goes back, some say, to the great Incas—insinuate himself to the gastric juices of a billion-plus Indians? Food wonks claim that I really came to India in the ships headed from England and that I was grown here initially exclusively to cater to the colonialist’s palate. But it was I who ended up colonising the country. The British had to quit India, but no Mahatma Gandhi or Lokmanya Tilak demanded my ouster. Tell you my secret: be global, think local. So you can sauce me in Kentucky and salsa me in Mexico City, soup me up in Warsaw or pasta me in Rome, but I do just as well swimming with the coriander and curry leaves in the rasams of Thiruchi or being pulverised into the pav-bhajis of Mumbai.

Take me on a Bharat Darshan, go on, take me. Can any self-respecting north Indian rajma dish be made without plenty of tomatoes as its basic masala? Of course, they pair us off with some onions and a bit of garlic too, I’ll grant, but the best rajmas are the ones that luxuriate in their tamatar. Go on, check this out with any Mrs Khanna or Mrs Kapoor worth her salt and, if I’m wrong, I’m prepared to be squashed underfoot.

Go east, and there is the sweet and sour delights of Orissa’s tomato khatta or the exotic tomato-raisin chutney that Kolkata would die for. Go south, and there is the tomato kurma of Andhra, the tomato kozhambe of Tamil Nadu and the tomato pachadi of Kerala—delicious with its ground coconut base. Come to Maharashtra and you can gorge on tomato pitla, with just a touch of asafoetida and a dash of fenugreek.

... contd.