Chefs I wish I could kidnap

A globe-trotting diner, Shankar Sharma draws a personal map of some of the world's finest kitchens across continents and cuisines

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The man sat quietly in a corner of the club's dining room. He was tall and powerfully built. The tuxedo fell smoothly down his shoulders. The unmistakable bulge under his left armpit gave away the .32 Webley & Scott.

The dining room was near empty. He ate quietly. Rice, and ladles of liquid gold with nuggets — a classic prawn malai curry. The aroma wafting up was complex, silky even. Coconut flesh, a whisper of cinnamon, cardamoms, and crushed green stems of green coriander.

The man nodded appreciatively. He asked the attendant to call the chef to his table. When he arrived, the man asked him his name. “Sir, Bhakti,” said the chef.

The man said — no, instructed: “Bhakti ji, pack your bags. From tomorrow, you are working for me in my home, and from now on, you will make this prawn malai curry just for me and my family.”

The chef looked shocked, and then smiled. The man was not the kind you argued with. The ‘abduction’ was smooth, as smooth as the gun draw of a top-drawer gunslinger.

The man was my father. The incident happened exactly as above. I know, because I was sitting at the table, a little kid in a little tuxedo of my own. Bhakti ji would go on to cook many memorable prawn malai curries — and much more — the next several years, for us.

I learnt the taste of good life from my old man. And over decades, I have built upon that genetic legacy. I remember as a kid the food paradiso that was Calcutta of yore: Chicken reshmi kebab at Amber; chicken a la Kiev at Sky Room; fried fantail prawns at The Oberoi Grand.

I have eaten in quite unbelievably good restaurants in India, and across the world, but because of recency bias, I will fixate on my food peregrinations in the past 3-4 years.

I start in no particular order, but like a waterfall, I suspect I will end up with the best.

Vienna

Steirereck