Weekend father and weekend husband have more to than just logistical, emotional and relationship issues.
Initially, it sounds excellent, and jealous friends made it bigger, better and glamorous. Buddy, you are free from Monday to Friday. You are lucky, you're going to have a ball every evening, and we are all going to come over for a day or two to paint the town red.
All you do is flow with the tide. A new assignment in a new town alone without your family seems daunting. And these blokes make it seem like all fun and frolic.
Well, it's the year 2000, and I picked a great opportunity at Jaipur, in India. The 295 km drive from Delhi took 4- 5 hours if you managed to start between 3–4, am or pm. Fortunately, I had negotiated a four and a half-day week with the employer. That is, I would leave post-lunch every Friday. I spend Friday nights and the weekend with the family in Delhi, leaving for Jaipur every Monday early morning.
The company arranged a penthouse on the twelfth floor, complete with terrace garden swings, arches and the works.
I moved in. Things were good apart from one thing food. Most evenings, we were at the office, and once back home late, the pre-cooked cold food made by the cook in the evening before he went home wasn't exciting, which was invariably given to the house help the following day.
Thankfully I had a friend who, in a similar situation, would accompany me back home with a bottle of rum. We ordered home delivery. The food ordered online was always too spicy for my taste and my stomach.
Luckily for me, my experience as a chef at Oberoi flight kitchen years back came to my rescue. While the tenure was short, I had predominantly prepared Florentine eggs, Benedict, for Air France. So I planned to put some of my skills to the test.
The next time we planned to get together for an evening to get sozzled over rum. I visited the grocery store and picked up a 12 lb broiler chicken, 100 gm's of salted butter, black pepper and three fresh lemons. With a loaf of French bread.
On seeing the grocery, my friend gave me a quizzical look. I knew he preferred Indian cuisine, and he said, "are you planning to make chicken curry?." I said "no", "then what" "I don,t know," I said. He threw up his hands in the air, and we drove on.
Reaching home, I put the frozen chicken in a bowl with tap water for it to thaw. Seeded and juiced the lemons in a separate bowl.
I walked out to get my first drink of rum and coke. "You are trying something new?" my friend said. "Yeh, I replied." "Ok, then I shall order our usual a little later." "You wouldn't need to," I said confidently.
I walked back to the kitchen with my friend at my heels. Once there, he looked at the kitchen counter table and said, "You sure." "Yup", I said. However, I wasn't, but I did put up a good act. Dare did I tell him I was experimenting.
Courtesy, my year-plus tenure at Oberoi flight kitchen. I immaculately skinned the chicken and did the "8 Cut the Chicken" (A style of cutting the chicken into pre-specified eight pieces). I now made three slits on each piece of chicken for it o cook properly and for the Lemnon to seep in. I was quick and good at it. I could sense my friend admiring while sipping the black liquid from his glass.
I now placed a pressure cooker on the hot plate, turning it on high heat. I added the entire 100-grams of salted butter into it. "Holy cow", my friend yelled, are you mad that much butter?" "Quite", I said. Once the butter had just about melted, I took out nearly half in a small china bowl, usually used for sauces or dip.
I then Placed the eight pieces of chicken flat at the pressure cooker's base and gave each one a roll in the now simmering butter, ensuring that all the pieces touched the pressure cooker's base and coated with butter.
I then sprinkled the lemon juice on the chicken—nearly three tablespoons or so. Next, I added black pepper to a taste, looked at my friend, added a pitch more, and topped it with a pinch of salt. Last was to sprinkle nearly sixty ml or so of water. Putting the lid onto the pressure cooker, I then reduced the heat of the hot plate to medium.
"This is going to be horrible. Sour and mussy, let me order our usual," said my friend. Quietly, I went on to grate the garlic into the china bowl with melted butter in it. Slicing the BreadBread and arranging it into a tray, I walked out, sipping from my glass.
"That's it", he said. "Now, when do we get to taste your goulash" and he chuckled.
We walked into the den, and as usual, got talking. We both heard the cooker whistle. I rushed and switched off the hot plate, joining him back.
Jonny was either curious or very hungry and said, "So". I gulped my drink and said, "ten minutes, let it cook in the steam." I poured myself another glass.
"We only have another half hour to order before everything closes," he said. I made no notice of his remark and leaned forward to get my drink. We again got talking, and in about ten minutes or so, I walked to the kitchen. I Carried the Bread and the garlic dip to the den.
As I walked back and opened the lid of the pressure cooker, I heard a muffled voice over my shoulder. I turned around, and there was my friend with a mouth full of bread, and the garlic dip was trying to say something.
I looked at him; he seemed to be in a hurry. Grabbing the pressure cooker, he moved to the den. I picked up a couple of plates and walked behind him.
I could see a piece of BreadBread with a shred of chicken and the steaming juices going in his mouth. He turned back and looked at me, and that look said it all.
He served himself a drum stick and topped it with a spoon of the residual liquid in the cooker into his plate and munched on it, saying, "boss, from now on, this is what we eat."
That night the last thing I remembered was that we were both holding the pressures cooker from either side. Trying to scrape the bottom of the pressure cooker for whatever juices and scraps that we're left in it, with a piece of bread in our hands.
The next day he called up and said, "lemon pepper chicken chef at nine."
I stayed in Jaipur for another ten months, and we must have had 20 or 30 such sessions. There were no variations, just lemon pepper chicken with Rum and Coke in a city that touches nearly fifty degrees Celsius in peak summer.
Lemon, salted butter and pepper are a combo made in heaven, works on most veggies as well, parboil them, and you could sauté them in this combo.
That's the story of lemon pepper chicken, my style.
I would love to make it again, but my family is vegan.
