Why I’m an omelette optimist
It’s a dish, a complete meal by itself. Any time, any day. The omelette. There’s some confusion with the spelling I know. Raju Omlet — that has just set up shop close to where I work, and that has had its ‘flagship’ outlet very close to where I live — spells it the American way, whereas I’d been taught to spell it “omelette”, like the English do, even though the origins of the words are strictly French.
The most fitting endorsement of exactly how versatile the omelette is probably came from Madame Mallory (played by Helen Mirren) in the delightful The
Hundred-Foot Journey. Madame Mallory, the diva of haute cuisine, runs the very gourmet Michelin-starred Le Saule Pleureur’s, and she talks about how she gauges a true culinary artist’s skills by asking him (or her) to make her an omelette. When Hassan, who wants to be a chef in her restaurant, concocts the perfect omelette for her, she breaks down. And then, obviously, goes on to hire him. That omelette-making scene in The
Hundred-Foot Journey pleased me no end. Because the omelette was the first thing I ever learnt how to cook. I was about 10, and yet I knew all I had to do was whisk an egg, add some chopped onions and tomatoes, salt, and throw in the mix into a frying pan where some oil/butter had been heated (when I was slightly older and able to brazen out spice, I would incorporate bits of green chillies). I could have it for breakfast (with bread), for lunch (with rice), and for dinner (with rotis).
These days, if I get home late, I make myself an omelette; and I have friends calling me randomly, saying, “I’m craving an omelette, can I come over?” I graciously rustle it up, making a smiley face on it with two halves of a cherry tomato, a semi-circular ketchup slather and a sprig of coriander (posing as a green nose).
In my growing up days, there was a point when I’d insist on “making an om- elette” for any guest who would drop by at home. By then, I had learnt this technique of mashing boiled potatoes and peas, tossing it in a little butter, and stuffing the omelette with it. I would serve this piece of “exotica” with Uncle Chipps (yes, that’s how it was spelt, with a double ‘p’) and Kissan tomato sauce (nobody called it ketchup back then). It was a huge hit, and the trickle of guests was soon a stream. My mother was most
The omelette’s most fitting endorsement came from Madame Mallory in The Hundred-Foot Journey
relieved that I had, temporarily, taken care of edible hospitality.
As the years rolled by, I never gave up on my ‘first food’. I learnt variations like adding a tablespoon of milk or a dollop of cheese (feta works best since it’s so crumbly) to the mix, stir-frying veggies and sandwiching them between the eggy double folds and sprinkling oregano flakes (usually leftover from the pre- vious night’s pizza delivery) on the finished product. I still haven’t stopped experimenting with the omelette. I wisened up to the Spanish omelette ( tortilla
de patatas), the Chinese/Indonesian foo yung, the Italian frittata and the Japanese tamagoyaki — but the desi one still takes the cake, in my opinion.
Not only has the omelette, for me, been the most multi-faceted face of food, making an omelette helped me overcome one of the toughest cooking parameters: knowing how much salt you should use. I still use my omelette measure (learnt in childhood) — I do some mental math and expand it according to portions — when I cook, and I almost always get it right (yes, I don’t need to slyly dip my finger and taste the gravy to figure if my salty factor is spot on).
There’s something so darned cheery about an omelette. I’m starving as I’m writing this, and I’m salivating at the thought of going to — no, not some fancy shmancy atmospherics-laden eatery — but good-old Raju Omlet. For a roadside-style omelette and pao.