PRATEEK SADHU ATHUL PRASAD
SOMETIMES, TO BE A CHEF, you need to leave the kitchen. Even before my business partner Aditi Dugar and I launched Masque restaurant in Mumbai four years ago, we knew we wanted to represent lesser-known Indian ingredients in our dishes. The tasting menus at Masque shift with the seasons precisely for this reason—so that we can pivot and celebrate what’s seasonal, and add an element of surprise for our patrons. Ladakh is one place I’ve gravitated to time and again since Masque was born. A land of high plains and deep valleys in the politically charged Kashmir region of northern India, Ladakh’s unique terrain, microclimate, and food culture set it apart from the culinary traditions of the rest of the country. My trip there last August—at a time when Ladakh was transitioning from being part of the former state of Jammu and Kashmir to a federal territory governed directly by New Delhi—was a reminder of how every corner, every stretch of the road, can yield new discoveries.
After flying into the Ladakhi capital of Leh, we made our way to Ladakh Sarai, our base for the trip. A collection of huts, yurts, and traditionally styled rooms nestled among stands of willow and poplar, the resort lies just 10 minutes from town beyond a range of barren hills. Cozy and quiet, it was the perfect place to acclimatize to the elevation: at 3,500 meters above sea level, Leh is the highest city in India.
Once our bodies had adjusted to the thin air, we headed back into town to Namza Couture & Café. The boutique out front is filled with gorgeous Ladakhi shawls, pashminas, pillows, and other handicrafts, but it was the open-air restaurant in the back that had drawn us here. Padma Yangchan, the young Delhi-trained designer who cofounded Namza a few years ago, is dedicated to preserving Ladakhi food, art, and culture in a way few have done before. The café’s menu goes way beyond such typical Tibetan-inspired fare as thukpa (soupy noodles) and momos (here known as mok mok) to offer a whole new take on the region’s food.
Sitting under a vine-covered arbor, we were introduced to namphey (roasted barley flour) mixed into a dough known as kholak; and sharjen, which is essentially frozen mutton tartare seasoned with a local spice paste called tsamik. We also devoured zathuk (nettle soup) with sundried cottage cheese. The nettle, a wild shrub that grows on rocky slopes, imparts a sharp, iron-y taste.
Another standout was gyuma, a Tibetan blood sausage that neatly falls at the intersection of religion and our dependence on nature. It’s made with a roasted mixture of blood and fat, and is pan-fried for a fatty-rich
finish. Because Buddhist culture forbids the slaughter of animals, the main ingredient for gyuma comes from yaks that are bled for healing purposes, such as to prevent disease or maintain a healthy weight. It was a guilt-free delight.
At the end of our meal, Padma handed me a bottle of local capers. The hearty buds thrive in this arid climate and are foraged for pickling; the shoots and leaves of the caper bush are also used in cooking. As for the source of my chamomile tea, I didn’t have to look far: the flowers were plucked from Namza’s own organic garden, their sweet aroma scenting the mountain air.
On our second day in Leh we were contacted by Rigzin Angmo, a young woman who had just wrapped up a post-graduate program in entrepreneurship at the Naropa Fellowship campus in nearby Hemis. Suitably enterprising, she had heard we were on the lookout for lesser-known Ladakhi ingredients and offered to bring us to a spot where we could dig for wild Himalayan rhubarb. The route took us across the Indus River at Martselang and into Hemis National Park, where we drove along a gravel track into a barren valley cut through by a mountain stream. This was snow leopard country, but all our eyes were straining for a glimpse of bright pink stems on the stony slopes. Finally, we stopped and scrambled up the hillside to claim our prize: several heads of rhubarb growing tenaciously among the rocks. Careful not to uproot the plants, we cut what stems we needed before slipping and sliding back down to the valley floor.
That afternoon we went in search of chhaang, a mildly alcoholic Tibetan brew typically distilled at home using fermented barley and rice. It didn’t take us long. Less than an hour up the road from Ladakh Sarai, in the village of Fiang, we met the Lakrook family, who welcomed us into their farmhouse and demonstrated the entire chhaang-making process. After being cooked, cooled, and mixed with dried yeast called phap, the barley is left to ferment in a covered container, which is wrapped in wool blankets for warmth. The resulting beverage is cloudy white and slightly fizzy, with a mild bitterness to its taste. Apart from that, I’d say it’s a close cousin to sake.
A more ambitious adventure we had penciled in was an overnight trip to Turtuk. Huddled on a remote stretch of the Shyok River Valley, this oasis-like settlement is inhabited by the predominantly