Staff Mess, Part I
Like a good pilgrim, I didn't know exactly what I was searching for. Like a successful pilgrimage, my destination revealed more than I ever hoped for. On the far end of Mussoorie lies a community of Tibetan refugees centered around two large schools in Happy Valley. (Doesn't the name make you want to visit?) Today I walked there with Hannah and Sarah, a fellow dorm parent.
Two hours after we left, just past the last major bazaar, we came to a gorgeous estate with tall pine trees, well-tended lawns, flowers I can't name, and a sign advertising the "Peach Tree Restaurant" with "World Famous Fish and Fries." We ignored the sign, followed the path, and landed squarely in the British Raj, circa 1850. There was an ancient guest house with wicker furniture and white rails on the porch. Under the guise of potential customers, we let the proprietor tour us around the house, through a massive dining hall with a massive wooden table and into a fire place room with four (four!) tiger skins. Two on the floor, one on the wall, one stuffed and growling. I'd love to spend a couple days on a getaway there, but Hannah reminded me that to do it correctly, we'd have to drink tea ceaselessly, be haunted by ghosts from our past, and write formal letters home about enlightening the natives. So we headed to Happy Valley instead.
The most common Tibetan imports to Woodstock School are easily momos, pot sticker-like snacks stuffed with shredded onions and cabbage and sometimes mutton or chicken. Vendors come to the dorms a few nights a week and their fried momos are a fine boost for getting through my evening shifts. Today we were hoping to find out what else the Tibetan menu had to offer, but when we reached the valley most of the bazaars were eerily closed and we didn't find anything except tiny tea shops, until we reached the Tibetan Homes Foundation school. There we found a cafeteria named "Staff Mess." It was full of Tibetan adults and children in school uniforms, but a man drinking Mountain Dew on the door step told me that it was open to the public. Then the moment of revelation--beef! Not obstructing traffic and munching plastic bags, but thinly sliced and fried with onions, chillies, and tomatoes--a filling bowl of it for 25 rupees, about 60 cents. I had heard it was available in certain places here, like Muslim butcher shops, but stumbling upon it at the end of a long morning's walk was almost transcendent, in a strictly un-spiritual way.
Honestly, I've been doing fine without cheeseburgers and steaks, and Indian pizza is about as good as West Michigan pizza, which isn't saying much. My palate and my stomach have both adjusted to most Indian food, though school cafeteria food is as bad here as it is anywhere. But the school cooks have mastered the ancient art of making food spicy and bland at the same time. Luckily, food in the bazaar is dirt cheap, so I dine out a few times a week. Chinese food is popular here, and I've now had tasty Chinese food in America, Honduras, and India, without really knowing what Chinese Chinese food is like.
Two hours after we left, just past the last major bazaar, we came to a gorgeous estate with tall pine trees, well-tended lawns, flowers I can't name, and a sign advertising the "Peach Tree Restaurant" with "World Famous Fish and Fries." We ignored the sign, followed the path, and landed squarely in the British Raj, circa 1850. There was an ancient guest house with wicker furniture and white rails on the porch. Under the guise of potential customers, we let the proprietor tour us around the house, through a massive dining hall with a massive wooden table and into a fire place room with four (four!) tiger skins. Two on the floor, one on the wall, one stuffed and growling. I'd love to spend a couple days on a getaway there, but Hannah reminded me that to do it correctly, we'd have to drink tea ceaselessly, be haunted by ghosts from our past, and write formal letters home about enlightening the natives. So we headed to Happy Valley instead.
The most common Tibetan imports to Woodstock School are easily momos, pot sticker-like snacks stuffed with shredded onions and cabbage and sometimes mutton or chicken. Vendors come to the dorms a few nights a week and their fried momos are a fine boost for getting through my evening shifts. Today we were hoping to find out what else the Tibetan menu had to offer, but when we reached the valley most of the bazaars were eerily closed and we didn't find anything except tiny tea shops, until we reached the Tibetan Homes Foundation school. There we found a cafeteria named "Staff Mess." It was full of Tibetan adults and children in school uniforms, but a man drinking Mountain Dew on the door step told me that it was open to the public. Then the moment of revelation--beef! Not obstructing traffic and munching plastic bags, but thinly sliced and fried with onions, chillies, and tomatoes--a filling bowl of it for 25 rupees, about 60 cents. I had heard it was available in certain places here, like Muslim butcher shops, but stumbling upon it at the end of a long morning's walk was almost transcendent, in a strictly un-spiritual way.
Honestly, I've been doing fine without cheeseburgers and steaks, and Indian pizza is about as good as West Michigan pizza, which isn't saying much. My palate and my stomach have both adjusted to most Indian food, though school cafeteria food is as bad here as it is anywhere. But the school cooks have mastered the ancient art of making food spicy and bland at the same time. Luckily, food in the bazaar is dirt cheap, so I dine out a few times a week. Chinese food is popular here, and I've now had tasty Chinese food in America, Honduras, and India, without really knowing what Chinese Chinese food is like.
posted by Jonathan Hiskes at 5:19 PM
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