Brioche

Culinary enthusiasts, stand clear. This is not a conversation for you if your uniform comprises a toque, a fillet knife and a set of spoons. Also, stay away if you know about more than three cuts of beef, for I can remember none. Oh hell, tenderloin just popped into my head. So did the rib. Shit. Let's keep it short. Cooks, please stay away, especially if you sound, look, or even remotely behave like Gordon Ramsay. He's one Brit I'm petrified of.

Aha, so brioche, as a Google search will tell you, is a type of bread that the French concocted with flour, sugar, yeast, eggs and butter. Loads of butter. It's soft, fluffy, airy, utterly, butterly delicious *Amul*, but wait. It's also the sort of thing that will grab eyeballs at a flashy supermarket near you. Because brioche? What's that? Curiosity kicks in and soon, your shopping cart is cradling this fancily named bread all the way to the billing counter. Higher things in life, you see?

It's humbling sometimes, to have the privilege of experiencing the finer things. Especially when you've seen your family rise from modest means to a life of comfort, if not opulence. But words like brioche, ganache, gateau, au revoir and the likes make your scalp itch. After you're done scratching, I wonder how anyone stays away from Googling what these eclectic words mean. The other day, Farroq Bulsara was crooning over a bottle of Moet and Chandon kept in some pretty lady's cabinet. Heck, who's going to tell you that M&C is a brand of champagne you cannot yet afford? Maybe soon, but goodness, these lyricists, their novel tastes and high-flying lexicon.

Just as a side-note, any song penned by Freddie Mercury will send you sprinting to your rusty-old Oxford mini-dictionary. Fancy words all around, but they paint a stunning picture when you put them into perspective. Back to brioche then. Save for the upmarket name and a little bit of its basic composition, the borderline haughty Brioche isn't that different from the humble paav that cocoons your wada. It's flour, fat, eggs, sugar and yeast. You're telling me that a Modern, Wibbs, Brittania or *insert your favourite bread brand*  can't add some extra eggs and butter to their bread dough and sell you a slightly 'premium' loaf of bread wearing a slightly amped-up price-tag? Apparently not, and strangely so.

Actually, not so strangely so. Think of it. Would you pay Rs 150 for a loaf of bread that has 'Modern' written on it? Or for that matter, any brand that sells a relatively plebian variety of bread? In your head, it would be a bit like paying BMW price for a Hyundai. The Korean underdog is possibly more thrilling than its Bavarian competitor, but you wouldn't buy it. Nor would you buy the idea that Hyundai can make an automobile superior to a German brand. That might soon change, though. You see, the Koreans have smartly roped in ex-BMW staff to give their cars some extra oomph. That rant some other time.

But yeah, the truth is that a brand name could make all the difference to your bank balance. The more tongue-contorting the name, the more substantial the dip in your savings. The chaps even spelled their names wrong. Look at Bvlgari, Versace (sounds Gujarati to me), DKNY (as in Don't Know Why?), FCUK (COME ON! At least spell this right, people!). People gift their credit cards to these folks. Don't even get me started on the ones that sound funny. One second. Jimmy Choo? What were they thinking?

Let's stop here, because it's all in a lighter vein. You really came here in search of the perfect Brioche recipe, didn't you? Sorry to disappoint. Jokes aside, our collective obsession for 'feel-good' products has turned into a bit of a joke; screw the puns. Once upon a time, premium was the amount you paid to save your arse from a stratospheric hospital bill; or your family's arse in case you kicked the bucket a little early. Now, 'premium' has become part of a marketer's nuclear arsenal. Everything's got to be premium. The seat fabrics in your car, the biscuits, the shoe polish, the underwear, ice-creams, cooking oil, goodness knows, even bottled water I suppose. How?

No one asks 'Why', that's how. *fin*

Hurt no more

Back in 1994, Nine Inch Nails, the rock band, gave us Hurt. The song had the makings of a rock number, a fantastic one to say the least. It sounded dark, borderline ominous, and had oodles of bass; an easy choice for the lovelorn bloke who recently had his heart decimated. Eight years hence......

Johnny Cash decided to give the rock elements amiss, took a good ol' acoustic guitar, and proved to the world that older means wiser. The song that gave the impression that it wanted to bite your head off would now bring you to tears. Hurt finally sounded the way hurt felt for you and me.

Now, the interpretation of the song is disputed, and heroin addiction is often considered the central theme. But Cash's version leans towards the rock legend – now in his twilight years – reminiscing his younger, brasher, wilder self, and all that he regrets. Cash's Hurt also brings to light an element of inner peace that stands in the face of dilapidation. Almost as though you stopped thrashing wildly in water after realising that you could float if you stayed still.

So that's what getting older does to you, is it? It humbles the bitter, teaches you how to endure, ]forgive, to hold close what was beautiful and to let go of what pained the heart. Maybe, gratitude, forgiveness, mindful retrospection and inner peace are also perks of a longer stay on this beautiful rock hurtling through space.

Yes, the pain is there. Perhaps, shrouded in the all-pervasive white noise, thinking that it's playing hide-and-seek, but you know it's still there. It pokes, pinches, stabs and jabs at you from time to time, rears its head when you least expect it to. But, it's been in business for long enough to have become part of you.

Ever heard that high-frequency sound that pops up in the ear from time to time? Each time that happens, your eardrum becomes desensitised to that particular frequency; you'll never again be able to hear it. You've become immune to it. Slowly and surely, there will be more frequencies that you will lose the ability to hear, just like the old skins you shed, the people you lose, the people who lose you, and the pains that you wanted to avoid all along.

As Cash says, eventually, you'll lose them all, they'll all go away in the end. Not the loveliest picture to paint, is it?  But when you look back, you'll have tales to tell about everything gorgeous, satisfying and enthralling that made your life worth living. And you there, for I know you're reading this, were one of the best things that happened to me, and I wish to tell tales of how you made life blissful for those few precious moments.

They still call him 'masterji'.

'Master,' what a word. It addresses someone who's in a position of control, someone who's got his act together, and thank grammar, here's a word that is perfectly out of the purview of gender discrimination. Or perhaps, it isn't. You never know nowadays.

It isn't the day or age when you switched on the telly and He-Man popped up on screen and announced that he's allegedly the 'Master of the Universe'. Creativity and lies come in all shapes and sizes, replete with blonde hair, a weird costume, and a pussy-tiger for a pet. (Anyone remember He-Man? Anyone?)

The word Master represents everyone from a little boy, to Master Shifu (Thank you, Dustin Hoffman), to those who shamelessly spend precious time, sweat, blood and resources trying to seduce anyone with half a penny to sponsor their college projects. However, serious respect for the academically inclined, because studies aren't everyone's cup of tea. Oh, for those with kinky inclinations, the master is also a source of sadistic pleasure. *Smack, *Smack, *SMACK (Perhaps, the *WHIP of a lash sounds better. Oh, god.)

In our increasingly fast-food life, where everything needs to be at our disposal like two-minute noodles, the whole concept of mastery seems to have taken a back-seat. Everything NOW. Weightloss - now; food - now; settlements - now; sex - now; Times - Now (Goswami's left, isn't it? Phew); clothes - now. All ready-made, ONE SHAPE FITS ALL. Of course, you can still pick from S, M, L, XL, XXL and a balloon. But somewhere, the tradition of getting your clothes stitched has lost its charm, save for among the true ladies and gentlemen.

The last time I'd gotten my clothes stitched was upon my mom's advice. Mom and little sister took along a shirt that fit me well, chose the colours and materials as per their liking, and handed me a stack of new shirts. They did fit well, I must say. However, it had been a while since I last saw anyone's attire in the making. The sight of the measuring tape stretched taut between the tailor's thumb, his meticulous eyes making mental notes of where the fabric will fold unnecessarily, or where it will push unpleasantly against your paunch, there's an old-school charm to the process. 

I did finally get to witness it, and that too in a shopping mall. Dad has a penchant for tailored clothes, but doesn't indulge too often. The last time he did, I went along just for kicks. That's when I heard the word 'Masterji'. This rather quaint man, narrow shoulders, sunken eyes and all, surfaced when the at the representative at the store called out the name. Masterji. He didn't look the part, but something about the way he spoke, his ability to gauge a man's shape, and the quick movements of his eyes suggested that you would be happy with the clothes you would be collecting a week from now. That reassurance is reinforced further when you realise that they are still called 'masters'.