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Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts

Friday, May 4, 2018

Amritsar – The Gilded City (Part 1 – The Journey)




Leaving hundreds of early morning squatters behind in the suburbs of Delhi, our train to Amritsar made its way swiftly into the heart of lush green Punjab where miles and miles of farmland spread like a butter soft quilt over the landscape. Villages dotted the land for as far as one could see. Well fed cattle grazed tranquilly and red and blue tractors chugged their way through fields. Our coach carried a mixed bag of passengers. There was a large group of elderly military veterans – both men and women. Most men in this group sported snow white handlebar moustaches that were quite the rage amongst military men a few decades ago. The women were sleek and fit despite their ripe age. They spent their hours on the train debating convivially about current affairs like the recent OROP bill, tension at the Indo-Pak border etc. It was nice to see them as it reminded me of my own parents who would have felt right at home with these gentlemen and ladies.

Then there was the quintessential Indian-American family on their annual vacation to India. The kids were armed with iPads to ward off an ailment that seems to assail the young very frequently these days – Boredom. They spoke in thick accents that no one but their parents seemed to understand. The parents, on the other hand, were well equipped to battle an Indian menace of another kind altogether – Germs! With swathes of disinfectant wipes and bottles of scented hand sanitizers, Indians who come back after years spent abroad, try to annihilate all generations of germs around them by furiously scrubbing and wiping every surface that they might deign to touch.

And then we had the nauseatingly love-struck newlyweds. This is in fact a unique subsection of mankind. The male and female counterparts are so engrossed in each other that they look like one giant glob instead of two separate individuals. The excessive love that is oozing from each pore on their bodies aids in this fusion. Braving the sharp lacquer work on the girl’s twenty two dozen glass bangles and the skin-repelling fabric of the guy’s shirt, the two remain firmly glued to each other.

Keeping Abu entertained and busy throughout the 7 hour journey was not a big challenge. There were many sights that kept him peeled to the window. Stacks of large shipping containers that looked like life-sized Lego blocks, baby goats frolicking by a gurgling stream and a gaggle of geese merrily waddling away were just a few of them. The excitement of being inside the womb of an actual train made him even more gleeful.
Having heard endless tales of the delicious food that Amritsar has to offer, we were eager to sample some of its famous wares. As our train pulled into Amritsar Junction right around lunch time, we happily scooped up our meagre luggage and our not-so-meagre toddler and headed straight to one of the most iconic eateries of Amritsar – Makhan. It is here that we had our first taste of the much talked about – Amritsari Fried Fish. Crisp and mildly flavoured with salt and chaat masala, the fried fish at Amritsar is not like anything I have tasted before.  The thin and crunchy outer layer is a perfect encasement for the succulent fish inside. Even though it is fried, there is no oily after-taste in the mouth upon eating it. The Amritsari Fried Fish is a must-try if someone is visiting Amritsar. The naans and the kulchas at Makhan are to die for too as are the chicken ra-ra and the paneer tikka masala. After eating at Makhan I can safely say that if I were to place the same order at any popular eatery in Delhi, it would taste half as scrumptious as it did here at Amritsar.

From Makhan we could think of nowhere else to go but our comfortable hotel room where a large bed awaited us. All those carbs that we had ingested at Makhan were beginning to have a stronger effect than any prescription sleep medication and soon all three of us were out like lightbulbs...to be continued

Saturday, May 16, 2015

The Zayeqa of Good Food

Thousands of miles and almost half of earth’s circumference away from the perennially hostile Indo-Pak border, there exists a Pakistani restaurant where an Indian like me is welcomed with warm smiles, steaming plates of kebabs and biryanis and friendly conversations. This hole-in-the-wall establishment that goes by the name ‘Zayeqa’, was discovered by me the day I had my first hankering for succulent kebabs in Detroit. Having moved from Austin where an equally Lilliputian, Persian restaurant catered to my cravings, I was instantly on the lookout for something just as worthy, if not more, to fill the rather big shoes that I’d left behind. Lucky for me, Zayeqa fit the bill perfectly and I became one of its many frequent customers.

It all began one warm summer afternoon as I lay around salivating at the sight of hot shaami kebabs being fried by Kashaf’s ammi in the Hum TV series ‘Zindagi Gulzar Hai’ that I’d been binge watching all week long. A quick Google search gave me the names of the three most popular Pakistani restaurants in the area. On a whim I picked Zayeqa, perhaps because its name called to mind images of all those piquant treats that I had been longing for.

Mellifluous sentences in chaste Urdu poured out of my phone and into my ears as I heard Aunty Z for the first time. I was placing a take-away order for I wanted to sample their wares in the warm coziness of my own room so that if I had to, I could unselfconsciously screw my nose if it turned out to be a bad choice or conversely lick my fingers clean if I was pleased. Their signature ‘Chicken Bihari Kebab platter’ was my first order which immediately became a hot favourite. Tender strips of roasted chicken delicately enrobed in aromatic masalas and served with raw, sliced onions, a wedge of lime, mint chutney and naan fresh out of the tandoor – made for a meal that not just filled me up but also left an indelible mark on my satiated palate. Thus the deal between me and Zayeqa was sealed.

There was no looking back after that first experience. Each time the husband and I felt a carnivorous urge, we headed straight to Zayeqa. Along the way, some friends from work joined the fan club and these trips became more frequent. Soon enough, Uncle and Aunty Z started recognizing me as that tiny Indian girl with an elephant’s appetite, who brought them regular business. Uncle Z, a man close to Papa in age, wears a salt-and-pepper moustache and beard and possesses eyes that twinkle in merriment when he sees me. He brims with stories of his singular trip across the border to India. The unbridled excitement that filled him up as he set foot in Delhi, the adventures he had in Amritsar, the awestruck tourist he embodied  in Mumbai, are precious vignettes he shares with us every time we visit.

Aunty Z is a calm, ever-smiling, matronly figure. Like every other Indian/Pakistani parent, she too oozes pride from every pore when she speaks about her son who is a dentist or her daughter, who is studying to become a doctor. Tell her that you feel akin to a stuffed turkey after a large meal and she will give you a quick once-over and declare, much to your satisfaction, that you are nothing but a bag of bones that needs to be nourished with good protein in the form of her famous chicken and mutton qormas. Uncle Z and Aunty Z share an endearing camaraderie that can only develop when two individuals have faced years of thick and thin together. She loves pulling his leg ever so often and he enjoys gently chiding her over frivolous things like too much sugar in a batch of mango lassi. Once you are done savoring the food as well as their comical repartee, they see you off with an affectionate ‘Allah Hafiz beta. Mummy-Papa aayein toh unhe saath leke aana. Hum vegetarian khaana bhi badhiya banaate hain.

Zayeqa is no longer just another restaurant for me. Within its cramped 6-table premise and amidst its stacks of disposable crockery and cutlery, beats a large, loving heart that does not comprehend man made differences based on culture, class, race or nationality. It is here that I find food, people, smells and sounds that remind me of home. These people and their ways do not appear different than what I am accustomed to. That such blatant animosity breeds between our two nations despite our very many similarities is all the more flummoxing especially on a tummy that rumbles in satisfaction.  

Sunday, February 1, 2015

India Diary - Of Animated Monkeys, Celebrity Parrots and Marble Elephants


Curtains of fog cloaked the ancient city of Agra at the crack of dawn one morning in early January. A fog so thick that walking through it felt like ferreting through a bucket of whipped cream. Despite the hindrance it posed to daily lives, the streets had already begun whirring into action. Store shutters were noisily rolled up by bedraggled shopkeepers, boys and girls with bands of oil-slicked hair stuck to their heads restlessly waited for school buses and milkmen donning snug balaclavas and sweaters pedaled their way through routes where dozens of families waited for them to ladle fresh milk into their milk-pots.

Amidst all of this, troops of red-faced monkeys casually went about their business, scouring rooftops for food, picking ticks off each other or simply watching their human descendants crank start a brand new workday. Dragging their coiled tails behind them, these dusty brown creatures ambled from one roof to the next with a confident air of being very much at home in the city. Had they been fashionable enough to dress up in a ‘conical hat and red jacket’ ensemble, they would have quite easily passed off as over-sized replicas of Abu the monkey from Aladdin. Even so, thanks to them and the vaulted exteriors of aging constructions, the city wore an esoteric, ‘Arabian Nights’ glow.

Negotiating a maze of arterial alleys, choked with piles of garbage and rows of houses stacked cheek to jowl; we made our way to the hallowed site of Mumtaz Mahal’s final resting place, the grandeur of which has earned it a place on the list of the Seven Wonders of the World. On our final mile, the congestion suddenly disappeared as the confined lane gave way to a wide cemented road. It appeared as though recovering from a bout of population and pollution induced flu, the city had finally blown its nose clean and was now taking a deep, refreshing breath. The russet walls of the Red Fort ran alongside, directing us to the parking lot at the monument’s doorstep which turned out to be a colourful mosaic of cars with hilariously corny bumper stickers (Gussa nahi, Pyaar chahiye), scooters with shiny tassels on their handles, flamboyantly decorated albeit malodorous camels with equally jazzed up carts hitched to their backs and battery operated rickshaws that looked like three-legged mules.

Like an apparition, the Taj Mahal rose from the grip of a cloud of fog that, instead of thinning, seemed to be getting denser by each passing hour. In the vicinity, a quintessential coterie of pale, light eyed foreigners clutching ‘Lonely Planet’ guide books and hi-tech cameras were fighting a losing battle to deter a pack of touts that had hungrily descended upon them. Steering clear of the smooth talking salesmen and the harried bunch, I slipped on the gauzy shoe covers that are required to be worn over footwear before entering the mausoleum and walked into the marble monolith. This wasn’t my first time at the Taj, yet it’s intricately carved and delicately filigreed features did not fail to enthrall me. Even though it is a mausoleum that is said to signify the angst of a bereft husband over the death of his beloved wife, the pulchritude of the Taj was sufficient to shoo away any lugubriousness that the story threatened to bring about. 

Shah Jehan’s second love – that for the cool confines of marble structures, seems to have rubbed onto Agra dwellers over centuries. Treated as a mark of prosperity, slabs of marble are still used extensively as building material here. If not the whole house, at least the floors in most houses are made of either the original mottled white marble or its fancier coloured variants. In the form of a small marble elephant with a lapis lazuli flower inlaid on its rump, a piece of this obsession made its way into my luggage as well.  

As it turned out, the poker-faced camels that welcomed us at the Taj weren’t meant to be the last animals to greet us that day. Our foray into the behemothic Agra Fort began with sighting a jalapeno coloured parrot with a bright red beak, lounging blithely in a slight nook in the wall while amusing itself by posing like a diva for the tourist cameras. The ease with which animals blend into public spaces in India has always tickled me. For instance, it is completely natural for traffic to come to a standstill as a cow parks herself in the middle of the road, lazily chewing her afternoon cud. Similarly, a horse trotting languidly next to a car on the main road is not a sight that will make the driver do a double take before succumbing to a stroke. Herds of goats making their way back to their barns at the end of a long day seem to commiserate in loud bleats with their human counterparts who share the same back alleys on their way home. It is thus a country where livestock is not confined to the countryside; it has equal rights to enjoy the glitter and glamour of city life as well.

Examples of enterprising Indians conjuring opportunities out of thin air can be seen in abundance at sites like the Taj Mahal and the Agra Fort. At the gates of the Agra Fort, my ears pricked up as the sound of a flurry of excited German commentary mouthed by a puny Indian lad with a shock of disheveled hair drifted by. Upon closer inspection I found that he was a tourist guide who made a living by showing German tourists around. The fact that he spoke their language made even the oft stingy Germans loosen their purse strings instantly. Later, as I explored the fort, I found Russian, Japanese, Mandarin and Cantonese speaking tourist guides too, seeking those who preferred listening to the enchanting tales of history in their own dialects. These tales mostly sounded authentic and got a thumbs-up from Google but they were also laced with a handful of fabricated figments, sprinkled on to add a pinch of drama.

Then there were those selling a deluge of articles on mobile carts. Cut from the same cloth as their ‘tourist-guide’ cousins, these hawkers were difficult to shake off as they attached themselves inextricably by our side while trying to convince us that theirs was the best deal in town and that ignoring them was a grave folly that would come to haunt us later. Quick to deduce the needs of their prospective clientele, their wares were a motley collection of plastic souvenirs, memory sticks for cameras, suspiciously flimsy plastic bottles with muddy ‘mineral water’, feeble key chains, tacky fridge magnets, pencil torches, picture postcards and a variety of quick bites packaged in transparent cellophane paper.

One of the most crucial messengers of love in India is food. Aaloo kachoris fried to a golden crisp, flaky bajre ke (pearl millet) paranthe ready to be dunked in flavourful curries, syrupy jalebis fried in skillets of bubbling hot shudh ghee and stuffed paranthas fresh off the stove with a blob of homemade butter melting atop into a rich pool of creamy indulgence – they all carry calorie laden tidings of deep rooted affection. The best season to partake of this largesse is the winter as our perennial love for food seems to peak just as the first winter chills start seeping into our houses. Luckily, I found myself quite in time for it. With each day starting with a steaming cup of sugary tea spiked alternately with black pepper and ginger and ending with a generous helping of flaming red gaajar halwa, I was in food paradise.

A few added inches to my waistline, a satiated tongue, a trumpeting marble elephant, a picture book brimming with stories and an undying urge to visit again are souvenirs from my days in Agra. They remind me of a city that is slowly but surely making its way into my heart.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

A Holiday Treat - Thanksgiving in San Francisco


Experiencing a city during the festive season is like meeting someone on their wedding day. People tend to be on their best behaviour the day they are getting married. In fact, even the most obnoxious ones are amiable and benign on this day and just so, even the most vicious cities are friendly and becoming in the last quarter of the year. Holidays seem to bring out the most attractive features of every city and it is worth the while to spend the extra dough over inflated costs of flight tickets, hotel reservations and other similar logistical expenditures to be able to partake of all the conviviality.

For instance, a city like New Delhi which is infamous for all the insidiousness that festers in its dark pockets any other time of the year, does not intimidate as much, as soon as the streets light up for Diwali and Eid. It is hard to hold up one's guard when wading through seas of happy people on streets swathed in twinkly fairy lights and colourful streamers. The aromas wafting from kitchens where lip-smacking treats are being conjured from scratch further melt away any residues of our guarded self. For a few weeks, the bonhomie and joy brought along by the holiday merriment shines so bright that it illuminates even the darkest nooks and corners and souls.

I had a chance to spend some time in San Francisco, California over Thanksgiving this year. Now, since San Francisco is not a city of ill repute, there were no preset caution bells ringing in my head. Also, as I have been there several times before, I wasn't expecting too many new revelations and experiences either. How wrong I was! From the glittery Christmas tree standing tall at Union square to the red and green mistletoes suspended in every display window of multi-storey retail havens like Macy's and Bloomingdales to the bejewelled Golden Gate Bridge which streaked the night sky like a frozen shooting star to the throngs of happy people crowding every inch of space on the sidewalks - everything was a thousand-fold brighter and more cheerful.


The husband and I are not big shoppers and so we did not fall victim to the crazy Black Friday shopping fever that afflicts most people during this time of the year. Instead, we were part of a small group of bemused onlookers, sitting with mugs of steaming hot cocoa, soaking up the gleefulness of others lugging bags and bags of great steals. Strangely, the excitement of those who have struck gold on this day of deals and sales after camping for hours outside mega malls, is contagious. It rubs on to even people like us who have little patience and inclination to jostle against others to grab that 100 dollar television at Walmart or that 5 dollar knit dress at H&M. Without spending a dime on retail therapy we ended up feeling pretty uplifted thanks to all the tireless shoppers whose frenzy made for quite a show.

Food is an integral part of any celebration and Thanksgiving and Christmas are no different. Merry making without the appropriate stomach gratifiers is just as hollow as an éclair without the custard filling. Imagine a Diwali back home without the customary tin boxes of crumbly gujjiyas and namak paares! The mere thought chills me to the bones. Crisp apple strudels with generous helpings of whipped cream, sandwiches filled with turkey stuffing, rich pumpkin flavoured milkshakes, flaky pies and quiches, piping hot coffee with cinnamon sticks and cocoa with cloud-like marshmallow bits floating on the surface were treats of the season we gladly indulged in and then promptly worked off the calories by walking miles through the city's sharp uphill and downhill streets.

I have always believed that the best way to get to know a city is by walking its streets. Living by this philosophy, we walked through the alleys of Chinatown with all its Mandarin sign boards, antique shops bursting with Chinese pottery, carved dragons and oriental figurines and vegetable markets with wares spilling out on the side-walks. We walked past the beautifully archaic apartment buildings that snake along either side of most streets around Union square, occasionally peeking through open windows to catch a glimpse of tastefully decorated living rooms of the wealthy. We admired the art galleries dotting Fisherman’s Wharf and of course the vast inky black ocean that stretched placidly into infinity. We even walked through the serpentine hairpin turns of Lombard Street, trying not to get dizzy. And when we could walk no more because our feet had gone leaden and were ready to drop off, the famous San Francisco cable cars came to our rescue.

 
The killer uphill walks
A holiday special play at the San Francisco Playhouse theatre, a visit to the land of the bourgeois - Palo Alto - to pay homage to where it all began for us (material for another post), a walk through the cool serenity of Muir Woods (material for yet another post) and several quiescent moments of togetherness later, we were just about ready to give up our jobs and move to California right away. Alas, that is not an option. And so, here I am, back in freezing Detroit, yearning for one glimpse of that crystal blue San Francisco sky. But I will say this: “Every time I make myself a comforting cup of hot cocoa now, I make sure to sprinkle it with a few extra bits of marshmallow, just so that I can close my eyes and let the wisps of steam from my cup and the creaminess of molten marshmallows whisk me back in time to those two beautiful days of colours, sunshine and amity.”

A piece of the blue sky captured by my puny cell phone

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

An Austin style Saturday

Morning

In a dusty little corner of down-town Austin (Texas, US) stands a bit of heaven for brunch-eaters and egg-lovers. We discovered it quite by accident last weekend. It all started with my thirty year old bones refusing to cooperate as I tried to coax them into crank-starting my day in the kitchen. The clock on the wall too chimed in favour of these errant bones informing us that we were well past breakfast hour and way too early for a full blown lunch. What the hour was perfect for however, was that enticing, often elusive meal which can be indulged in only when one has oodles of spare leisure time – Brunch!

After a dozen frenetic Internet searches with two empty stomachs emanating unimaginable groans
and grunts in the background (making for an interesting soundtrack), we settled on a charming little family run bistro called ‘The Omelettry’. An hour later we were standing in front of its unassuming edifice which was buzzing with Saturday afternoon activity. If the name had left any shred of doubt in our mind regarding what the joint specialized in, it was completely expunged by the décor. A rooster perched precariously on the roof and egg themed graffiti covered every available inch of its façade.



By the time a friendly waitress directed us to our booth, my tongue was salivating copiously. Much to my delight, I was appeased instantly as we dug into crescent shaped stuffed omelettes oozing rivulets of golden cheese, spongy buttermilk pancakes doused in maple syrup, sugary slices of cantaloupe and glasses of chilled chocolate milk. A motley mix of people – dishevelled university students, leather clad bikers, merry old couples, the odd lone artist, saucer eyed foreigners like us – strangers of all colours, shapes, sizes and forms in general shared a few hours of relaxed bonhomie.


 
Noon

Polishing off a mammoth meal within minutes has some well known side effects, one of them being an onslaught of giant waves of drowsiness. With drooping eyelids and unresponsive brains it was almost a mini miracle that we made it back home in one piece. Before one could say ‘boo’ we were out like light bulbs, collapsed in heaps on the bed, floating away peacefully in our own individual dream worlds.

An hour or two later, when we finally resurrected from our comatose-like slumber, it was but natural for the desi within to crave a cup of sweet, milky masala chai. Gilt tinted sunshine filtered through the windows casting a spell on us as we sat in silent harmony, sipping tea. In that moment everything seemed bright and shiny. Not a care in the world ruffled our feathers and not a frown creased our brows.

Night

With a hey, and a ho
and a hey-nonny-no,
These pretty country folks would lie
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, Hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,


It was a perfect summer night. A moist evening breeze laden with the above notes along with the scent of wild flowers and freshly mowed grass made Zilker Hillside outdoor theatre the perfect venue for our last adventure for the day. Under a leafy canopy, on a rather large green patch, we stretched out amidst several theatre enthusiasts to experience Shakespearean comedy at its best. The characters of Rosalind and Orlando, Touchstone and Audrey, Oliver and Celia magically came alive as thespians from the Austin Shakespeare Company enacted the famous play ‘As You Like It’ in front of a rapt audience.

As is the case with most theatrical comedies, humour was meshed with a few strands of thought provoking dialogue. Lines like “I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad” and “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool” and “But, O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!” provided food for thought. After much drama and comedy of errors, the petite, pixie-like Rosalind finally tied the knot with her tall, lovelorn beau Orlando. With a great flourish the curtain came down bringing a great Saturday to an end as well.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Detroit's Eastern Market - A western 'sabzi mandi'



In the midst of ramshackle buildings in Detroit, a vibrant marketplace mushrooms every Saturday like a bold stroke of happiness and hope against the dreary canvas of poverty and neglect. Here, under a spotlessly blue sky, with the sun shining merrily upon the city, a large warehouse stretches across six blocks. Within its premises hundreds of local farmers set up their stalls brimming with farm fresh produce like succulent peaches, pears, apples, cherries, mangoes and other fruit, crisp leaves of lettuce, kale and spinach, jars of tongue-tantalising jams and jellies, slabs of organic chocolate and tubs of rich golden home-made butter. Their wares do not need any fancy marketing tactics to attract customers. A mere look is enough to mesmerise the umpteen patrons milling around.

As one strolls through the market absorbing the myriad bucolic sights, sounds, hues and flavours, it feels like time has regressed. Warm, mom-and-pop style shops replace shiny, air-conditioned modern-day grocery stores, unadulterated, healthy produce trumps over artificially polished fruits and veggies and friendly shopkeepers eagerly trade places with the oft mechanical cashiers we deal with regularly. It looks like there is nothing that cannot be found here. From fruits and vegetables to eggs and meat to flowering plants and herbs to earthen pots to jewellery, incense, creams and soaps – everything is available under one roof much like our neighbourhood grocery store but fresher and cheaper. Lugging my haul in a heavy jute bag brings back memories of vegetable shopping trips with Ma at sabzi mandis in India. Sans the frequent interruptions of the bovine kind (especially the ones where a cow ambles up to you and tries to sneak out that errant stalk of cilantro hanging out of your bag) that are very common back home, this market is much like the sabzi mandi that Ma frequents.


The general ambience is that of a fun fair. Food carts pepper the compound aplenty and provide much needed nourishment in the form of fun food like sugar sprinkled funnel cakes, delicious stuffed croissants, refreshing apple cider and lemonade. Against walls covered in colourful graffiti, street singers serenade the crowd as they go about their business. Thanks to stores like Germack, there is a perpetual whiff of a medley of spices, tea and coffee in the air. Tucked in a corner there is an antique store too which is like a maze of connected rooms which are packed with treasures from bygone eras. It contributes abundantly to the 'auld lang syne' effect with black box-like rotary phones, chairs with flower patterned upholstery, gramophones and old records decorating its showcase. I can see myself spending an entire day exploring every corner of this store, cooking elaborate tales of people who once owned the stuff on display.

All in all, a morning at the Eastern Market is a morning well spent as it is not only about finding good food at bargain prices but also about giving new dwellers like me a chance to explore the sunny side of Detroit.

* Inspiration for the pictures in this article came from my dear friend Nanci Johnson

Monday, July 1, 2013

Magical Coronado


There is something about the ocean that strikes a latent chord in some obscure recess of my brain. It moves me infinitely, makes me want to turn poetic, urges me to relax and bury my feet in the soft folds of sand, wishes for me to turn introspective and infuses in me large doses of strength as it rumbles and gurgles like an indomitable force. With each wave that comes crashing down and sweeps the beach clean, I feel layers of cynicism wash away too. And as the sun rises like a golden orb from the belly of a vast expanse of indigo blue water , I think of all the good things that life has given me and feel immensely special.

What more can I ask for when all of the above comes with a beach town that seems excitingly familiar, perhaps because it is almost a modern day adaptation of Kirrin Bay from my favourite Famous Five series by Enid Blyton. Just like Kirrin Bay, Coronado Island is all about the sun, sand, seashells, starfish, grilled fish, flip flops, straw hats, picnic baskets and yachts. A resort city in San Diego, California, Coronado Island wears a patina of affluence and old world charm gracefully.Cobbled stone streets, souvenir shops with ocean blue interiors bearing pretty names like ‚Treasures from the Heart‘ , people with sunny dispositions enjoying their day off, benches specked with almost life like starfish carved out of stone and the ever present salty mist makes one think of nothing else but the ocean.

The deliciously fresh sounding Orange Avenue which is the main street at Coronado is in fact home to many cozy cafes and breakfast joints that offer a surfeit of options to satiate the hungriest of the hungry beach revelers. Enjoy a hearty breakfast at Cafe 1134 before you set out to explore the hidden treasures on this island. I can tell you from personal experience that the Cortez omelette stuffed with sautéed shrimp, mushrooms, jack cheese, avocado and sour cream will leave you spell bound and as you scrape the last crumbs of fluffy egg from the plate into your mouth, you will feel a warm satisfaction spread within. Wash it all down with a cup of frothy Cappuccino and you are all set for the adventures that await you.

Walking down Orange Avenue, I realize how high this place is on energy. The street is bustling with activity. People in all forms of colourful gear are heading for the beach. In the vicinity, I spot the 125 year old Hotel del Coronado looming large like a giant castle overseeing the island below. Its sparkly white exterior is complimented by brick red turrets standing tall against a cerulean sky. Not unlike most famous historical hotels, Hotel del Coronado also has spooky stories of haunted rooms and spicy anecdotes of scandalous activity that pulls curious tourists towards it. I, on the other hand am not a sucker for ghost spotting and walk past the fairytale-like structure rather briskly. In contrast, the chimerical quality of little shops along the avenue, instantly draws me in like bear to honey. Besides window shopping, I spend time happily sitting on a bench indulging in people watching and lapping up the vibe.

Hours later with my pockets bulging with tiny knick-knacks that I couldn’t resist picking and covered from head to toe in fine sand, I reluctantly decide to go home . Parks along the avenue are bursting with picnicking families. A particular family catches my eye as I am driving by – a strapping young father lies sprawled on his belly while his three children run around him in circles. His wife sits by him resting against a tree trunk thoroughly immersed in a book . Occasionally she looks up and chides an errant child as he tumbles playfully over his father. Their brown picnic basket sits atop a checkered sheet holding unimaginable treats. It is an endearing image, one that belongs in a story book. Years from now I can imagine conjuring this very image each time I think of a perfect Sunday.

If a relaxed weekend with a little bit of shopping, some beach volleyball and sumptuous food thrown in for good measure is what you are looking for, Coronado Island is just the place for you. Sitting on the beach watching the white sail boats bob merrily across the horizon, you might just lose your will to go back to the usual whirlwind of a routine that weekdays demand.