As an autonome of sorts, I sometimes miss being pampered. Or, at the risk of sounding like a Britisher who defends the miserly quota of sunshine allocated to him in the Isles with a righteous “it’s no fun if the sun’s always on”, I’d concur that familiarity breeds contempt, while rarity wins admiration. I know I love my dalbhat when I’m home.

The joys of shaving make for a double-edged sword; it can be a real drag, all puns intended. Whatever Gillette tells you, being obliged to daily wield a sharp implement to scrape my face off is, in my book, not the best a man can get. Not being so obliged, my solution has been to not bother, at least not with the full monty, and certainly not every day. Besides, whatever metrosexology says, women still like a bit of rough, right?

The long and short of it is that I rarely shave. A visit to the barber’s is rarer still. But until you’ve been down the local, I don’t care how many blades your battery-operated vibrating, polychromatic Gillette has, you don’t know what a smooth shave really is.

Shyam Sundar Thakur of the eponymous Kupondole saloon welcomes me with a smile, and offers me a newspaper and a stool. How can I possibly abscond to the next shearer? I wait. After my standard hairdo – Bhuwan KC? Nima Rumba? More “machine le char number” – the barber eases my head back onto a padded rest, then spends a good five minutes lathering me until I look like I’ve been transported a million years into the future. But I’m more focused on the present, including the broken-hearted wailing emanating from the radio in front of me, and the certificate on the wall that announces this Thakur collective’s membership in a union of barbers with vaguely threatening logos (I’d rather have Barbers with Blades on my side, thanks).

An obligatory change of blade (remember those dodgy days you were never quite sure?), and off he goes, clearing the undergrowth for my chin to take shape once more, an inch at a time. It’s soothing; as much as I enjoy being beardy and writerly, it’s nice to imagine one could be working in a bank right now, smooth-faced and calculating (it’s Wednesday afternoon, and I’m at the barber’s, but it’s the thought that counts). Inch by inch, a new face, a new down (sic). Like getting your shoes polished, getting shaved by someone else – by a professional – is a simple pleasure, and somehow one that one can’t wax too lyrical about without seeming ridiculous.

Once done, Shyam Sundar wipes my face carefully, and here comes the first of the stingers – he runs a translucent, perfumed Potash Alum rock over my face, moistening my pores and rounding off the razor’s edges (even as I wonder how safe this particular pass-the-parcel actually is). Then a bit of pinkish cream, and since I wave off the second round of shaving – I’m already balder than I have been for months, and I like to begin sprouting again within a day or two – he sprinkles me liberally with a powerful turquoise conconction. Wunderbar! The complete man.

“Hm, I look different, eh?”

“Five years younger!”

Naturally, then, though he asks for less than the going rate, I give him more. I know it’ll be months before I return, but such are the joys of life, I reflect, as I return to my flat. Less is sometimes more.

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Krea•dle | krē•dle |
noun
a superficial review of a book based on a speed read of a free sample delivered to a Kindle, occasionally supplemented with wiki-based research and free-ranging prejudices: “Oh, just do a Kreadle, who has the time to read a whole book these days?”

The girl who has tattoos, plays with fire, mucks about with hornets and generally gets up to no good whatsoever is so popular she’s sold over 20 million copies. This, despite the fact that her creator, Stieg Larsson, kicked the bucket before she ever came to light. Lisbeth Salander must be really special. Right?

She’s certainly unusual. She’s close to autistic in her dealings with human society, no thanks to a series of traumatic psycho-sexual abuses by an equally unending series of monstrous men, and reserves her passion for computers and puzzles, though she doesn’t seem averse to the odd boob job and passionless affairs. Perhaps it’s chinks such as these that have endeared her readers to her, for it certainly can’t be the tedious explications of Fermat’s theorem (a relative breeze for our lass) or case histories inserted wholesale into drinking chatter.

Still, the writing is solid if uninspiring, and Larsson has made a clunky effort to render characters and their motivations human (mostly through endless, overt explication), which is more than can be said for a lot of pulp fiction. For the Millennium trilogy, at least in translation, is definitely pulp fiction, as much as it has been praised for tackling social issues and reinventing the genre of crime fiction. The prologues always promise something unusual, and once the scene is set, the reader on holiday will be drawn into the unfolding of and culmination of interlocking histories, however fantastic.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 2008
The Girl Who Played with Fire, 2009
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, 2009

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For me, Jhamel arrived not when St. Mary’s Lane was overwhelmed by the attack of the restobar clones. It happened when trendy Black Pepper Cafe & Pub opened shop just around the corner from my phuphu’s dowdy residence, joining the lane hitherto dominated by local stalwarts Greenwich and Summit.

It’s clear Black Pepper is serious about the competition. There’s a nice open courtyard (with retractable roof) framed with carved wooden pillars, though you can choose loungier chairs or an inner sanctum if you don’t fancy the sun.
Mains start from Rs 250 for lunch and Rs 450 for dinner, with some expensive items that tempt then deter. Given that it was lunch, I reluctantly ordered a mocktail – a Tipsy Guava – and was impressed enough by the combo of unReal juice, ginger slices and lemon to want to dunk a shot of vodka into it (I didn’t). With some trepidation, then, we tried the Bruschetta.

The French bread on which it was served could hardly compete with Bu Keba’s corn, olive and buckwheat, but the zucchini, tomato, capsicum, mushroom and onion toppings were superior. What’s more, the Bruschetta was accompanied by a tartly dressed salad mix, with mint, rocket, chives and lettuce supplying a range of flavours and textures.

The Charcoal Jalkapur Fish with lemongrass sauce was generously presented, and the white flesh was firm, tasty, and offset perfectly by the browned crunch of the exterior. The buttery herbed veggies weren’t just an afterthought either, and my only complaint would be that the luridly yellow sauce, while an interesting variation, was a bit too much on the lemony side – less would have been more.

The Grilled Pork Chops (with mash and mixed salad) didn’t disappoint either, with a creamy apple sauce that lent the juicy, savoury meat a sweetish tinge. The measly portion of the Tom Yum soup, on the other hand, was tasty but had little in common with the fiery original. The overly sweet and messy looking Flambe Crepe Suze de Orange, too, didn’t quite come together.

Black Pepper, like many of its compatriots, has a solid line in thalis, momos, fried rice and the like. Now all they need to do is match the music with the consciously cool posters on the walls – a three-hour wifi session with Chris de Burgh, Cliff Richards and The Carpenters on loop just about did my head in.

http://blackpepper.com.np
Nepali Kukur

Head south from the Summit Hotel, pass Greenwich, then a junction, and Black Pepper is on your right.

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Café Cheeno announced itself to Patan Dhoka a couple of years back, and despite the attractive brick façade emergent on the corner with Krishnagalli, the first thought that passed through my mind in those Sisdolean days was, “Trust a Nepali restaurant to spring up next to a festering pile of garbage.” Garbage isn’t so much an issue now as is the construction of Lalitpur’s own Bhatbhateni next door, but one imagines Cheeno will welcome the human traffic to ensue.

For now, Cheeno is all yours. You enter through a small indoor café that feels more like the souvenir shop it doubles as, and out into a large space littered with tables not particularly sheltered from the sun and the wind. We took refuge on a dais-table, and admired the swings and benches set into the garden fronting the proprietors’ residence.

Cheeno sports a fairly standard mix of salads, pastas and continental mains, the more alluring of which I imagine would be rather beyond the budgets of most locals. Armed with a fresh and cool Organic Mint Soda, I therefore ordered the straightforward and cheapish Chicken Burger. I was pleasantly surprised; for once, a chicken burger that wasn’t a token fill ‘er up, thanks to juicy meat seasoned with herbs and onions.

On another day, a Strawberry Smoothie proved somewhat rich before a main course, but it was predictably tasty, and one appreciated crunching the very real seeds therein. It was just as well service took a while to reappear, for when it did, I was ready to go where no self-respecting carnivore would go – to the Stuffed Tomatoes.

But I insured myself with a Corn and Bacon Chowder soup. The sweetness of the corn was perfectly complemented by the crunchy fattyness of the chunks of bacon, and I didn’t mind the breadsticks and wholewheat mini-buns either. The stuffed tomatoes, when they arrived, looked attractive and healthy – three red spheres in a sea of brown lentils, with a supporting act of buttered rice and green salad. The spinach, cheese and potato stuffing was perfectly acceptable  (though I couldn’t but wish for more variety, inside and outside. How about bell peppers?)

The first hint of competition in the neighbourhood of the longstanding Dhokaima Café; regulars at the latter would do well to branch out before the Bhat Bhateni invasion.

Nepali Kukur

Head west from Patan Dhoka and stop at the corner with Krishnagalli.

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Riding Kathmandu’s organic bump is Sanepa’s Bú Kebá, and if you imagine that means a convenient marriage of the rustic and the comfy for the expatriate crowd, you’re half there. Bú Kebá is all thatched roofs and wooden platforms for semi-alfresco seating shaded by translucent white curtains, but the clientele is surprisingly diverse.

Perhaps this has something to do with the welcome expansion of its menu, which now ranges over continental (meat mains, pizza, pasta) and Indian fare and includes a few intriguing originals. We paired the Anda Kebab (eggs marinated with tandoori masala, stuffed with minced chicken and served with achari gravy), with Nashilo Chyau ko Ras (oyster mushrooms flambeed with vodka and cooked with cheese, cream and fresh sage). Eggs-cellently imaginative, and the soup was the perfect consistency – just enough to remind you it’s mushrooms and not powder you’re indulging in.

We also tried a Vegetable Bruschetta, the dull toppings of which we thought wasted on the buckwheat, corn and millet bread. A salad drowned in dressing (albeit tasty) didn’t help. But the buckwheat spinach pancake was impeccable. Kudos for making the most of ‘local’ ingredients and endeavouring to liberate us from the tyranny of rice and wheat!

Though we didn’t venture into our own ’selezione di pasta’ by combining whole wheat and buckwheat pastas (sourced from Fab India Organics) with meat and veg sauces, we did try a Goat Cheese Pizza with herbs. Good. But not good enough yet to be competitive with the likes of Roadhouse or F&I.

As for the mains, we ordered mutton chops w/mash and local chicken stuffed with spinach and grilled mushroom w/tarul mash. They were both very well presented and portioned, and the chops in particular (curvy ribs inclusive) would impress any Nepali accustomed to fatty blobs of overdone khasi in curry. But the sauces were not as different as the menu made them out to be, and we couldn’t tell the tarul from the potato mash.

We ended with another of Chef Khatri’s innovations – the Intercaste dessert, a cute combo of orange and cream liqueurs that while distinct, eventually flow together. Bu Keba has a vision, with a knowledgeable, personable staff worth ingratiating yourself with; don’t wait for the summer rush to get your table.

Nepalikukur

Heading south from Hotel Summit, pass Hotel Greenwich, turn left and keep going until you pass
the signage for SNV. Bú Kebá’s on the left.

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If you know Jhamel, you’ll know Singma, the no-frills Singaporean-Malaysian eatery that’s now branched out into Bhatbhateni. And if you’ve exhausted that menu, head to its companion venue Momotarou, near Sanepa Chok. Itself a branch of an original in Thamel, Momotarou draws you with fairy lights past the chilly outdoor seating into a solidly residential building with an unpromising tube-lit interior. But never fear: as you warm up with some Japanese tea and a heater, the thumbnail menu will open up the possibilities.

The combination of Japanese, Chinese and Tharu cuisines may seem odd; the fact that the Tharu owner spent some time in Japan and opened Momotarou with Tharu employees from his own district goes some way to explaining this. Chances are you won’t combine the two in one sitting anyway. Our token attempt will be improved on in future sessions.

Faced with an array of Tharu thalis (chichar, poka and dhikari), we ordered the Haas ko Timura (below right). No prizes for guessing this is duck seasoned generously with timur. A bit bony, we thought, but tasty …this ain’t the land of the lardy Beijing Duck. And so we moved on to the meat of the menu (Statutory warning: the following dishes were not consumed in a single sitting).

The Donburi dishes come highly recommended if you like your cheap eats hearty. For less than Rs 300, then, take your pick of a meal-in-a-bowl, with rice topped with the seasoned meat, veg and egg of your desire. My favourite has to be the Mabo Don: rice with mince pork and tofu. We steered clear of the sushi, as we didn’t fancy the mostly vegetarian offerings and tuna out of a can wrapped in fancy seaweed, but couldn’t resist a brace of udon soups. The Suki Yaki (left) with raw egg on the side was humongous, with beef, greens, and tofu delicious in a sweetish broth. The Nabe Yaki (below right), with prawn tempura, mushrooms, and fried egg, looked promising but fell flat in a dull stock.

The Tofu Ankhake – tofu topped with mince chicken – looked pallid relative to its menu avatar, but lived up to its billing, while a variety of cold veggie pickles kept usoccupied in between mains and cups of tea. We didn’t venture all that much into the Chinese menu dominated by glutinous looking splats, and the Takana to Butaniku Ankake slush of spinach and chunks of meat was, in sated retrospect, mediocre.

Momotarou will win no Michelins, but it’s sure to draw the masses for its pitch perfect presentation of price, taste, and variety. It’s too close to my sluggish kitchen for me to keep away.

From Sanepa Chowk, head towards Gyanodaya Bal Batika and screech to a halt halfway on the right.

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Nepalikukur

Off Jhamel’s ‘restaurant lane’, Jardin is one of a flotilla of upmarket eateries that have mushroomed this side of the river in the last year. One could easily conclude that Jhamel is saturated with expensive restaurants offering generalised menus of oriental and continental fare, something in vaguely interesting combinations, with an insurance snack menu of momos and chicken chilli for the resolute Nepali beer monsters. Jardin contrives to keep its head above the masses with more cultivated fare, with a degree of success.

Jardin has taken some care in designing its outdoor and indoor spaces, soft furnishings, lights, greenery and all. So far, so Jhamel. It was a deserted Tuesday night, and we enjoyed prompt and attentive service. I don’t doubt the alfresco spaces will fill up come summer, by which time I hope they will still be serving the excellent Coblenzer beer.

We joined friends who were already a couple of starters in. They described the Smoked Salmon Rosettes with Wasabi-infused Pannacotta and Soy Mirin Dressing, and the Rock Shrimp tossed in Spicy Mayonnaise as excellent. So we ordered the Tofu Pouches with house hot sauce and the Crackling Calamari with Smoked Chilli Aioli and Pickled Cucumbers. The former was a little insipid (compared to the last time), and could have benefitted from a more generous lashing of the spicy sauce. The calamari looked good, and felt crunchy and juicy, even if some may have found it a bit heavy as a starter.

Onwards, and with three of us plumping for Hot and Sour Thai Salad with Roasted Rice and Crispy Onions, Jardin had a lot running on its reception. Personally I found the salads attractive and scrumptious, but gasps of ‘Piro! Piro!’ from around the table forced me to add an advisory for the feeble. I’d order one as a starter rather than an entrée. But the Japanese-style Steak with Wasabi Mash, Salsa Verde, Ponzu and Himalayan Salt was not to be faulted. The good-sized portions of meat were medium-done to perfection, and the dish combined well. The Roast Duck salad with Orange segments and Lychee tossed in Nam Jim sauce was exciting enough, but maybe it went a lychee too far. Dessert was a mixed dish; the chocolate fondant with vanilla icecream disappeared in a jiffy, the fresh fruit millefeuille fell flat.

A good variation on the Jhamel scene, if on the pricey side; don’t let the bill catch you by surprise!

Thadodhunga, Jhamsikhel. Keep going at the end of Jhamel’s ‘Restaurant Lane’, pass Ideal Model School on left, turn right, on left.

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