Breakfast at Tiretti’s

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Many years ago， when I was desperately raking up ‘done-that’ points in an attempt to elbow into the discerning club of Kolkata’s foodies， I decided to go and have the legendary Chinese breakfast at tiretti Bazaar. This wasn’t an optional activity. In fact， there was no option. For anyone harbouring the faintest hope of making it into the hallowed coterie in those days， breakfast at this marketplace bordering Kolkata’s old Chinatown was an elementary rite of passage. Like a rock star’s first tattoo. No Chinese breakfast， no membership. end of story.

So one night， after working the graveyard shift in the newspaper office where I was then employed（Tiretti Bazaar was a haiku-length walk away）， I lounged away the wee hours snugly ensconced in a sofa in the newsroom， waiting patiently for first light. Needless to say， I fell asleep. By the time I finally managed to shake off “great nature’s second course” and dash bleary-eyed across the road， elvis had left the building.

Game over. Non-member-for-life（read loser） gets soiled paper plates.

Cut to 2011. No longer under pressure to prove myself， I am happily getting drunk at a friend’s place one balmy March night， when the topic of Chinese breakfast suddenly crops up. Tentatively， we both glance at our wristwatches. 4.45 a.m. The crows have begun to caw. And sleep， quite remarkably， is still at bay. Opportunity， we realise， has presented itself， however unpredictably. This time， there’s simply no missing the action.

So at the crack of dawn， we drive down to Kolkata’s central business district， turning off Bentinck street to enter the city’s old Chinese quarters. As we get out of our car and venture into the narrow alley leading into Tiretti Bazaar， we are greeted by a cloud of aromatic steam emanating from dozens of tiered aluminium steaming vessels. On both sides of the thoroughfare， hungry souls huddle around makeshift stalls， jostling with each other to grab the day’s first meal. Chopsticks click in unison as dumplings are clinically dissected on paper plates； tangy soy sauce lends ruddy vigour to pale chicken broth before being slurped down to the last drop. Beatific smiles hang loosely from nameless faces， and the air is crisp with a sense of collective primal gratification.

I’ve never seen appetite being pampered more lavishly， I turn to tell my friend， only to find him accosting the lady at the stall in front of us， money in hand. “Two plates of pau， please，” he shouts out above the din， pointing at a heap of large meat-stuffed dumplings fresh out of the steaming vessel. she warmly obliges.

Having settled in Kolkata as early as the 1780s， the Chinese have historically played a major role in defining Kolkata’s cuisine. A pleasant mix of Cantonese， sichuan and Bengali flavours， their locally adapted dishes have garnered a national following—the shiny Chinese restaurants adjoining the tanneries of Tangra， the ‘new’ Chinatown on the eastern fringes of Kolkata， are a veritable pit-stop for gastronomes from across India.

While the Chinese have generously lent their magic touch to the city’s eclectic food circuit， they have also preserved for themselves a selection of ‘original’ recipes， redolent with complex pedigreed aromas that could transport epicureans to mainland China in a matter of whiffs. And to experience this culinary explosion on your palate， you only have to come as far as Tiretti Bazaar.

Of course， experiencing this facet of Kolkata is easier said than done. Firstly， the hours are odd. Ephemeral in the strictest sense of the word， breakfast in Chinatown typically begins with the rooster’s first call， and is over well before the first fleet of city buses roll out of terminal depots. Besides， it’s not exactly what you would call a fine dining experience. For all purpose， you’re literally eating off the pavement， and hygiene is strictly street-food grade. The setting is proletarian， to say the least—the clientele largely comprises local Chinese residents and rank dayjobbers. Weekends often see a handful of night-owls crawling out of nearby bars to drown their hangovers in a rejuvenating bowl of fish-ball soup—the best servings are available in the family-run stall at the turn-off where Chhatawala Gully meets sunyat sen street. Mr yen’s stall， against the walls of a ramshackle building to the rear of the market， is where the most discerning foodies leisurely munch on their portions of pork dumplings. But that’s really as colourful as it gets.

What works in favour of the experience， though， is not merely what you get to savour at the spot， but what you get to carry away from it. For gourmands， Tiretti Bazaar is nothing short of Diagon alley， when it comes to stocking up on Chinese kitchen provisions. Oil sticks （to go with soup）， rice noodles， stringy pork sausages， dehydrated soup stock， sun-dried fish， shiitake mushrooms， pink-edged shrimp wafers， even the potent Chinese therapeutic balm—the provision stores in the market have it all. sing Ho stores， in Chhatawala Gully， is reputed to be one of the best places in town to shop for a range of delectable homemade sauces.

Acting on a fleeting impulse， I ask a passing gentleman if there’s a shop in the market that might stock some green tea， the syrupy kind that’s known to come out of yunnan. “Ah yes，” he smiles genially， pointing at an ageing red signboard slapped on a crumbling old building on the far end of the street. ‘Hap Hing Co.， Chinese Provision & Medicine stores’， it says.“You will find everything there，” the old man adds， before going his way.

Dating back to the pre- Independence era， its dark， heavily-wooded interiors smoky with age， Hap Hing indeed turns out to be a classic repository of FarEastern provisions. The green tea is currently out of stock， but Mrs Chen， the shop’s proprietor， assures me that a fresh supply is scheduled to arrive any day. I pick up the obligatory bundle of rice noodles， and the affable Mrs Chen strikes a conversation. A gazette of information on Kolkata’s Chinese community， the stocky old lady casually informs me that the local breakfast industry is slowly falling prey to obsolescence.“We moved here way back in 1934， and things today are quite different from what they used to be，” she says with a chuckle.

Hauling Mrs Chen’s observations onto the street outside， I realise that they’re not entirely unfounded. With the advent of opportunities， several families have chosen to move out of Chinatown and settle elsewhere， if not emigrate to other countries.

Among those who remain， the idea of a community catering to its own culinary demands is slowly going out of fashion. Change is indeed on the anvil—evident in the way a few quasi-Indian dishes have sneaked into the menus of many stalls， and the mushrooming of the odd pooribhaji stall （manned by non-Chinese staff）， hell-bent on chipping away the formidable reputation of the fishball soup.

Some day， sooner or later， it’ll all probably go up in a giant cloud of steam. The shiny aluminium vessels will obligingly make way for other tools of trade， and a decades-long ritual will be given an unceremonious burial. Looking down the barrel， the transition seems only too obvious. Maybe anticipated too， given that no one’s really complaining.

So， wannabe foodies still on the prowl for notching up requisite points—your time is now. Eat， or regret forever.