Bengalis love their cuisine like they love their Das Kapital, but they too aren’t strangers to the world of food crime. Take Gorshka, for instance. Little more than a chunk of superconcentrated sugar, this dessert is the scourge of the pancreas, ruin of the palate. Amar Sonar Bengalis, it should be noted, consume this deplorable nonsense with curd. Death. Nothing describes it better.
Apart from being gluttons for diabetes, the Banglas are also traditional crack addicts. I say this after having garnered considerable knowledge about poshto, the opium of the masses. Made with poppy seeds, this Bengali curry tastes so bad, you want to run to the nearest available depression and empty the contents of your stomach into it. On top of that, it has a thoroughly intoxicating effect on the eater. It’s the key to the Bengali siesta and the cornerstone to their apathy towards the impoverished and filth-ridden countryside. Hence, the fierce lobbying by the rest of the country for its inclusion into the list of war crimes, on par with the Armenian genocide.
Another culinary travesty is the Malayali obsession with coconut oil. Food critics, the sort who glorify rather than criticise, lavish praise upon food fried with coconut oil. This of course means that Mallu food smells like your grandma's hair on a Sunday morning.
I do not discourage exploring new cuisines; you may even like the trash I have spoken about. All I am saying is that glorifying rubbish antagonises sincere food critics like me. Another deeply interesting question this throws up is about how all the aforesaid dishes emanate from regions devoted to communism. But let's not go there.
