Parota

My dream came true last Thursday: we finally got parota. I've only been craving it ever since I walked off my plane that arrived in Chennai more than seven weeks ago. For those unfortunate enough to not know what parota is, you have no idea what your taste buds are missing out on. Flaky flatbread - similar to a puff pastry - crispy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside. Hot off the ghee-basted tawa. Hundreds of stringy layers. Dipped (using only your right hand, people!) into an ever-so-spicy-but-absolutely-divine sauce. Served alongside a wonderful omelet filled with crisp red onions, hand chopped by the Parota Master himself.

How in the world does this so called "Master of Parotas" produce such a mouthwatering masterpiece? To give you a complete play-by-play, it begins with balls of dough made from maida (all-purpose) flour, ghee, water, and salt.

The master then slaps each ball onto the countertop, creating a paper thin, perfectly even circle of dough. He picks up one side of the round and lets it drape together, creating hundreds of tiny folds. After this, he folds the whole thing into a pretzel-like ball.

He then takes his rolling pin and rolls each pretzel into a thin round,

and flings them onto a sizzling hot ghee-smothered tawa (griddle).

Soon, they're bubbling and popping,

and look like a bit of heaven.

The Parota Master then removes the golden rounds from the tawa and stacks a few on his countertop, briskly tapping the edges to loosen it's layers.

Voilá! All within about 60 seconds, the steaming parota is presented before you along with, as promised, the ever-so-spicy-but-absolutely-divine sauce and crisp-red-onion-filled-omelet.

This makes us volunteers very happy. Very, very happy.

Naturally, Parota Night wouldn't be complete without the mysterious and ever-so-creepy baby's head painted on the back of the roadside stand's wall, whose eyes leer at us during the entirety of our, well, engorgement.