The Only Good Soup in India (Pending Food Poisoning)

The title is as inflammatory as my bowels for the past four weeks. But unlike one of the marauding, evil monkeys that have tried to steal food from me for this last month, do not come at me with your anger. As a soup connoisseur, it is my responsibility to speak my truth. In fact, this is a positive blog about one man's triumph over the bad soups of India to identify its one good soup. Some white men, skin the complexion of clam chowder, travel to India on a spiritual quest to achieve enlightenment. I, however, travelled to find a better type of enlightenment — the best soup. On my journeys, I experienced suffering and nearly died of dysentery — just like the Buddha. Many would say I am just like him; a bodhisattva of broth, a Siddhartha of stock. But unlike the Buddha, I cannot perform miracles, though I would very much like to duplicate myself so I could taste multiple soups at the same time. But, I digress; would I reach souply nirvana in India?

As many of my faithful soupporters know, I study Hindustan in graduate school, my side hustle when not eating soup. For reasons pertaining to this work, I travelled to this land, not knowing the horrors that would befall me.

I exited the plane in Delhi, boarding a car for the hills of Kumaon, where Jim Corbett wrote of "man-eating" tigers and lions nearly a century ago. Some would say that I have a similar appetite when it comes to chicken soups. Upon arrival, I ate various curries voraciously.

It is here that I must make a careful point. Many of you are once again like that screaming monkey, charging me only for me to throw my juice box at you (as I witnessed just a few days after arriving). And here is that verbal juice box: curry is a soup. Yes, I know, tar and feather the soup connoisseur. But once again I am like the Buddha: do not be so quick to turn your back on your prophets. The Brahmins once laughed at the Buddha before he obtained enlightenment. And so you too are like a Brahmin if you have not yet reached the enlightenment that is realizing curry is a soup.

Allow me to explain. Soup has liquid. So does curry. Soup often has meat or vegetables. This is also a basic requirement of curry. Soup is simmered for long periods of time. So is a curry. And, most importantly, soup has viscosity. And there is perhaps nothing more viscous than a curry.

Protest all you want and tempt me with the desires of solid food like Buddha under the bodhi tree, but you know this to be true. What I cannot defend, however, is the quality of many of these curries.

The first place I stayed in the jungles of Kumaon had soups that not even a man-eating tiger would eat. In fact, if I were a hungry tiger, I would not eat a man who had consumed such soups. That is how vile these liquid concoctions were. Somehow, my stomach held up. Why Indians like to have savory foods like tomato soup and pasta for breakfast, I will never know. But I drudged on upon my eightfold path. I consumed paneer butter masala after paneer butter masala, making sure not to have any raw food or unbottled water. But then the unthinkable happened.

I got sick. At my second stay, my soup-strengthened, bodybuilder-esque stomach was finally defeated. The bad soups, combined with the primordial souply insanity of the cauldron of Indian roads caused me what the people here call "loose motion". But I knew what it really was. Like the Buddha, I was dying. Because if I must be on a restricted diet and cannot eat soups to my heart's content, am I really living?

But suffering from soup is the road to enlightenment. Miraculously, I recovered, arriving in my destination of Lucknow, a city known for its meat. I was ready to take on all the broths this city had to offer. But once again, like our Siddhartha, I was faced with a shocking revelation.

It is nearly impossible to find safe soup in India. The key to a successful soup is clean water, of which India has little. Furthermore, despite Lucknow supposedly being meat-friendly, it is extremely difficult to find reliable meat options. As many of you may recall from my blog "Mounds of Meat", I greatly enjoy meatly soups. But if you are looking for meat in Lucknow, you will often find mutton (which we Americans rightly call sheep) or chicken. I cannot say that I enjoy mutton due to my aversion to fat; in fact, you do not want fat to ruin a soup's viscosity.

The chicken matter is altogether different. In America, we soup connoisseurs enjoy when our chickens no longer have their bones in. When faced with this culinary horror, the mind of the broth-loving beholder goes blank. Do I have to take the chicken out of the broth and dismember it myself, he wonders? Do I have to eat around skin and bone? Nay, one should not have to do this.

I am as heterodox as a Jain in the third century before Christ turned water into soup-like wine. Yes, I know. But soup has rules, rules which must be followed. The soups here shirk convention.

This is when the second unholy revelation struck. Due to the various spice mixes found in subcontinental food, I had grown sick of Indian food after the second week. But then, illness befell me like Humayun toppling down the stairs in his study. One morning, I awoke from my bed in my homestay, car horns honking every fifteen seconds as they always do in this city, drivers always rushing for their next bad vegetable curry or sambar. But unlike the previous day, I felt an unsavory yet not so sweet feeling in my stomach.

I had achieved dysentery. And it was worse than the first instance. Recognizing my Buddha-like state and qualities, my peers rushed me to the hospital. My condition only worsened. I was going to die. Would a miracle happen? Allow me to build suspense my dear soupscribers.

It was like Mara the demon had come to a meditating Buddha to test him. Or, in my case, it was like the incompetent staff at "the best hospital in Lucknow" had come to test my patience and resolve. Various doctors would come in the room, ask me the same questions, not elaborate, and then leave. No one gave me a clear diagnosis, and my friend and I had to figure out for ourselves that I had soup poisoning. Then, Mara sent his seductive daughters to tempt me. But in this case, they were not attractive demonesses, but a middle-aged Indian man carrying tomato soup. But like the Buddha, I ignored the soup presented. In fact, the staff had not listened to my command for plain food. Lentils and tomato soup is the remedy for dysentery in India. That is probably why the Buddha died in the first place. I asked for plain pasta; the staff brought me pasta with spices on it. When the nurse finally removed my needlessly painful IV, she did not wear gloves. But against all odds, I survived.

The hospital staff even tried to take my picture and give me a cake upon my discharge. I know what you may be thinking. Why would anyone accede to this after such a poor experience? I, of course, did not — for reasons that I refuse to eat solid foods like cake.

I had survived, but at what cost? Unlike Mr. Gautama, I did not have the good fortune of reaching nirvana and passing to greener pea soup pastures. No, I was tormented to remain on this mortal Earth, sifting through soups altogether unsavoury. I sought nirvana in nihari, moksha in mulligatawny, but none came. I thoroughly did not enjoy any Indian soup I was consuming. I tried Indo-Chinese soups from an establishment known as "Sassy Canteen", but the soups were perhaps to sassy for my taste. For the first time in my life, I was a soup lover without a brothly Beloved, a muse on which to rest my spoon.

In this holy city of Shia Islam, I visited mosques and shrines for answers. I composed couplets for my Beloved, but no brothly unity with God appeared. I faced each of the twelve imams and none had an answer to the question of if I could find a good soup in India.

But then, I achieved a meaty moksha. I went to a restaurant called Dastarkhwan, which specializes in the cuisine of the Mughals. Alas, I was hesitant. The restaurant looked far from the most clean. Most of the soups on the menu were indeed mutton or the dastardly bone-in chicken which everyone can agree is disgusting. Moreover, they touted their "salad", a name which Indians erroneously give to a stack of red onions with a few sad pieces of cilantro sprinkled atop. But I must eat soup. And eat soup I did.

I ordered the only boneless thing on the menu: butter chicken with Mughlai paratha. And upon its arrival, I could not believe what I had tasted. This curry was actually good. The chicken melted in my mouth, the rich sauce once again fortifying my stomach. The brothly Beloved awoke in me once more. Like in Akbar's court, my stomach reached a state of din-i ilahi, a religion of God meant to fuse the beliefs of several different schools. Buddha, the Beloved, and even Brahma danced in my peptic juices. I greatly enjoyed the viscosity — truly some of the most viscous soup I have ever tasted.

Shortly before finishing, I began to feel ill once more. Was this my doom? Was I to be tempted with enlightenment only to be cast down once more? What had I done to deserve this fate? Had I slurped my soup one too many times? Had I dared to eat matzo ball soup without noodles?

Upon reaching my home, I prayed that I would not face dysentery once more. Food poisoning is indeed pending. But as we strive for perfection, we must all live with the uncertainties that soup contains.

I do not know if I will ever find good soup in India again. Quite frankly, for a country where soup is served every meal, the food has greatly let me down. Should I falter?

No. Begone Mara, you demon! Like the Buddha, I speak my four noble truths:

Soup is good.

The root of all curry is soup.

The only way to have good soup in India was this butter chicken.

This butter chicken is the way to enlightenment.

Soup score: 7.8/10 please don't give me food poisoning for a third time