Looking for shabaley
will be eating more meat pies, am not mad about it
Today was a long-walk-to-clear-your-head sort of day. The kind where you have a lot buzzing around in your brain without anywhere productive to focus it on. Where you don’t have anywhere particular you have to be. It was the sort of day where, when I thought Wonder where that alley goes, I turned down it to find out.
When I had walked myself out, I ended up at a restaurant I’ve been wanting to try, positioned in a perfect people-watching position over a bustling, rain-washed street. And for the second time this week, I ordered shabaley (this is the transliteration I’ve most often seen, but there are many spelling variants; today’s menu had it down as shyafaley).
It’s not that I was intentionally looking for them, but twice this week I’ve seen shabaley on menus and thought Yes! At their best, these half-moon deep-fried meat pies can be something transcendent, with a crunchy crust that isn’t overly thick or an oil sponge; easy to bite into yet substantial enough to hold the juicy, mildly spiced filling. Tibetan in origin, they are usually stuffed with meat, though I am sure there are vegetable versions.
The reason I wanted one again today is because the one from a few days ago didn’t really hit the spot. And honestly, neither did today’s. Don’t get me wrong, they were both enjoyable meat pies, and there isn’t only one way to make them of course, but it just wasn’t the shabaley I was looking for.
**
It’s not often I miss my old neighbourhood in terms of eating out—it was pretty sparse—but suddenly I’m remembering a little streetside eatery, the kind with a pile of precooked items on display—potatoes on a stick, chicken legs or wings, a stack of rather flat looking shabaley. Make your choice, and into the oversized wok of hot oil it goes, rejuvenating in seconds right before your eyes before being handed to you, wrapped in a bit of newspaper, the perfect hand-held snack. Their shabaley was was so juicy and flavorful it didn’t even need achhar.
Another place in the area, at the end of a long, inner road, made shabaley, too, along with barbecued meat skewers, the latter only on some irregular schedule that I could never quite figure out. Turning the corner while on an evening walk and coming on the little grill being carefully tended was always a welcome surprise. As was the chhaang they served, but now I well and truly digress.
**
Restaurants aren’t what I’m after here. I need to find a tiny place with a giant wok and a pile of good things to put in it; a local place, and if they had a stash of chhaang it wouldn’t hurt, either. And until I do, I refuse to put up a picture up of sub-par shabaley. Enjoy Bikramsila Mahabihar and today’s monsoonal sky instead.
**
[Note: in answer to the question posed here last Wednesday, no, it is not the end of the road. In fits and starts, the work continues; there is a small shiny black-specked stretch that is completely finished, a delightful few meters that are a joy to walk on.]