“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare asked so eloquently in Romeo and Juliet. Little did he know that, thousands of miles east of London, in Calcutta, the Bangalees were scripting their own epic with the same theme—not in literature, but in food.
The same extends to Bengali food. “Chorchori”, “Ghonto”, “Chhechki”, “Labra” and “Chhenchra” sound like swear words to people who have never heard of these dishes before. Even to some Bangalees, these do not sound like dishes one would heartily order at a restaurant, or even think of making at home. At first glance, they may seem like five vegetable mishmashes. Each, however, has its own character, depending on the hero vegetable, how it is cut and cooked, whether fish or prawns join in—or even, “What did Thakuma want for lunch today?”
Each dish has a character and an abundance of flavour that lights up dinners and the eaters’ faces. Only when you dig into a spoonful of Labra with bhaat or khichuri will you truly experience the umami that every Michelin Star–chasing restaurant tries to create. The only problem is that folks who have never experienced a Labra or a Chhenchra will never know what they are missing. It is like being matched on a blind date with Padma Lakshmi and leaving without meeting her because you assumed she would look like your kakima. But we Labra-eating folks know that Padma Lakshmi deserves better than that.
Names with stories to tell
Each of these devastatingly named preparations in Bengali cuisine has a story to tell, and a really tasty one at that. Some traditions associate Labra with Chaitanyadev’s table. If only we had a time machine, perhaps we could ask our chorchori-eating Bengali friends why they named their lunch in a way that sounds like two slaps landing on an unassuming cheek.
Or we could witness a gentle lady, exhausted from cooking over an open flame for hours for her family of four, calling out to her son:
“Ai Bubla! Taratari khete aye, na hole chhechki’r jaygay duto chorchori khabi! Chhenchra’r moto dariye thakish na, ghonto hoye jabi!”
“Bubla, come and eat quickly! Otherwise, instead of chhechki, you might get two chorchori! Don’t stand there like a chhenchra—you’ll turn into a ghonto!”
And thus, from the embers of a fire pit, arose dishes that are today weekend favourites, weekday necessities and Pujo delicacies.
Bengalis are known for their prowess in a multitude of fields—music, dance, art, literature, science, academia, social reform and cinema. We are also known for balancing our sweet intake by having more sweets, our fondness for the finer things in life, and an unhealthy obsession with Sourav Ganguly.
Despite giving India her first Nobel Laureate in Rabi Thakur, Bengalis are not always known for eloquently naming things. Whether giving daaknaams to our children or naming our favourite foods, Bengali nomenclature can evoke a few guffaws. Jhumpa Lahiri immortalised the weight and warmth of names in The Namesake. A Gogol, Bubla, Khokon, Potla, Ghontu or Bhontu may have a name that makes others laugh, but what is inside that person matters far more.
So what is actually in these names?
Ghonto usually has one leading vegetable, supported by other vegetables or greens. Bandakopir ghonto may be niramish or made with chingri; mochar ghonto can also welcome prawns. Muri ghonto brings fish into the picture.
Chhenchra is the ginni’s resourceful creation. Leftover vegetables, sometimes with fish or prawns, cook together until the ingredients are not all easily recognisable. It changes with what she has and what she feels like making.
Chhechki is generally a vegetarian preparation centred on potato or one other vegetable. The fine, long cut matters: it helps the vegetable cook gently in steam. Think of alu, pepe or lauer chhechki, sometimes lifted by a herb or a little ginger.
Labra brings diced vegetables together in a soft, slightly moist dish. Pumpkin, coconut, black peas and a moderate amount of potato let the sweetness of the vegetables come through. It is especially lovely with khichuri.
Chorchori lets several vegetables and often a green such as palong or pui shaak soften and mingle. Bori may join them; some fish-loving households use a little fish or prawn oil for flavour.
There you have it: five playful names, five different ways of thinking about the vegetables in the kitchen. One lets an ingredient lead, one follows the ginni’s imagination, one depends on the cut, one celebrates their natural sweetness, and one lets everything mingle.
So when Shakespeare asked, “What’s in a name?”, he was telling us to look beyond the title and savour what is inside. I have a sneaky feeling he was fed some chhechki that evening by a mother who would not take no for an answer.
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