140 Patra ni Machchi and a sweet, sour, spicy redemption

The day I discovered that I might not be a Chef but I could cook.

• What is Patra ni Machchi?

• Recipe for Patra ni Machchi (paid subscribers only)

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140 people.

Every seat in JW Marriott’s buffet restaurant was booked. I had never cooked for that many people. Definitely not seven different dishes! What was I thinking, saying yes to hosting a Parsi Food Festival there? 

Three years ago, I didn’t even know how to cook any Parsi food. 

The time I donned a Chef's hat for the first time for my very first food festival at JW Marriott Sahar India

I always knew that my tendency to say yes would get me in trouble one day. And that day was Parsi New Year, August 2015. 

140 people had believed my hype game and booked into eating their New Year feast at my food festival. I was going to be found out.

“How much fish should I order for tomorrow, Chef?” the Sous Chef on the floor asked me, pulling me out of my panic-induced catastrophising. 

Immediately, my brain prompted me to remind him that I was not actually a chef.

The interns helping me for my food festival had likely spent more hours in the kitchen during their training than I ever had.

Everything I knew about Parsi food came from eating loads of average Dhansak. Learning from Mum over a long-distance call. Documenting how much was “a little.”

I wasn’t formally trained like he was. I hadn’t put in the hard yards over a hotel internship like my helpers were doing. And, I certainly hadn’t done a full restaurant service before. 

The one thing I did know? Parsis ate a lot. 

Especially when there was Patra ni Machchi on the menu. I love the ceremonial unwrapping of a limp, once-green-now-brown banana leaf to reveal a delectably soft, flaky pomfret fish covered in a sweet, sour and spicy coriander-coconut chutney. Simply imagining scooping up the freshly steamed fish with a thin, wheat roti makes my mouth water.

I told the Sous Chef a number that absolutely made sense in my mind. Assuming each small pomfret got us two pieces and every guest ate at least two pieces, we’d need one hundred and forty pomfret to get us through the Parsi New Year service.

Would this be the day everyone found out I was a fake and knew nothing about cooking Parsi food?

His eyes went wide, and a grin spread across his face. How about forty fish, he countered, writing down the order for procurement.

My breath hitched at his suggestion. I just KNEW that it would be too little. 

If the Sous Chef had seen my fellow Bawas - as Parsis are lovingly known - eat Patra ni Machchi at a Parsi wedding, he’d know it too. 

Where aunties demanded the server only gave them a tail-piece because that had more flesh, and kids - me included - forsook the fried chicken and pulao to binge on the fish in case, this was the last Parsi wedding of the season. Not to mention most “vegetarian Parsis” still ate fish. My calculation didn’t even account for the greedy Bawas that would indulge in 3-4 pieces simply because they’d paid big bucks to eat at the festival!

It took every ounce of self-belief to put my stake into the ground. We needed one hundred and forty fish, and that was that!

The next day, when the fish arrived at my prep counter neatly cut into two. Bags upon bags of fish nestled in ice boxes. Taking up almost the entire prep corner assigned to me. 

I’ve never seen 140 pomfrets, and this was…a lot. What if my guess was wrong? 

The procurement slip stapled to the bag told me just the fish had cost Marriott Rs 21,000.  That was half my consultancy fee for the 15-day long food festival! A full month’s salary for the cook that worked in my business. What was I thinking?

Would I even be able to prep this much fish in the next seven hours? That too, alongside everything else I had to cook? 

Breathe in 1,2,3,4. Breathe out 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8. 

Too late to worry about cost, I scolded myself and got to work. My interns started rubbing salt and vibrant yellow turmeric into the fish. Meanwhile, I stood guard at the kitchen’s sole food processor. Tossing in green coriander, garlic, chilli and fresh coconut as fast as I could until I had a big saucepan full of bright green, sweet and mouth-puckering sour chutney ready.

Patra ni Machchi wrapped and ready to be steamed

When the chutney was ready, I showed my two interns their job for the rest of the afternoon. Run the banana leaf over an open flame quickly to make it soft. Roll it out on the counter. A plonk of chutney in one corner. Lay the fish. Some more chutney. And wrap it closed until we had a tight parcel. 

After 37 long minutes, our first chafing tray of 20 pieces was ready for the night. I left my interns to the rest while I rushed around like a headless chook blending together my Dhansak and layering the Berry Pulao for the evening.

6.30 pm. 30 minutes to service

The walk-in fridge was piled high with tray after tray of marinated fish. Sous Chef came in behind me into the fridge shaking his head. “This fish is going to last us the whole week, Chef. You wait and see”.

Ignoring his disbelief, I walked over to the combi oven. The kebabs were fried, the buffet setup and now, I had to focus on the fish. Home stretch. 

But as I stacked in four trays of fish for steaming I could sense the Sous Chef glaring at me disapprovingly.  My heart was doing a steady slow thud. What if I was wrong and I had just wasted a ton of fish?

The following two hours are now a blur.

When service began, the interns manning the Parsi buffet counter couldn’t keep up. 10 minutes into service, one of them came rushing in. We need more fish.

Run to the fridge for another tray. Steam. Restock. Pile of Parsis rushing to get a piece. More fish, please!

Patra ni Machchi is ready to be eaten at the Parsi food station at JW Marriott Sahar

And so the service continued. The trays of fish steadily disappeared from the walk-in fridge. At one point, I remember the Combi Oven stopped working. And that actor Jackie Shroff who had also booked in a table, complimented me on my Patra ni Machchi. It was just like the one his school friend’s mum used to make for him, he told me.

The thing that’s stuck in my memory even today is the utter disbelief on Sous Chef’s face at 10 pm when the crowds finally thinned out from the Parsi buffet counter.

“Bawi, what a community you belong to! We had to call in the Pastry Chef to come back to the kitchen. You guys finished all the pastries for tonight and tomorrow’s two services. Oh, and the fish, too,” he said.

“You were right,” he admitted. 

Redemption that night was sweet, sour and spicy. Just like my Patra ni Machchi.

What is Patra ni Machchi?

Patra ni Machchi translates to fish wrapped in banana leaves. The concept is not unique to us Parsis*. There’s a Thai version, a Balinese version and a South Indian Keralan version. But, none of them compare to the Parsi version you’ll find at a Parsi wedding. So popular is the dish that guests invited to a wedding will sneakily ask the family if Patra ni Machchi is on the menu or not.

And if it is, you can be sure that the bride and groom will receive a little extra in their cash envelope gift. 

Despite its simplicity, in India, Patra ni Machchi is rarely made in a Parsi home. Parsis will count down the months to wedding season instead, where it makes a regular appearance. I believe that’s because we don’t have the big saucepans to steam the fish at home, so it takes ages.

You can replace the banana leaf with baking paper and can pop the fish into the oven instead of steaming a la fish en papillote style. But it won’t quite taste the same. I urge you to head to the Asian store, where you’ll find a frozen packet of banana leaves and host a Patra ni Machchi party instead. You won’t regret it.