A Bombay sandwich in fake Bombay
When you can't get a flight back home, a picnic might just do.
For my recipe lovers:
In May 2005, Mum finally had a decent job. We had been in New Zealand for three years.
I had worn down the three Indian girls I met at Macleans College - a story for another day - and we’d become “proper friends”. We now lived in a much warmer and dryer home. And I had just got my restricted driver’s license.
But perhaps most importantly, thanks to Mum’s additional income from her cutlet-making side business, she had started adding coriander to our food again.
Even if it cost $4.99, almost 15x what she would have paid for the same bunch in Mumbai. It may seem like a small thing, but it was a big one for my currency-converting mum.
Now, if only we could save up enough for a trip back home to India.
Mum was home-sick. I saw it in her eyes every time a folded, blue telegram letter from my maternal grandmum, Mamaiji arrived in our postbox. Mumma’s arthritic knees were playing up. She longed to see her daughter and hoped she was okay. She missed feeding us her legendary curry.
At 17, I didn’t quite understand the depth of missing family. But I did understand what it felt like to miss real Indian food. It was fine eating that sweet, heavy, excessively orange butter chicken at Pakuranga Plaza on a Friday late night, but I missed my Bread Pakora. And Pune’s Dabeli. And the fried boomla (lizard fish) Grandpa used to fry for me.
But most of all, I missed the unassuming Bombay Sandwich.
Like most things from my life in India, I had taken it for granted when I could eat it. After all, eating a simple vegetarian sandwich on the side of the road is not something you commit to memory.
A few weeks later, at school, I discovered something funny.
Turns out that New Zealand also had a place called Bombay. Bonus, it was only a short drive away on the outskirts of Auckland, where we lived.
The next long weekend, Queen’s Birthday 2005, I had an idea. I told Mum we were going on a surprise picnic, a longer trip so I could practice my driving.
We went to Bombay.
When we were settled on our blanket at the local park, I showed Mum my other surprise.
A bread bag filled with sandwiches, my not-so-tasty but still good enough version of Bombay sandwiches.
Three slices of soft, white bread slathered with minty green chutney. Filled with soft, salty potatoes, crispy cucumber, tangy sliced onions and a slice of boiled beetroot and topped with finely shredded cheese.
The bread wasn’t the soft white Wibs slices the vendors used in India. The cheese wasn’t Amul. We both knew that Bombay Hills were far too green to truly resemble Bombay. But that day, it was something.
What is the Bombay Sandwich?
They say Mumbai is a city, but Bombay is an emotion.
I don’t know who “they” are, but the nostalgic immigrant in me agrees. People that grew up in Bombay like to think of the city as the “New York” of the East, a city that never sleeps, a place where the energy is palpable.
Everyone is in a rush to get somewhere. Taxis and cars start honking before the signal turns green. And, if you ever wanted some imagery for what “stress” may look like, all you need do is go sit on a bench at Dadar station and watch the crowds of people trying to get into an already crowded train.
But amid the rush and the noise is Mumbai’s street food. An opportunity to pause and refuel quick and cheap whether you’re a college kid, a labourer, a busy mum or a businessman in a swanky car.
And, while many traveller-focused sites will hail the vada pao as Mumbai’s ultimate street food, my vote is for the Bombay sandwich.
You’ll find a Bombay sandwich vendor at almost every major street intersection. When I was growing up, most of them ran their entire business on a single trestle table and served four varieties – with cheese, without cheese, toasted or untoasted. Always on white bread.
These days, you’ll find illegal-ish semi-permanent sandwich stalls kitted out with electric grills featuring more than 40 different types of sandwiches, including a chocolate version that I do not recommend.
The Bombay sandwich is easy to make at home, and I love hosting a sandwich party where everyone makes their own.
Essentially, it’s boiled potatoes and fresh vegetables sandwiched between three slices of white bread that are slathered with mint and coriander chutney. It’s loaded with butter, toasted rather than grilled in an old-school sandwich press and topped with finely grated cheese. The magic ingredient? Chaat masala.
Bombay Sandwich at home
Makes about 4 triple-decker sandwiches
For the chutney
2 cups (packed) coriander leaves and stems
1 cup (packed) mint leaves
2-3 green chillies (omit if you dislike spice)
1 garlic clove
2 teaspoons chaat masala
1 tablespoon dried shredded coconut
juice of 1 lemon
salt to taste
sugar to taste
For the chaat masala
2 tbsp whole coriander seeds
1 tbsp black peppercorns
6 tbsp cumin seeds
¼ cup dry mango powder (amchoor – available at Indian supermarkets)
2 tbsp black salt (this is a key ingredient)
1 tsp white salt
For the sandwich
12 slices white toast bread (three per sandwich)
2 medium potatoes, boiled
1 cucumber
1 tomato
1 red onion
butter
finely grated cheese
sliced beetroot (optional)
Method
Put all the chutney ingredients into a grinder, small blender or mortar and pestle and make a thick paste by adding 1 tablespoon of water at a time and blending or pounding until smooth. Remember, a thin chutney leads to a soggy sandwich. You want a spreadable texture like mayonnaise.
To make the chaat masala, first, toast the coriander seeds, peppercorns and cumin seeds in a small pan. When the seeds give off a toasty aroma, they are ready. Now pop the toasted spices and the remaining ingredients into a grinder or mortar and grind/pound until you have a fine masala.
Before you start assembling the sandwiches, thinly slice all the vegetables. Cut the crusts from the bread and butter all the slices.
To assemble a single sandwich, you will start with a layer of chutney. Then, add the potato and sprinkle on some chaat masala.
Layer with another slice of bread. More chutney. Add cucumber, tomato and finally onion. Sprinkle on some more chaat masala.
Now, slather chutney on the final slice of bread and cover your sandwich, chutney side down.
If you like your sandwich toasted, do it now. If you like your sandwich fresh, that will taste good too. Cut it into four pieces.
Top with a final slather of butter and some more chutney. Or even another small mound of grated cheese.
Repeat the steps to make as many sandwiches as you like.
Notes:
If you end up with a watery chutney by mistake, add in some more coconut, and that will fix it.
This chutney is very versatile and can be used for all sorts of Indian chaat dishes. You can also freeze it into ice cubes and drop one into the next curry that you cook.
Store the chaat masala in a cool, dry place. Add it to everything that needs a bit of zing. Its signature smell comes from the black salt (available from Indian food stores and some supermarkets) and does not mean that it’s gone bad.
You had me at "They say Mumbai is a city, but Bombay is an emotion." Lovely post.
I have a similar chutney recipe, but in Goa we go heavier on the fresh scraped coconut. Now, in Canada, I use some Maggi coconut powder or coconut cream with the dessicated coconut if I cannot find fresh scraped coconut (frozen section).
The first time I sent my kids to school with a chutney sandwich, they looked at me funny. Now they wait to get a care pack!