Rat tail Radish: Packing a Punch
A closer look at an intriguing-yet-forgotten pod — the blue-purple lila mogri
It isn’t clear why so few foods are coloured blue. One
idea is that we are hard-wired to avoid the colour because it indicates
something poisonous or rotten. Yet, this could be a backward rationalisation —
because blue foods are so rare, we assume that they aren’t good. Winter in India brings a
forgotten vegetable that’s bluepurple in colour, found in long pods, tied up in
bundles and sold as lila mogra in the markets. Despite its exotic appearance,
you need only to bite into one to be hit by a familiar pungency, an almost
eye-watering heat that powers up through your palate. It’s the taste of radish,
whether the cute red ‘English’ kind or the long white moolis, but here it’s
coming not from a tuber, but pods that have grown above ground. There is also a
green version which is even more confusing because it looks exactly like French
beans. The old lady selling them in Matunga market had to insist I try them
before I was convinced. Aka Madras Radish
These striking looking pods have an unlovely name — rat-tail radish from their appearance when mature, dark and slightly curling at the end (the botanical name, Raphanus sativus, var caudatus also refers to the tail-like shape). They aren’t good to eat at that time as they are stringy and coarse, but should be had when young and able to snap apart crisply. It isn’t easy finding them, though when you ask, many people will remember eating them when young.
Far from being an exotic new import, like baby corn or pok choy, mogri seems to have originated in Southeast Asia, and may have been known in India before underground radishes, which probably came from the Middle-East. KT Achaya, in his Historical Dictionary of Indian Food, gives a number of old names for it — sungra, singri and mungra. It may have first reached the West from India since 19th century French sources refer to it as ‘Madras radish’.
Pungent Palate
Despite this antiquity, mogri has dropped out of general consciousness, and the only reason I can think of is evanescent nature of its taste. Radishes, which are outlying members of the family of Brassicas or cabbages and mustards, have developed the pungent chemical defences of this family. This comes from chemical compounds called glucosinolates and an enzyme called myrosinase, which produce a searingly strong vapour when mixed. The vegetables keep them under control in cells which are close to each other, but quite separate, until they are bitten into, the cell walls broken and the two chemicals combine.
With rat-tail radishes this feels all the stronger, perhaps because the pods seem fresher than the tubers. It is amazing that such thin pods can pack such a punch. Yet these chemicals are easily deactivated with heat, which is why it is really hard cooking with them — without their pungency they are even less interesting than green beans. One of the few plausible ways of cooking them I’ve found has been to heat ghee, add jeera and when it splutters, throw in chopped-up mogri and salt, and turn off the heat, letting them heat through in the spicy ghee. This is, in a way, close to the favourite Western way of eating red radishes — with just butter and salt to dip them in.
Jains are among the few communities that value mogri, probably because it allows the strictly orthodox, who won’t eat roots, a way to get that radish flavour. Dadima no Varso, the wonderful book of Palanpuri Jain recipes, has a Lila Mogra nu Shaak, which can also be made into a kachumber, a nice way to eat them, since the curd provides the perfect backdrop for its pyrotechnic taste. Alex Sanchez, the chef at The Table in Mumbai, is one of the few who’s put them on his menu, pairing their pungency with watermelon and deep fried bits of pork.
Ideally, though I think it’s best to have mogri plain. It is an excellent snack to hand out at parties, requiring no preparation other than washing, and perhaps mixing the green and blue kinds for interesting visual effect.
These striking looking pods have an unlovely name — rat-tail radish from their appearance when mature, dark and slightly curling at the end (the botanical name, Raphanus sativus, var caudatus also refers to the tail-like shape). They aren’t good to eat at that time as they are stringy and coarse, but should be had when young and able to snap apart crisply. It isn’t easy finding them, though when you ask, many people will remember eating them when young.
Far from being an exotic new import, like baby corn or pok choy, mogri seems to have originated in Southeast Asia, and may have been known in India before underground radishes, which probably came from the Middle-East. KT Achaya, in his Historical Dictionary of Indian Food, gives a number of old names for it — sungra, singri and mungra. It may have first reached the West from India since 19th century French sources refer to it as ‘Madras radish’.
Pungent Palate
Despite this antiquity, mogri has dropped out of general consciousness, and the only reason I can think of is evanescent nature of its taste. Radishes, which are outlying members of the family of Brassicas or cabbages and mustards, have developed the pungent chemical defences of this family. This comes from chemical compounds called glucosinolates and an enzyme called myrosinase, which produce a searingly strong vapour when mixed. The vegetables keep them under control in cells which are close to each other, but quite separate, until they are bitten into, the cell walls broken and the two chemicals combine.
With rat-tail radishes this feels all the stronger, perhaps because the pods seem fresher than the tubers. It is amazing that such thin pods can pack such a punch. Yet these chemicals are easily deactivated with heat, which is why it is really hard cooking with them — without their pungency they are even less interesting than green beans. One of the few plausible ways of cooking them I’ve found has been to heat ghee, add jeera and when it splutters, throw in chopped-up mogri and salt, and turn off the heat, letting them heat through in the spicy ghee. This is, in a way, close to the favourite Western way of eating red radishes — with just butter and salt to dip them in.
Jains are among the few communities that value mogri, probably because it allows the strictly orthodox, who won’t eat roots, a way to get that radish flavour. Dadima no Varso, the wonderful book of Palanpuri Jain recipes, has a Lila Mogra nu Shaak, which can also be made into a kachumber, a nice way to eat them, since the curd provides the perfect backdrop for its pyrotechnic taste. Alex Sanchez, the chef at The Table in Mumbai, is one of the few who’s put them on his menu, pairing their pungency with watermelon and deep fried bits of pork.
Ideally, though I think it’s best to have mogri plain. It is an excellent snack to hand out at parties, requiring no preparation other than washing, and perhaps mixing the green and blue kinds for interesting visual effect.
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