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NOL-KOLE
Alien Life Form
How
the weird looking kohlrabi came to be popular in India
Directors
of horror and sic-fi films know that the creepiest monsters and aliens
aren't those that look radically different from us, but which seem entirely
human, except for a few subtle, yet deeply creepy differences. A vampire is
a dapper gentleman, except when he smiles and reveals those elongated
incisors. Witches in India are beautiful women until you notice that their
feet are the wrong way round. And Star Trek's Vulcans are all the more
unsettling for looking almost like humans except for those pointed ears.
Kohlrabi is a bit like this which may be why it is
relatively little used. At first glance it seems like a regular rounded
root vegetable, the same shape as turnips or radishes, though green (and
sometimes purple) where they are white and red. But then you notice that while
other such roots have stems and leaves sprouting neatly from their tops,
kohlrabi has several stems, with leaves, growing from its side. Suddenly
what looked normal, seems strange, multi-armed and vaguely monstrous, and
many vegetable buyers, I feel, pass over it for more familiar, friendlier
looking produce.
In fact, kohlrabi is not a root at all. It is a
swollen stem, which is why it is natural to have leaves branching out from
it, and this is also why it is green which, a moment's thought will tell
you, is not a colour you expect to find in roots growing underground, away
from sunlight. Kohlrabi is one of the amazingly diverse Brassica family (it
is specifically Brassica oleracea, var.Gongylodes), the cousinhood of
cabbages, which ranges from the tight leaves of cabbages, to the swollen
stems and heads of broccoli and cauliflower, to the pungent seeds and
leaves of mustard.
It is an indication of the family's variety that
kohlrabi is only their third weirdest looking member, after the amazing
fractal formations of romanesco and the thick stems with mini cabbages
growing from it that we call Brussels sprouts (both of which have featured
in this column which is a big fan of the Brassicas). Brussels sprouts and
kohlrabi both seem to be relatively new offspring of the family, emerging
in recent centuries from northern Europe, rather than the Mediterranean
world where the older family members were domesticated and developed.
But in fitting with its alien quality, there is a
lot that is uncertain about kohlrabi. Is it the 'Corinthian turnip' that
the Roman writer Pliny the Elder described in the first century of our
Common Era and which features in Roman cookbooks? Was it the same vegetable
that features in a long list of food plants that the Emperor Charlemagne,
around 800 CE, ordered grown in his lands? Was this the vegetable that
Edward Schafer in The Golden Apples of Samarkand, his study of food imports
into China of the T'ang era (618-907 CE) mentions travelled there across
Central Asia?
And when did it come to India? Among kohlrabi's
many oddities, perhaps the oddest may be that this vegetable which is so
determinedly north European that most of its names are variants of the
blunt German description of it as a mixture of kohl (cabbage) and rabi
(turnip), has probably ended up being best appreciated and cooked in India.
One suggestion is that it came, as with China, long ago and via trade
across Central Asia, but then why would the names it is known by in many
parts of this country still echo the German one, like nool-kol, kol-khol or
olkopir?
There are other names though, like ganth gobi, or
munj in Kashmir, one of the few places that really esteems it. It is
possible there was more than one introduction of kohlrabi into India, both
from Central Asia in the North, while Bishop Heber, in his Journal of a
Tour in Ceylon (1928) offers a clue when he records that the 'nolkol' he
found there was "originally imported from the Cape", meaning
South Africa, a place with much North European influence. By 1840 the
Agricultural & Horticultural Society of Calcutta records a gardening
contest where 'Hurrey Mallee' won second prize and five rupees for his
"Nolcole, Turnips, Indian corn, Cabbage and Arrow-root." And
Hobson-Jobson, the great dictionary of British-Indian language under the
Raj, defines Nol-Kole as: "a vegetable a good deal grown in India,
perhaps less valued in England than it deserves."
This is an early example of how most food writers deal with kohlrabi,
acknowledging it is undervalued while still not feeling much enthusiasm for
it. "There are better vegetables than kohlrabi. And worse," wrote
the normally enthusiastic Jane Grigson in her Vegetable Book, while Nigel
Slater moans that he never wants to see this 'sputnik-shaped root' again,
noting darkly that, "perhaps the fact that slugs and bugs avoid it
like the plague (which is why it turns up with grim regularity in many
organic boxes) should give a clue why most people give it the cold
shoulder." This is unfair, since I think it more likely reflects two
aspects of kohlrabi, both of which can be seen as virtues: 1) it grows
easily and profusely, and 2) it is cold-tolerant, one of the last
vegetables to grow out in the fields in winter, and a light frost may even
help it. This is what makes it abundant when little else is (and most
insects have died), and it is obviously why Kashmiris value it. It helps
that, like all the Brassicas, kohlrabi takes well to pungent flavours, such
as those used in Kashmir, like mustard oil (after all, a cousin),
asafoetida, ginger and their dried ver masala.
Kashmiris also use the leaves, which add to the
already high health rating of kohlrabi. Like all the Brassicas, it is
packed with vitamins, antioxidants and minerals, particularly potassium.
The bulb part is particularly filling, with few calories, which makes it a
great weight-reduction food which, unlike most Brassicas, is not too
tedious to eat raw, since it has a pleasantly crisp texture, and just
enough cabbage taste - with a faint prickle of mustard - to add interest,
without overwhelming you. Raghavan Iyer, in his 660 Curries, the best of
the recent crop of blockbuster Indian cookbooks, quotes another food
writer, Elizabeth Schneider, nicely describing the taste as a cross between
"broccoli stalks, water chestnuts and cucumbers."
Peeled, grated kohlrabi, in fact, makes a very good
salad base, as long you remember to squeeze out the plentiful water it
contains (which itself is quite nice to drink). One must be careful though
to select only those which are small and tender since kohlrabi quickly
grows too large and woody, which is another reason why many people take
against them. At City Lights market in Mahim there is a lady who sits by
the side of the gate and sells the generally less regarded gavti
vegetables. She is the most conscientious vegetable seller I have ever
seen, and when she sells me kohlrabi, she always takes care to cut them in
half and jab them in the centre to make sure they are tender.
Cooking kohlrabi makes it more tender, but it
always retains some firmness, another reminder that is an overground stalk
and not a starchy underground tuber. And despite its readiness to take up
strong flavourings, whether the spices of India, or the cheese and meats
that Germans stuff it with, kohlrabi retains a mild, yet persistent cabbage
taste. This makes it an ideal accompaniment to other ingredients, a
supporting one which does not seek centre-stage, yet isn't an entirely
unmemorable subordinate either. If kohlrabi was really the alien lifeform
it looks like, it would be the best kind of invader, mysterious yet benign,
strangelooking yet not scary, a sympathetic presence you should be pleased
to invite into your kitchen.
Vikram
Doctor CDET130201
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