Rasam

Rasam. The brothy soup has almost no substance but more blast in the mouth than any dish I know.  Salty, spicy, sour, umami in equal proportions--the flavors converge and ignite. An Indian friend ordered it in a South Indian dosa restaurant years ago and I thought it too hot, but my taste buds have grown up, and now I ask for it, hoping even in North Indian restaurants where I know it would be out of place.

When I do get a chance to eat rasam, I approach it seriously.  This is not a comfort cup to sip casually like miso. I pause after each spoonful, catch my breath, and down some water or lassi, but to little avail. The fiery, tangy taste has seized my mouth. All I know is I’m distinctly uncomfortable and craving more.

I didn’t want to divide the archetypal taste into ingredients, but then I decided to try cooking it. My homey Indian cookbook called for tamarind, tomato, coconut, chile, black mustard, and an earthy yellow lentil called toor dal.  I trekked to a Berkeley Indian grocer, picked up the toor dal, followed directions, and blended it smooth, but the alchemy did not take place.  I tasted spicy and sour and salty and savory, but the flavors seemed lopsided. They would not ignite.

I'm not sure I want to know the secret. I like to be presented with a bowl of perfect synthesis.