There was a time, some 20 years ago, when I religiously spent all my weekends at Karachi’s French Beach. I had rented a hut with a lovely view from a friend and, every Saturday morning, I would pack provisions to take to the beach. Often, friends would drop in for dinner or lunch the next day.

Surmai on skewers would be marinated in olive oil and garlic, and a potato salad would follow the fish into a cool box, surrounded with ice. On the way, I would pick up a baguette, desi eggs, charcoal for the barbecue and some bottles of water. The hut had a fair-sized kitchen and a bedroom, so it was pretty comfortable. Once I had settled in, I’d go for a dip if the sea were calm enough, and then sit back with a drink and watch the waves. After a simple lunch, a nap was in order as the rollers came in with hypnotic regularity.

When it got dark, one of the nearby village team would help me get the barbecue going while we gossiped about the regulars at the beach. What sets the French Beach apart is the fact that it is owned by villagers who guard its visitors zealously. This is why girls and women who come can swim without getting hassled by louts. I have spent literally hundreds of weekends there without once feeling threatened.

A recent visit to the French Beach brought back memories of weekends spent there some 20 years ago

Brunch on Sunday would be a desi omelette and French bread with proper coffee. By the time the crowds started arriving after midday, I would be packing to avoid the loud music and screaming children. But when I was expecting company for lunch, I would put the word out that I wanted crabs, and was often lucky. The crabs would be boiled and then sautéed, in a wok, with chilli sauce. Eating the crabmeat while looking out to sea was an experience many of my friends still recall.

All these memories came flooding in when I returned to the French Beach recently for a few hours. My son’s hut had been borrowed by his friend Zain, and he was kind enough to include me and a couple of old friends in his party. I had called Fateh, my old fisherman friend, and he brought some crabs and fried fish — he called it ‘salmon’ which does not exist in our waters. I suspect it was some form of grouper.

These last few months have been a bit of a culinary disaster zone as I had lost my appetite due to illness. So I have cooked only occasionally, and eaten very little. The only advantage is the fact that now, as my appetite returns, I can eat without counting calories. A trip to Lahore saw me return to the scene of some of my excesses. A friend took me one morning to Anarkali where we ordered large amounts of nihari with bone marrow and brain, plus some wonderful crisp naans made of desi flour. Tahir Jehangir served up a succulent leg of lamb that was falling off the bone. And a trip to Mian Ijaz ul Hasan’s farm near Sheikhupura was rewarded by a tender chicken curry and a mutton karrahi.

In no time at all, I have regained around five of my lost pounds, so I had better watch any further excesses. However, dinner beckons at Anwar Maqsood’s house. His wife Imrana is a gifted cook, who has learned many dishes from Anwar’s mother, Pashi, whose daal was legendary, and I’m hoping it will be on the menu.

I have been avoiding eating out for fear of catching some infection, given the compromised state of my immune system. But once I have fully recovered, I plan to plunge right back into our rich street food.

Published in Dawn, EOS, April 7th, 2019