The Lakshkari Kachori. Tried it?

Nagpur: Among the terrific trifecta of tarri poha, samosa and aloo bonda that constitute Nagpur’s favourite ‘nashta’, the kachori is a forlorn also-ran. Conventional wisdom would, then, suggest that a stall selling only kachoris would be doomed.
But, trust a never-say-die Rajput to boldly go where no snack vendor had gone before. Three years ago, Satyanarayan Lakshkar saw a giant opening in the kachori-only space on Nagpur’s ‘nashta’ scene and decided to play a ‘karhai-shaped’ gamble.
Today, the wafting aroma of gently-frying kachoris draws a steady clientele every morning to Lakshkar’s pushcart, named after his daughter Niha, on West High Court Road near Coffee House Square. At 20 bucks a pop for ‘pyaz’ kachori or 10 for ‘moong dal’ kachori, it is the cheapest and quickest way to be transported to Rajasthan.
“I grew up in Bhilwara, eating kachoris almost every day. It’s that kind of dish: once you see it, you can’t resist it,” Lakshkar states the obvious. It may sound trite, but Lakshkar is right when he says his kachoris are different from the ones one normally eats in the city. “They’re full of besan and so heavy. These ones,” he says, gesturing at the golden brown savouries bobbing happily in hot oil, “won’t give you acidity or gas.”
That is the reason, Lashkar adds, 90% of his patrons are repeat customers. A triad of chutneys — spiced dahi, amchur and mint — douses the heat from the kachoris and bumps up the flavour, although a single fried green chilli is a nice way of keeping it simple.
An ice-cream seller by evening, Lakshkar claims he developed the recipe for the kachoris himself, evidently wanting to keep his cards close to his chest. Try to pry out his ‘special ingredient’ and he clams up. “It’s just home-made masala that I make fresh every day,” he says, and refuses to elaborate.
But a close inspection of the dal kachori hints at the presence of coriander seeds, fennel seeds, red chilli and a pleasant punch of asafoetida (hing). “I procure it from Rajasthan. The hing here doesn’t have that mazaa,” he reveals. But no more. And Lakshkar says no one else knows the full recipe.
“The day I am sick or not here, there is no kachori. Only I can make it, although I’m introducing my elder son Vinayak to it slowly. I’ll pass it on when I think he’s ready,” the 45-year-old says.
Until that day comes, he is prepared to toil. Lakshkar’s day begins at 4am as he makes preparations for the kachoris, chopping onions, grinding up masala and so on. He’s at his spot by 7am and stays there until 11am. He then goes home, and gets out to make purchases for the next day.
By this time, it’s evening and he heads out again, this time with his ice cream cart from which he sells flavours like gulkand, cashew-and-raisin, and other chilled delights such as almond shake, falooda and rabdi. By the times he hits the bed, it’s midnight. In just about four hours, he will get up to go at it all over again.
Pure hard work. That’s his special ingredient.
(This occasional column looks at some of the old eateries in the city, when they started and how they have evolved. Do you know of any? E-mail this reporter with exact locations and a little description. We will try featuring it if it fits the theme)