Making your own meals as a student can be rough. A typical evening in my flat usually goes like this: after a long day on campus, I pick up some vegetables for dinner to pair with that tofu in the fridge that’s about to go off. Back home, everyone’s making supper in the kitchen. There’s an unwashed pot in the corner that I desperately try my best to ignore and all of our plates are in the sink (save for one that I hid strategically behind the pots). Carefully working around the mysterious smoothie spillage near the blender, I chop my ingredients on the solid two inches of unoccupied counter space. My flatmate Sarah tries to tell me about her day, but I can’t hear her over the deafening whir of the grimy extractor fan above the hob. Elly needs the chopping board after me and I need the spatula after Tapasya’s done making her omelette; the whole process requires careful coordination. I grab the last clean plate from the back of the cupboard. At last, dinner is served. Tonight, I’m indulging in a grim-looking, under-seasoned stir fry with leftover rice and two soggy bits of tofu. I have to admit that, sometimes, it’s a lot easier to grab a butter chicken ready meal from Tesco and pray that no one has tried to cook mince in the microwave while you were out. Thankfully, last Monday, my dinner was sorted.
Following a dreadful day of back-to-back lectures and running back and forth across campus, I took a walk down Gardiner Street to catch up with a dear friend of mine. Atharva “Attie” Godkar is a third-year Computer Engineering student with Indian roots who grew up between Singapore and Dublin. We met through mutual friends, and my first time sampling his cooking was over a bowl of ramen he concocted (from scratch!) in Trinity Hall. Cooking for me was an escape from the monotonous, stay-at-home life back in 2020, as it was for Attie: he made me homemade sushi once, introduced me to the scary world of potato waffles, and, when feeling uninspired, shared with me a good old bowl of spicy Korean ramen to end the day. I still remember that first ramen he cooked — probably one of the nicest things anyone has done for me. Well, that was until last Monday. That meal was officially the nicest meal anyone’s ever prepared for me. Almost two years later, I was back at his flat and he was cooking for me yet again.
“Above him, stuck to the cupboard, hung a blueprint of the dish. It detailed every component involved in the meal from the creamy pesto mash to the accoutrements of pickled beets and carrots, and, at the centre of it all, stood the marinated lamb rack.”
Upon arriving at his kitchen, I was warmly greeted by his best friend Mak, who initially introduced both Attie and myself to home-style Japanese cooking in Halls. Attie cites Mak as a major influence on his cuisine, claiming that “Mak makes the best kakuni” (Japanese braised pork belly) — his favourite dish to date. Attie recently started a cooking page on Instagram (@attie_cooks) to document his picturesque, homemade gourmet meals. As he talked me through the dish he prepared for our long-overdue reunion, I couldn’t help but notice the genuine excitement in his voice. Above him, stuck to the cupboard, hung a blueprint of the dish, carefully drawn and annotated. It detailed every component involved in the meal: the creamy pesto mash, the plum jam, the accoutrements of pickled beets and carrots, and, at the centre of it all, stood the marinated lamb rack. I was in awe of his evolution as a student-chef. The elaborate process and the humble creativity involved in making such an elaborate dish was deeply impressive (on a weeknight too!).
I observed the master at his craft, tea towel in his back pocket, searing the lamb racks to a perfect medium-rare before using the same pan to reduce the marinade to a thick, miso-enriched gravy. Cloves, lemon, olive oil, mint, and — the most important ingredient of all — his grandmother’s garam masala spice blend formed the marinade and crust of the dark pink lamb. He insisted that I sit down while he cooked, instead offering me a packet of wasabi peas he had lying around on his kitchen table as an amuse-bouche to start off the meal. Though he didn’t let me help with the cooking, Attie gave me the honour of taste-testing the finished plum jam, a component of the dish he improvised last-minute, since cherries are currently out of season. Beetroot juice didn’t do the job at giving the jam its deep red tint, but the eureka moment of adding the wine — “That’s it! That’s the colour!” — was remarkable to watch in real time. Attie started cooking at the early age of six, sitting at the stove beside his mum, in charge of the seasoning — a crucial component of the cooking process. Watching him prepare a dish he had never attempted before was a fascinating new step beyond his Halls’ cookery, and certainly a long way from monitoring flavouring; I still recognised his signature Indian and Japanese roots, but here I was sampling haute cuisine from the comfort of Attie’s kitchen.
“Each bite was unique in itself, as different sections of the lamb highlighted different notes of cloves or lemon. I was utterly entranced by the meal — so much so that I almost ignored the broken table lying in the corner from last week’s barbecue incident.”
At the table in front of me lay a work of pure art – Hytte i hagen (cottage in the garden). “Nothing beats European haute-cuisine presentation,” Attie mumbled as I sat open-mouthed in his kitchen. Surrounded by sweet pickled carrots and beetroot, the roasted mushrooms from the marinade, and the deep red plum jam, Attie’s crusted lamb rack sat majestically on its savoury parmesan and pesto mash bed. Art through food, c’est magnifique. The presentation was phenomenal. I tend to be fussy when it comes to fusion food, especially when combined with unnecessarily complicated presentation, but Attie’s dish didn’t feel like a conceited attempt to impress me. It felt intentional and genuine, each component carefully presented to enjoy on its own or combine with another element to unlock a new flavour combination. Each bite was unique in itself, as different sections of the lamb highlighted different notes of cloves or lemon. I was utterly entranced by the meal — so much so that I almost ignored the broken table lying in the corner from last week’s barbecue incident. The combination of savoury miso gravy with the plum jam was a wonder, especially when contrasted with the tart acidity of the carrots and beetroots.
For Attie (to quote his own words), “following a recipe is a great basis to identify and practise cooking techniques, but your creativity isn’t challenged as much.” It was through the elements lying in his kitchen that he came up with unexpected flavour pairings that ultimately made their mark. On Monday night, Attie made me realise that by taking risks and thinking creatively beyond the realm of culinary conventions, you can make anything look and taste good — even a stir-fry in your student kitchen.