Homos making Momos

Shortly after arriving in Nepal, we acquainted ourselves with the culinary delight known locally as the momo – a small wheat based parcel, usually filled with chicken, veg or buffalo, either steamed or deep fried.  A portion of 10 is usually served with a peanut/chilli/tomato based sauce and can be devoured in a matter of seconds by Will. Momos would be tied for the ‘National Dish of Nepal‘ accolade alongside Dhal Bhat, a dish eaten by Nepalese at least twice a day which fuelled our Annapurna trek  Served on a metal tray with various compartments, Dhal Bhat consists of Rice, Veg Curry, Lentil Soup, Pickles and Curd.  It is all we ever saw Indra eat for 10 days on our trek and the local saying goes “Dhal Bhat Power: 24 hour”, though the lentil soup also causes flatulence problems so this could be the “power” they refer to.

When we returned to Kathmandu, we booked ourselves onto a momo making course through Social Tours Kathmandu, a local project bringing genuine cultural experiences to tourists which directly benefit local people. Our secret aim, however, was to kick start our new business venture for our return home.  We have spotted a huge gap in the hipster food van market for momos, and our Himalayan epiphany while treading up and down the Annapurna valleys, was that we could millions by buying a few battered old camper-vans, kit them out with a mini-kitchen and catchy marketing and drive them around London of a weekend selling overpriced momos to London’s army of foodies/hipsters/yummy-mummies.  

[Note to Emma Justice:  If you want in our money making scheme, can we borrow your kitchen to serve the Maltby Street market brigade?  I’m sure early Saturday mornings at your flat would never be the same again!]

Social Tours officers are near the Garden of Dreams in Kathmandu – quite appropriate given the aims for our course.  6 people gathered, all eager to make Mo-mo’s. Besides an unassuming German couple, it was ourselves and two organic chicken farmers from Dorset, one an ex actor and other ex drama producer at the BBC, so it’s safe to say it really was homos making momos.

Step one was a trip to a local shop to buy ingredients with our instructor, a very sweet lady whose name we’ve forgotten. We were relieved that she bought the chicken from a fridge rather than a block of wood in a backstreet serving as a airport for flies. Back at the kitchen, the chef ordered us to get chopping – the vegetables and chicken had to be in such tiny pieces that it was almost a pulp. It took the best part of an hour, back home a food processor would have done the job in 60 seconds.  Will got the job of mixing and kneading the dough – a task he took to with vigour and verve.  When ingredients were ready, we started to assemble our momos. Who’d have thought something which could be devoured so quickly required such dexterity and touch.  Our instruction of ‘pinch and fold‘ reminded me of the ‘bend and snap‘ (only this didn’t work every time!).  Early attempts prompted a mixture of pity and laughter from the chef and her assistant, and frustration and despair from us. They took some salvaging.  However, once we got going, we developed a rhythm and pace and our creations started to look edible. The dipping sauce looked too complicated to make from scratch, so I’ve already decided to mix Satay sauce and Sweet Chilli for the bastardised ‘English’ palette – the hipsters will never know the difference. In all, we made 200 momos between us and devoured them for lunch, followed by dessert of ‘Mars Bar momos’ -yes, a Nepalese twist on the Glaswegian deep fried delicacy.  The were delicious but so naughty.

Then came the tricky part.  Being a social enterprise, Social Tours has a ‘pay what you think it was worth’ policy. This caused huge embarrassment when asked openly what you thought it was worth and you had to open your wallet in front of the group.  It felt like some bizarre ITV4 reality show where you eyeball someone and tell them their ‘bed and breakfast’ had a lumpy bed and you were only paying £5 for the stay.  If we’d had more time, I’d have draw up a ‘profit share’ arrangement in the event that their recipes were used for our future venture in the UK, but instead decided to part with 1,500 Rupees (about £11.50) for the experience instead. We all agreed this was pitched at the right level, and I was secretly happy that any profits from our future money making scheme would be retained.