The charm of club food is evident in the fact that one of Delhi’s most popular fine dining restaurants—Delhi Club House—has created its menu around club food from across the country. The interiors look like a fancier version of a club dining room, and the menu is divided into food attributed to various clubs: Chicken Momos from the Gorkha Rifle Mess, Dum Ka Kheema from the Oudh Club, Paniyaram from Coimbatore Club, and the entirely fictional Club Motor Poori Alur Dum from Calcutta Club. The only difference is that where you would pay Rs 200 for one of these dishes at an actual club, here you would pay 10 times that amount.

Vegetable cutlets served at Delhi Gymkhana Club (Image: Instagram/delhigymkhanaclub)

But clearly, people love club fare—or what they think club fare is—for them to flock to this restaurant.

While many claim that club food is popular only because it’s cheaper than eating at a restaurant, I disagree. Clubs are where you get to sit in a restaurant or shamiana that may not be as elaborately designed as a high-end restaurant, but carries a certain old-world charm and manners. There’s usually no loud, pulsating music, no screaming children and no starving socialites. The waiters have been around for decades and can describe how to make the perfect Bloody Mary and embody a dignity of labour and familiarity that is missing when you go to a high-end restaurant.

I love club food because, more often than not, it is tasty, reasonably priced, and comes with a side order of sentiment. Never a bad thing in a world that’s increasingly devoid of actual connections. There is a joy in sitting amongst a group of people, including families, youngsters, and people who’ve just played a sport—none of whom are staring at their phones, because they’ve actually come to the club to meet people and not because it’s the “in” place to be.

I am a big fan of club food, and not to forget, club cocktails. Yes, there is a strong strain of nostalgia when I go to a club which I’ve been a member of for years. It’s the same as when I go to a restaurant I’ve gone to for decades—like Mocambo or Bar-b-q, Eau Chew or Gajalee. But it’s also the fact that clubs are where you can very often find dishes that no restaurant can replicate or even imagine including on its menu.

I still have a scar running down my forearm where I burnt myself while rushing towards a mixed grill sizzler that was served on a burning hot stone slab, where the meats and cabbage were slightly charred. You still get sizzlers and mixed grills in clubs. Not to forget the Club Sandwich (which is not a derivative of Chicken and Lettuce Under Bacon).

Clubs are also among the few places that will serve you a Tom Collins, a Screwdriver, a Bloody Mary, or a Shandy without looking at you as if you’ve lost your marbles or stepped back in time. Where else will you get a Lobster Thermidor, a potato and leek soup, followed by an almond soufflé?

In the clubs of Kolkata, you can still have your fill of the finest beef steaks (though not for much longer) at the Calcutta Cricket and Football Club, where the cooks know that my uncle likes his steak topped with some chopped green chillies and the fried egg draped over the steak, with a runny yolk.

There is no better Chilli Chicken than the one at Saturday Club. Or the masala chips and egg sandwiches at the Calcutta Swimming Club, along with the finest dosas, phuchkas, and massive jalebis, which my friend and club aficionado, Amrita Kanoi, still remembers from the vegetarian Bengal Rowing Club, relished while watching national-level rowers glide across the Rabindra Sarobar Lake.

The Bengal Club’s Chinese Room should have paeans written to it for its fall-off-the-bone pork ribs. The Calcutta Club’s waiters seem to be as old as the institution, and the bartender only responds when you call him “Aaabdar”, serving potent Screwdrivers and Fried Prawns. The Punjab Club was once known for giving membership only to Punjabis, which also meant that you got the best Reshmi Tikkas there. I’m not reinforcing a stereotype, just stating a fact. And then there’s the Hindustan Club, which has the most delicious tandoori fare.

And it’s not just Kolkata. If you go to the Boat Club in Chennai, you must try the Chilli Beef–perfectly seasoned and cooked just so. If it were not for the clubs, many of us would never have known the wonder of Eggs Kejriwal. The dish is named after a Marwari gentleman, Mr Kejriwal, who used to visit Willingdon Club in Mumbai. His breakfast request had an egg, sunny-side-up, placed on a toast slathered with spicy green chutney, topped with sauteed mushrooms and chillies, and sprinkled with grated Amul cheese. The dish became so popular among other members that the club added it to its menu and named it after him. Today, you can find the dish across multiple restaurants in India.

According to Kanoi, the Bombay Presidency Golf Club serves an amazing Tawa Fry Fish and a Golfer’s Salad with chicken and sprouts, along with an entire range of sizzlers. Clubs are also where, if you’re lucky to have a meal, you will find the most amazing breakfasts. The Cricket Club of India has a wonderful Akuri with Melba Toast. The Tollygunge Club offers thick pancakes served along with butter, honey and jam—a recipe for a heart attack, perhaps, but so delicious.

Clubs are also where Anglo-Indian and “continental” food continues to thrive. From Prawn Cocktail to Baked Alaska and Monte Carlo, which deserves a sentence of its own. The Monte Carlo is an ice cream pudding made with layers of chocolate sponge cake, slightly softened vanilla ice cream, crumbled chocolate biscuits like Bourbon or Hide and Seek, chocolate syrup, and crushed pralines or chikki. True gourmet fare.

I kid, of course, but I do value the fact that these clubs do not give in to what’s cool or start serving Omakase dosa platters, because everyone now wants to eat Omakase culinary spreads. They still serve the food their patrons are familiar with, and each club has its own unique preparation that would be a pity to lose.

And that is my point. People like club food, not because it’s average, but because it’s a comforting taste. They are recipes our grandmothers made at home; recipes that are no longer popular in restaurants, because who can pronounce blancmange nowadays? There is a comfort to sitting and eating fish fingers, sandwiches made of soft white bread slathered with mustard and filled with thin slices of ham or boiled chicken, washed down with a glass of strong club cold coffee, which tastes umpteen times better than any coffee from a fancy chain.

And it’s not that you pay low prices; you pay the right prices. But you also get your money’s worth and a little amuse-bouche of sentimentality with your masala chips and Bloody Mary. What’s not to love?

 Next week, I will write on the reinvention of the cutlet: the dish with many identities. From Kolkata Fish Cutlet and Railway Cutlet to the Army Mince Chop and the Goan Croquette—and not to forget the Dimer Devil and Nargisi Chop.