Bam, slap, thwack. Woosh, woosh, sss. Ee, zzz, clang, plop. Thank you, auntie! Szrkst, szkst. Aaahh.
This is the audible life cycle of Mr. Mohgan's Super Crispy Roti Prata. The libretto of the above prata operetta goes something like this: Mr. Mohgan throws a round lump of dough he's made last night before slamming it flat with his palm. First flip hits the aluminum countertop, then three consecutive flips in the air follow. It drops onto the hot griddle gleaming with ghee. Iron spatula fries the prata with loud scrapes, the only sign of authority from a mild-mannered man. Finally, it lands on top of a mountain of its brethren, and Mrs. Mohgan delivers it with dahl, mutton curry, or assam fish (the latter is best). She is so lovely you'll want to hug her—then you bulldoze the round bastard love child of Indian sub-contentinal paratha into your mouth. Here in prata spa, you sigh in contentment.
If commercial prata, defrosted from factory dough at most food courts and coffee shops in Singapore, is as substantial as Justin Bieber, then Mr. Mohgan's is the sound of soul and the gospel of ghee. He must have sold his soul to the devil, at the crossroads of Crane and Onan in Joo Chiat, to ply prata with fingers light enough to inject strata of fluff encased between lightly seared, flaky surfaces. A flatbread normally regarded as a gut bomb that tastes like cloud nine? Right flippin' on.