Dahi Bara Alu Dam

Yes, such a thing exists, and it is exactly what the name suggests: dahī baŗā and ālū dam tossed together. But to explain why I'm writing about it (and more importantly, how is it that people actually eat such a concoction), I'll have to start from Cuttack's reputation as a street-eat Mecca of sorts. Or rather, why I think this reputation is largely bunk. Odisha's culinary heritage is notable by any standards. Its confectionery in particular is justly famous. But much of its junk food is derivative, at best regional variants of stuff whose provenance lies elsewhere. Cuttack's famous rolls are merely a harshly-spiced version of what one gets in Kolkata. Gupchup is only a variation of the pānipūri concept ubiquitous throughout the country. Singra is likewise only a version on the pan-Indian samosā theme, itself a distant progeny of the Persian sambūsak. Ālū Chop? Try the ones in Kolkata to see where the Cuttack variant comes from. And about Chowmien and Chilli Chicken, the less said the better.

Dahi Bara Alu Dam, then, can be considered Cuttack's one true contribution to street-eatery. But oh dear! it's nowhere near so simple. Once yet again, none of its three chief components originates from Odisha. Dahī baŗā (dahī bhallā, thāir vaŗāi), or fried urad dāl doughnuts soaked in a cold yogurt-based sauce, is popular throughout India as a snack or breakfast eat. Ghuguni, chickpea stewed in a thin, spiced gravy, is likewise common to most parts of eastern India. Non-Odiyas spell it with only one 'u'. Bengal boasts several variants, including one containing shredded mutton; the Odiya version is closer to the stock Bengali preparation. Ālū dam, potato slow-braised under steam in a mild gravy, is not even a snack. It is very much a serious eat, and served as a main course in Bengal, Kashmir, Punjab, most other parts of North India, and even Odisha.

So if all three components are prevalent outside too, then how is it that Dahi Bara Alu Dam itself is considered exclusively to Odisha? Perhaps the fact that such a combination is so strange as to be unimaginable has something to do with it. All three components are considered stand-alone preparations in their own right. And the thing about stand-alone preparations is that you usually tend to eat them separately, and not mix them up in one bowl. For good measure, ālū dam and ghuguni are both supposed to be eaten hot, while most Dahi Bara Alu Dam vendors don't even carry any heating equipment with them. Think cold Irish Stew added to pineapple pizza, and then equally cold pasta in marinara sauce poured over it, you'll get some approximate idea just how ghastly it sounds (sounds, mind you - how it actually tastes is another matter). Which is fine, but how did the combine come to exist in the first place? And why Odisha, specifically? Those, alas! are questions to which I don't think anyone has any reliable answers. I am convinced no conscious human thought-process could have come up with something like this. My own speculations tend towards serendipitous origins, maybe some idiot upsetting ālū dam into a basin of dahī baŗā or something.

Some modifications to the basic concepts have been incorporated over the years. Most versions of dahī baŗā use a yogurt sauce the consistency of, say, creamy soup - runny but not excessively so. But here it is thinned down to the consistency of chhāch. Then generally, it's the ālū in ālū dam that is supposed to predominate: the quantity of gravy varies between moderate, to a thick, viscous coating, to near-bone dry. Punjabis prefer to lace it with cream, tomato, even crushed cashew; the Bengali version is more restrained in its flavour, relying principally on aromatic spices like cumin. In Kashmir they tend to make copious use of mild dried chilli, but barring that one exception ālū dam is generally supposed to be mild. The Odiya version in particular is a blameless, innocuous little number that leans towards Bengali traditions. Or at least the ālū dam your next-door Aunty serves up when she invites you for lunch. The one you get with dahī baŗā varies on both counts. It is made up of potato chunks swimming in vast amounts of runny, vilely spiced gravy with great patches of chilli powder-stained oil floating on top.

It is no exaggeration to say the preparation is Cuttack's staple street-eat. People eat it for breakfast, as a snack, at times even as a lunch- or dinner-substitute. The city is full of Dahi Bada Alu Dam vendors. Over time some have risen to such prominence and prosperity as to set up regular shops. There's one in Kanika Chhak that ranks among the best you can get. I've been there once, thoroughly enjoyed the experience too, but that's not what the post is about. Here I talk about the itinerant vendors who ply their wares all over town. A few affect 50cc mopeds, but the overwhelming majority prefers bicycles. In fact the bicycle forms an integral part of their equipment. Two large spherical aluminium pots, containing dahī baŗā and ālū dam respectively, are suspended from either side of the handlebar. A smaller pot of ghuguni hangs down from the crossbar. Slung over the side of the real wheel is a jerrycan of water, useful for rinsing spoons and enabling customers to clean their hands. Other peripherals - canisters of chopped onion, sev, spices; metal spoons; a sheaf of donās or disposable sāl-leaf bowls - are tucked about in various crevices along the frame.

A ten-minute walk from our University lies Naraj Barrage, at the spit where the river Mahanadi and its distributary Kathajodi separate. It is a place of much scenic beauty, and is well-known as a venue for leisurely, low-octane, hanging-out. Several Dahi Bara Alu Dam vendors congregate there, including this surly character who charges from his makeshift shop an exorbitant thirty Rupees for six baŗās. To place this into perspective, my favourite vendor, Sh Rabi Sahoo, charges twenty for a plate of ten baŗās, albeit slightly smaller in size. A most affable man who comes over every morning from a neighbouring village, he prefers the traditional method of dispensing the stuff right from his bicycle. He also follows the classical procedure of assembling the thing together. The first thing he does is take off the pot lids and wedge them between the bicycle's frame and chain-guard. Then he takes a donā and scoops baŗās onto it with a long-handled ladle. Once he's got the right number of baŗās, he presses hard on them with the back of his ladle to squeeze out excess dahī into the pot. Next he spoons out a large helping of ālū dam, then a touch of ghuguni, and then sprinkles chopped onion, sev, some spice mixture, and there you are, that's it.

Now the crucial question, how does it taste? Yes, and this is where the weirdness of the whole thing reaches its pinnacle, it tastes bloody good. Some newcomers don't like it much, or complain it's nowhere near what it's made out to be. I don't know about that, I've always found it most satisfying. As to how that incongruous mishmash of standalone dishes yields something so tasty, don't ask me, I offer no rational explanations here. The baŗā's mild tartness contrasts well with the spice levels of the ālū dam; then chickpea combines well with the mushy potatoes, imparting a nuttiness to the latter; the onion and sev add pungent, crunchy counterpoints, and that's it. That's as far as my powers of analysis go. All I can say is, it makes for a delightful snack, and a fairly nutritious one too. Potato, yogurt, chickpea and all are healthy stuff. And while the Baras are deep-fried, they certainly do not exude oil, perhaps they have oil squeezed out of them too. Spice levels are kept to a minimum, since only small amounts of ālū dam and ghuguni are used. Hygiene is another matter altogether, especially given the copious amounts of (untreated) water used for the yogurt sauce. Then again, I don't ever recall Dahi Bara Alu Dam giving me an upset tummy. And hey, if you don't live life on the edge a little, then what's the point of having street food in the first place?

Oh, and one more thing - a minor announcement, in fact. Adding pictures to blogposts has posed a perennial problem. Lugging my DSLR around every time I encounter interesting street eats is clearly infeasible. On the other hand, the phones I've owned all tended to feature lousy cameras. Recently, and most certainly keeping the blog in mind, I've got myself a new phone, for once a model with a decent camera. It's a Samsung Galaxy J5, a joy to use due to its superlative AMOLED screen and capacity for memory cards of up to 128 GB. And I am happy to say that all pictures on this post were taken with it. The camera is decent, like I said, but could have been better. Especially in low light. Why they cannot improve phonecam low-light performance I have no idea.

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A (Mostly) Vegetarian Excursion to Mysore 04: The Return Journey

[Continued from Part III]

The rest of the day was spent sightseeing (that ghastly word). First stop, the Chamundeshwari Temple just outside Mysore. An impressive sight, in several ways. For one, the surroundings were spotlessly clean. Then I could spot only two special queues, priced at Rupees twenty and a hundred respectively. The five-figure obnoxiousness characteristic of so many temples in this country was thankfully absent. And this is something I have never been able to either understand or reconcile with what I consider basic human values: why should your wallet determine how close you can get to god? Another thing I much appreciate was the absence of those detestable "Non-Hindus Not Allowed" placards so prevalent in places like Orissa. Mr David and Amita had no compunctions about going in. So who stayed out? Heh.

It was not solely because of my agnostic outlook. The temple and its immediate environs presented excellent photo opportunities. That's what I did the whole time the rest were away. Take photographs and observe generally. There was plenty to observe, as there usually is near bustling temples. Like that sign proclaiming "Coconut Broken Place" (for the uninitiated, this indicates the place meant for breaking coconuts - certain rituals require the beneficiary to smash a coconut by hitting it very hard on the ground). Or the 'Godly Museum' just outside the temple premises. Another was the board outside the "Ladu [sic] Prasada Counter", which listed consecrated laddus for ten Rupees apiece, two for twenty and (surprise) four for forty. Perhaps their Holinesses of the temple management committee have transcended mundane considerations like economy of scale? To be fair, the laddus were priced reasonably, well within the budget of most devotees.

A brief halt at the Nandi Bull idol, and then another famous place of worship, the Nanjundeshwara Temple at Nanjangud. I stayed out this one too. But this time I had a task to fulfil. someone (most likely my mother, don't recall exactly) was feeling slightly unwell, so I set off to locate a pharmacy. It took me much longer than I had expected: the nearest one was a good walk away, and I misunderstood the directions I got from a kindly soul. But in the process I was able to experience - and photograph - parts of this lovely old town most outsiders are oblivious to. I wish I had more time to explore the place.

Next stop, the Mysore Palace once again. This time we went inside to see the portion that had been converted into a museum. Which turned out to be a cumbersome procedure. First we had to deposit our cameras. Next we had to buy tickets, of course. Then came the strangest part - we had to take off our shoes and deposit them at a designated counter. I have no idea why this was mandated. Perhaps it was to help preserve the antique tiled floor of the palace, or maybe the idea of plebians clomping around with their shoes on did not go down well with remnants of the erstwhile royal family.

The experience was made even more unpleasant by the stone paving on the footpaths, which had turned blistering hot in the midday sun. A few stray pieces of coconut matting had been laid out over them, but they were too prickly to comfortably walk on, and in any case so tattered as to be almost useless. Even the museum proved a massive disappointment. It contained little of true historical significance. Mostly it ran to bric-a-brac of various kinds ('objay dar' or 'French for junk', as the great Wodehouse put it) - mementoes gifted by visiting potenates or grateful sections of the vassalage; old furniture and carpets; portraits, that sort of thing.


Another unpleasant surprise awaited us as we came out. Some genius had come up with the idea of organising horse- and elephant-rides on that part of the palace grounds. So now we had to not just hop-skip barefooted across scorching paving-tiles, but also take care not to step on the animal dung liberally decorating the pathways. We discovered the titular Maharaja had opened up to the public some parts of the wing he still retained. Some seventy Rupees gained you the privilege of inspecting items of everyday royal life - toys, clothes, pots, pans and that sort of thing. Adithi and Amita elected to check this out, the rest of us hopped over to a row of snack outlets and treated ourselves to lukewarm fruit juice.

The Jaganmohan Palace was vastly more enjoyable. Its collection of paintings was magnificent, no two ways to it. Some tend to exaggerate its excellence: I came across a webpage that claims "such works of Rembrandt can be found nowhere in the world except in Russia" and then goes on insist it also features works by master [sic] like P.P. Ruben [sic], Titan [sic], A. Caddy (who?) and miniatures by Gunoy (once again, who?). It turned out that the only (Western) old masters on display were specially commissioned copies. But no regrets - the magnificent Indian art collection more than made up for it.

Take painters from Bengal. The biggies were all there - Abanindranath Tagore, Nandalal Bose, Jamini Roy - and represented by some of their finest works too. And then there were several pieces by lesser-known Shantiniketan exponents, names I had not come across before. I wouldn't call them inspired, exactly - some of them tended a bit too heavily towards Chinese or Japanese stylistic cues. But that's just what made them interesting in my eyes, as outcomes of a cerebral process, that is, of a conscious, reasoned attempt to reduce various Indian and Far-Eastern styles into their bare distillates, and then synthesise them into a new idiom. And then of course the fabled Ravi Varma collection. I confess I'm not a fan of his, find him a bit too schmaltzy for my tastes. But the works on display here were still a treat, in a cosy, sentimental, feel-good manner. Something like Mahendra Kapoor's musical output [1], pleasant and nostalgia-evoking in its own way though in my view a mere shadow of Rafi's staggering genius.

The musical instruments section was unquestionably the most rewarding part of the day. Indian musical instruments contain many sophisticated features, but their constitutive specifications have never been standardised through convention. As a result, they display much greater variance than western ones do in their dimensions, tonal range, pitch, timbre, and at times even the number of playing and other strings. Good quality instruments are always ordered bespoke from master-luthiers, who handcraft each piece according to specifications the client supplies. An instrument thus amounts to a record of the specific tonal and behavioural qualities the customer-musician desires from it.

 But then again, musicians are not always the sole arbiters of what constitutes good music; their target audience must also be of the same mind. And this goes for the tone and behaviour of instruments too. In the last century, Zia Mohiuddin Dagar and Vilayat Khan made radical modifications to the Rudra Veena and the Sitar respectively. They both enjoyed successful musical careers. But would they have been considered successful if their audiences had not accepted as meaningful their organological innovations? And in the era of princely states acceptability counted for much more given its crucial influence on royal patronage, musicians' chief source of livelihood back then.

This is why the exhibit was so remarkable. Each instrument was represented by versions from different eras lined up together. So by merely looking at them we get a clear idea of how they evolved structurally - and tonally too - over centuries.  This was the only time I found frustrating their policy of not allowing cameras inside museums. I'd have loved to keep a visual record of those insightful displays. Just to work off the frustration, when collecting the camera from the deposit counter I loosed off a few shots of the palace's interior. It gives some idea of just how graceful the edifice looks from the inside.

Next stop, lunch at a place called Kamat. Its open-air dining area was truly beautiful - a large, intensely green space divided into smaller canopied enclosures, with chiks (thin cane screens) draped over the sides imparting a sense of privacy and seclusion from other diners. All in all, we enjoyed the ambience more than the food which, barring some terrific fried fish, was decent but not remarkable. (We had decided to forgo for once our self-imposed vegetarianism.) At Daria Daulat Bagh, Tipu's summer palace, my father-in-law and I sat in the car while the others went inside. They came back about an hour later complaining how dilapidated and ill-maintained it was. I of course knew about all this, which is why I didn't bother to go there in the first place. One point of interest, I spotted one of those Kerala-registered autorickshaws I had first noticed at Tipu Sultan's tomb. Wonder what they were doing there, and how they got into Karnataka in the first place. I sat out the visit to the Ranganathaswamy Temple too. No surprise there - I was tired, and in any case never too enthusiastic about temples.

On the way back we made another very enjoyable visit to Maddur Tiffanyss. Then we stopped for a good length of time at Chennapatna, a town famous for laquered wooden toys. We went crazy here, buying the most extraordinary toys for the newborn. One couldn't blame us, really, the toys were so, so attractive.

Adithi opted for something whose extraordinary ingenuity I still marvel at. It consists of a circular disc with a handle, approximating the size and shape of a table-tennis bat. Five little wooden chickens dot the outer edge of the disc, their jointed necks connected by threads to a wooden ball suspended below.

Joggling the contrivance in a circle (the way one fries a thin omelette) pulls down each neck one at a time, making the chickens look like they are by turns pecking at the rice grains painted on the centre.

A diverting spectacle, but not my out-and-out favourite. That accolade has to go to a wooden cow which bounces up and down on a long spring, something like a yo-yo. Daughter and self find its sheer silliness irresistible. It seldom fails to elicit a giggle from the both of us. But perhaps this is only natural; the difference in our mental ages isn't all that much.

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A (Mostly) Vegetarian Excursion to Mysore 03: Hotel Original Mylari

[Continued from Part II]

The following day we woke up early. I forget why, though, but it was for a specific reason which somehow didn't materialise. First stop after saying goodbye to Peter: St Philomena's Church. It is a magnificent edifice, modelled on the lines of the Cologne Cathedral. But I couldn't shake off the feeling there was something palpably modern about it. So when in the course of researching for this post I learned it had been constructed in the mid-1930s, I wasn't surprised. I managed some decent pictures of the exteriors, but several signboards made it clear photography was forbidden inside. In any case, services were going on at that time, with the officiating priest belting out a sermon with much gusto. To be honest, the sermon wasn't particularly good. We sneaked out keeping in mind the admirable precept:

The sermon our vicar, Rt. Rev.

Preached might have a rt. clev.

But the finish, though consistent

Was kept so far distant

That we left as we felt he mt. nev.

St Philomena's is a Catholic church of course, but the principle is the same.

And now comes what's unquestionably the high-point of the entire trip: Hotel Original Mylari. It was Mr David's idea, of course; he said one got the best breakfasts in town there. And evidently many share that opinion, if the number of blogposts and even newspaper articles on it is anything to go by. But oh dear! it's not nearly so simple. There happen to be two different establishments located there, more or less across the road from one another. One goes by the name "Hotel Original Mylari", the other calls itself, "Hotel Mylari - Original We Have No Branches [sic]." (I confess I didn't even notice the second place, we were in such a hurry to grab decent tables and get started on the hogging.) Thindi Theerta states rather decorously that "A chat with one of the managers revealed some interesting family history between the two." That they share a common ancestry is manifest; the review points out that along with the name, even the food at the two places is more or less identical. Mukta Manassu says other places called Mylari also exist, including one in Kuvempu Nagar. It is not clear if this Mylari is also genetically connected to the first two, or merely a copycat exercise. Either ways the food there is reportedly not a patch on the latter. Both these aforementioned reviews, incidentally, are about Hotel Original Mylari, the places we ourselves went to. Other reviews I found include ones posted on Santy-Space and Passionate Travellers, both of which concern the other joint, the no-branches version. Curiously, they neglect to mention even the existence of its sister (step-sister?) concern.

Then this Deccan Herald article entitled "Brand Mylari for those Simple, Cripsy [sic] Dosas" neglects to tell us just which Mylari it is talking about, or even whether it is aware two of them exist. It does say, though, that Hotel Mylari (presumably the progenitor of both these "originals") was started some 60 years ago by one N Mylareshwara Swamy. Right from the outset it adopted a bill of fare restricted to two items: its iconic dosa, and idli (which Deccan Herald does not mention). Initially this did not wash down too well with customers ("he had "a [sic] few customers"), but then slowly its reputation began to grow. Its successor establishments have retained their predecessor's ethos in more ways than one. They are both tiny, poky places; they neither of them believe much in publicity; they service the same menus; their cooking is nearly identical; and given their small size and large numbers of patrons, obtaining a table at either outlet is a chancy affair. People frequently wait for hours for a table. Frequently and cheerfully too; regulars insist the quality of food makes waiting worth it, and anyway, the dosas are so delicate that takeaways are not an option.

We were very lucky, then. By the time we reached, at around 7.30 on a Sunday morning, Original Mylari was only sparsely filled.  We snaffled a brace of tables as quickly as we could, and then waited for the food to arrive. The idlis came first. And amazing ones they were too, extraordinarily soft and fluffy. Idlis generally approximate the size and shape of a large magnifying-glass lens. The ones you get at most regular shops hold that shape to near-perfection - neatly circular in cross-section; regular, symmetrical covex bulges at the top and bottom; even their surface is smooth and only discreetly pitted by the steaming process. The ones at Mylari displayed none of this boilerplate (OK, steamerplate) perfection. They were noticeably thicker and fluffier, smaller in diameter, and somewhat unevenly contoured. This irregularity of appearance was accentuated by deep dents that ran along the sides towards the bottom. My wife's idlis tend to look like that too, and a conversation with her gave me interesting insights about not only the shape but also the taste of Mylari idlis.

Crucial to the idli making process is the idli stand, a tiered arrangement of several circular trays. Each tray contains several concave depresssions with several perforations drilled into them. Idli batter is poured into the depressions, the trays are stacked up, and then the arrangement is lowered into an air-tight steaming vessel. Steam generated by the water at the bottom of the vessel passes through the perforations and cooks the batter. The more the steam goes through it, the fluffier and tastier the idli turns out. Modern idli stands are made of aluminium, steel or plastic, comparatively non-toxic materials. Batter can be poured directly into the depressions, which is how the resultant idlis gain their near-perfect shape. But to prevent the batter from oozing out, the perforations on the cavities have to be made very fine, which somewhat constricts the passage of steam. Older stands are made of a metal called pītal. (I've not been able to obtain a precise translation of this term. Google Translate renders it as brass, but little credence can be placed on it; if the direction of translation is reversed, Google Transate insists both brass and bronze mean pītal. It also tells us that the equivalent of bell metal is kāņsā, but if the direction is reversed again, then kāņsā comes out as bronze. It could be that pītal is an alloy indigenous to India, of which no precise western equivalent exists. Given India's hoary metallurgical traditions, this is entirely possible.)

Due to its toxic character, cooking food directly in pītal vessels is not a good idea. So when making idlis in a pītal stand, small pieces of cloth need to be spread on the depressions, and the batter poured onto them and not directly on the metal. That is where the indentations come from; some folds and creases on the cloth are inevitable, and the solidifying batter tends to retain their impression. The cloth also keeps the batter from oozing out. So the perforations tend to be broader, which facilitates the passage of steam. Moreover, the intervening cloth layer has the effect of diffusing the steam and helping it pass evenly all over through the batter. The wife informs me that even the thickness of the cloth matters here - up to a point, the thicker the cloth the more evenly diffused the steam, and so the more uniformly fluffy the idli. While on the topic, we happen to have at home a pītal stand at least fifty years old, and the wife's idlis made on it are things to die for.

The other noticeable thing about these idlis were the way they were served. Usually what you get is a plateful of idli, surrounded by several small bowls containing sambar, coconut chutney, and at times other condiments as well. Bowls may be dispensed with, but sambar I thought was a sine qua non. Not in this place, it turned out. What we got was some coconut chutney and a green concoction I had never seen before. Both were ladled directly onto one side of the banana-leaf-lined plate and jostled for space among themselves while somehow leaving untouched the idlis on the other side. No sambar anywhere to be see, which I was fine with, since I'm not a great sambar fan anyway. About the green stuff, more later. Suffice it to say they went very well with the idlis. So well in fact that I altogether forgot to take pictures till I had all but finished the first idli on the plate.

Excellent as the idlis were, they whittled away into insignificance once those magnificent dosas arrived. Even their looks bespoke something special. They were evenly browned all over, mostly a golden light brown with some parts a slightly nuttier shade. There was none of the very dark, almost charred patches so off-putting in taste and so sadly common to run-of-the-mill dosas. These ones tasted as bright and sunny as they looked. Crisp on the outside, soft and comfortingly warm inside, made from very fresh batter, and then that blob of unsalted butter on top added that essential final touch. No, I take it back - nowhere near a final touch, that one.  There was still plenty left about the ensemble that demanded proper description. Take the coconut chutney peeking out from behind the dosa. Nothing unusual in itself, save that it went easy on the spicy factor. And yet it stood out, a fact attributeable almost entirely to the freshness of the ingredients used.

Of greater interest was the green filling inside the dosas. Yes, the same green stuff they served with the idlis, and one of the things that make Mylari (ok, both Mylaris) so distinctive. I have not come across it ever before. Indeed, the dosas I'd encountered earlier (at least the vegetarian ones) were all either plain (that is, with nothing inside them) or stuffed with the ubiquitous potato and curry leaf palya. Thindi Theerta says the potato stuffing is available as an option; customers can choose between it and the green stuff. The article calls it "saagu masala" and then ventures an all too brief description, viz. "a semi-gravy type mixed vegetable preparation." Passionate Travellers's review (of the other Mylari) describes it much more comprehensively as "a sago-green chilli-corainder paste filling with raw finely minced onions or shallots." But then it goes on to call it "typical", which is where of course I disagree. Typicalness aside, how successful a venture was it? As it turned out, extremely so. Potatoes are mild sweetish, somewhat neutral character, so in a conventional dosa filling the sharpest tastes come from curry leaves and spices used. This filling had a flavour, a personality of its own - the freshness of coriander and green chilli, the texture of onion, coupled with a mild bite imparted by the chilli, yielding a very effective combination, and all the more memorable because I had not encountered it before.

While we were busy digging in, the place had begun to fill up, imperceptibly, a little at at time. By the time we finished it was jam-packed, with several people standing around and looking at us hopeful we might leave soon. Through the jostle, I spotted sitting by a window a figure in a white cap who looked strangely familiar. And strange all the more because I wasn't aware I knew anyone here  - not in the whole of Mysore, and certainly not in this particular back lane. But no, that was not entirely true, it transpired. As we threaded our way towards the exit and drew closer to him, who does he turn out to be? None other than Mr Abdul Khader, he of the previous evening's "Biryani Paradise" encounter, surprise! On his part he was thrilled to bump into us again, kept grinning from ear to ear. He did not seem the least bit abashed being caught eating at someone else's eatery; maybe his own place did not run to breakfasts? Whatever it was, he kept repeating this place gave you the best breakfast in the entire city, and he's been coming regularly since he was so high. This must rank among the most ringing endorsements I've ever come across - a biryani-and-kabab purveyor extolling the virtues of a strict vegetarian breakfast joint.

[Continued in Part IV]

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A (Mostly) Vegetarian Excursion to Mysore 02: Sree Annapoorna Hotel

[Continued from Part I]

From Tipu Sultan's tomb, we went straight to Mysore. Mr David's friend and mentor Prof Chandy had invited us to stay over at his house. Unfortunately he himself was out of town at that time, something he expressed much regret over. His general factotum Peter took every care to see we had a comfortable time. After a quick wash-up we headed out to see the Mysore Palace all lit up for the occasion. We first viewed it from a vantage-point halfway up the Chamundi Hills. The vista was truly stunning, but I was unable to do justice to it photographically as I had left my zoom lens behind in Bangalore. We then proceeded to the palace itself, to see the decorations close up. Very pretty it was too. But let's face it, there's only so many times you can stare at a bunch of lightbulbs: you've seen one you've seen them all. We spent half an hour or so there, took lots of pictures, then pushed over to Sree Annapoorna for a much-needed dinner.

Sree Annapoorna is one of those places whose looks alone leave you intrigued and eager for more. It is housed in a beautiful old building right next to the State Bank of Mysore head office. The interiors are equally impressive, running to high ceilings, warm tones and arches everywhere - windows, doorways, even the colonnade outside. The dining area, though, bears signs of an identity crisis. Watercolours of old Mysore vie for attention with near-naked tubelights and funny s-shaped tubes suspended from the ceiling which don't seem to serve any functional purpose, and have in all likelihood spawned out of some misbegotten designer fantasy. But this is a minor nit. A slightly bigger nit has nothing to do with the place itself, but how it's been written about. Given the circumstances I had presumed the place was both old and popular, and so bound to have loads of articles published on it. I was surprised to find all of one brief mention, in a blog run by a Canadian Mormon "senior missionary couple" (as they call themselves). And even that brief mention is interesting for quite the wrong reasons. I understand the authors are visitors from abroad, and thus entitled to some latitude when it comes to details. But even so, and especially when they've already spent some four to five months in Bangalore, a description of "igly" [sic] or "white rice pattie" served with a "spicy curry sauce" and (horrors!!) "dahi (yogurt)" does come across as startling. As Adithi points out, "coconut chatni ki dahi bana dii, literally!"

The biggest nit, gripe, whatever you call it, remains reserved for the food they served us. It was fully as disappointing as the building was spectacular. We had ordered several varieties of dosa - coarse-textured Rava Roast Dosa for me, Benne Dosa for some (don't recall who), regular Masala Dosa for others. And they were all disastrous, every single one of them. My Rawa Roast was overcooked, and had transited crispy into a state of outright hardness. It was also singularly devoid of flavour. The other dosas tasted sour, most likely because the batter used was so stale it had started to ferment. The coconut chutney was thin; the sambar was decent but nothing exceptional. Ironically, the saving grace of the entire meal were the quasi-Chinese dishes we had ordered as sides. The Chilli Mushroom was particularly delectable - succulent mushrooms, chillies just piquant to make things interesting, and overall a judicious use of spices and condiments. The Mushroom Manchurian wasn't bad either. But nice as they were, they were hardly enough to redeem the meal in its entirety. Which meant five very disappointed diners at the end of proceedings. Five because Mr David didn't feel like joining us, and said he'll pick up something for himself on our way back to Prof Chandy's house.

This "something" eventually materialised into Biryani and Kalmi Kabab from a joint called Biryani Paradise. They took some time to process the order, time we spent chatting with the owner, an affable gentleman named Abdul Khader. I wish I could be rude to veggie fanatics and gloat over what a thumping success the stuff was. But no, no such luck. The Biryani was just as disappointing as the Dosas had been, the Kabab better but still mediocre.

[Continued in Part III]

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A (Mostly) Vegetarian Excursion to Mysore 01: Maddur Tiffanyss 1

Friends and FoodScapes readers regularly complain about the dearth of posts on vegetarian food.[1][2][3][4] In private conversation some have even ventured to ask if I eat veggie food at all, ever, going by the contempt I show for it on the blog. To which my response runs something like this: Of course I eat veggie food, thrive on it in fact. My mother-in-law's veg cooking, for example, has to be tasted to be believed. But the blog's not exactly about food per se; it's about foodie adventures. And that's where the point lies.

This raises the question, what do I mean by adventure? For sure it's not about locations. I've had the most satisfying adventures in Delhi's Lal Kuan, Bangalore's Langford Road, and Singapore's Lucky Plaza, notable for ironmongeries, colleges, and touristy kitsch respectively but otherwise unremarkable all three of them. The adventures were about what I encountered there, very unexpected stuff mostly.

So is it the element of surprise that makes for adventure? I'd say sure, in most cases, but not necessarily so. Some times it is the sheer satisfaction one gets which transmutes the experience into an adventure. Our recent trip to Mysore falls into this category. Much of what we ate was conventional, and vegetarian, and also so delightful that it would be a shame not to write about the experience. There was some iffy stuff too, ditto surprises. Even some carnivore interludes, but for this once at least I won't talk about them much.

Writing the post represents a challenge of another kind. Let me be honest about it, it 's a challenge I've always tried to weasel out of, mainly because I'm still not sure how to tackle it. The remit of this blog extends to both food and travel writing. Though the respective subjects often often coincide (such as when one encounters interesting food joints in the course of travel), they entail qualitatively different experiences.

Foodie experiences have a certain discreteness about them: you discover a new eatery, you go there, eat, enjoy the food (or not), come away, write about what you experienced, and that's it. Travel, on the other hand, implies a certain fluidity. While travelling one engages in several different activities, encounters different experiences, some commonplace, others not. And yet because these diversities emanate in the course of a single journey, they demand to be written about together as a whole. Tihis is what imparts fluidity to travel writing.

The question is, how do I write about foodie binges experienced while travelling? As separate posts, or as part of longer writings about the trip as a whole? If the first, then where do I write about non-food experiences? And if the second, won't the foodie bits lose their individual significance and get submerged within the larger narrative? My first visit to Malaysia yielded posts only on quail eggs and Kari Raisu. True, in the latter I did recount my non-foodie adventures (or to be accurate, my misadventures in trying to get something to eat), but even that one was without doubt a foodie post in character. I have so far not written about my subsequent trips to Malaysia and elsewhere (including an epic Istanbul sojourn) precisely because of this problem with balancing foodie bits with the general demands of continuity. This time around, I'm trying out a new approach: several posts of varying length within a longer series. This way I get to showcase foodie encounters in individual posts, while maintaining through the series the context in which they and other experiences arose. If necessary I could even dedicate some posts to non-foodie experiences, though I haven't done that here. Let's see if this approach works.

Back to the Mysore trip, now. It happened when my mother paid us a long visit after the birth of our daughter. My father-in-law then got this fantastic idea of a trip to Mysore during the Navaratri festival, traditionally celebrated there with much pomp, circumstance and gusto. And oh yes, that's one more reason for the heavily vegetarian character of this post. Believers customarily eschew non-vegetarian food during the festivities and, at least initially, both father-in-law and sister-in-law Adithi observed this practice. The rest of us also happily fell in line with the sentiment, which is why we tended to gravitate towards veggie joints more often than not. Anyway, my father-in-law then sounded out his close friend and former colleague Mr Winston David. (As per prevalent Indian convention I address him as Uncle, but doing it on the blog does seem strange. So in this post I'll refer to him as Mr David.) He was equally enthused about the idea, and volunteered to get his car along. A spacious, comfortable car it is, the Hyundai i20, accommodated the six of us in reasonable comfort. Six as in self, mother, father-in-law, Adithi, Mr David and his daughter Amita, a very sweet young girl still in high school. In short, terrific company all round, and the great diversity in our ages and backgrounds only made things the more interesting. Unfortunately, the wife had to stay behind; our daughter was then just a few months old. I'm waiting for the little one to grow up a little, so's she, her mother and her father can travel lots together.

The drive out was pleasant and largely uneventful. It featured only one foodie experience. But it was a zinger! At about four in the afternoon we stopped for a breather at Maddur, a small town famed for the eponymous vada it is associated with. The conventional vada is about the size and shape of a doughnut, and soft and spongy beneath a thin crisp outer coating. The Maddur variant is flatter, bereft of a hole in the middle, flecked with fried onions, and crunchier. I'm quite fond of Maddur Vada, generally prefer it to the usual type. But this was an altogether different experience, tasting it at source as it were. Mr David suggested a shop called Tiffany's. Or should that be one of the shops called Tiffany's? There were at least four with near-identical names and logos, and a few more with strongly derivative signboards. The one Mr David ended up taking us to, and which he said was the original, bore the name "Maddur Tiffanyss [sic] 1". At least that was what the signboard said, I'm not sure what if anything the "1" denoted.

Original or not, the choice was certainly inspired. A clean, simple place it was, running to granite-topped tables and rather uncomfortable chromium-plated chairs. But the food more than made up for it. The vadas here were larger than those I've eaten elsewhere. It was also less oily, and exuded that flavour you get only when the freshest ingredients are used. Along with the vadas we also ordered Benne (butter) Dosas, generally associated with the town of Davangere up north, and so presumably not quite as indigenous to Maddur as the vada is. Nevertheless, once again the choice turned out a winner all through - light, crisp, made with fresh batter, and smeared on the inside with this lovely red chutney. All in all, a very enjoyable experience.

Our next stop was a brief one at Tipu Sultan's tomb in Srirangapatna. He and his father Hyder Ali have been elevated to the status of Sufi saints (the other day in Bangalore I saw a poster proclaiming something about "Hazarth Tipu Sultan Shaheed R.A."). Nobody objected to me taking my camera inside, but when I started taking pictures someone told me, very politely, that photography inside was not permitted. Then someone else said, 'Go ahead, but be quick about it.' And that's how I secured these photos of the splendid interior, and the smoky, incense-laden, emotionally-charged and slightly spooky atmosphere it shares with most Sufi shrines.

[Continued in Part II] 

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