By Jove, was I so wrong!

By Jove, was I so wrong!

       It’s not a charming neighbourhood, nor is it run down. It’s not smart or modern, more like the two tier towns that our Prime Minister would like to shape up. The houses are large on decent parcels of land fringed by coconut trees, jasmine creepers and flourishing banana. There are two storey flats, small developments, where the elderly have a tiny balcony as a ring side seat to record the day’s happenings. The roads are narrow but clean, with clear signage of the street names. What is outstanding about this neighbourhood? There are scores of eateries for every palate and cuisine, overflowing with double parked cars and scooters. It is as though no one cooked at home anymore, in this quiet nondescript suburb.   

       Driving by one of the side lanes, I noticed a blue wooden cart in one front yard. An elderly man in a crisp dhoti and vest, forehead smeared with ash was manning what looked like a food stall. There were large casseroles and tall steel vessels. Several men and women were seated alongside, holding plates on their laps. It was a brief glimpse of a novel sight, and for a while my imagination festered in concocting stories of occasions that necessitated this public display of what appeared to be a private event.

       When I observed the same scene a few days later, my curiosity was piqued and I enquired with my house helper. By Jove, was I wrong! It was a south Indian breakfast service run by a family and hugely popular in the colony.

      I decided to investigate and armed with some containers landed up on a Sunday morning. There were more people and many with bags for take away.

       Steaming idlis kept emerging from inside the house to replenish the rapidly emptying casserole. A large tureen held pongal, an all time breakfast favourite and a portion was a serving of two ladles full, the aroma of ghee wafting in the still air.  The vadas, how to describe the vadas? Golden brown with crisp covering, large and fulsome, sending out the tantalising well fried smell, that I started salivating. The man with the dhoti was engaged in collecting orders, wrapping parcels or spooning food on to plates for clients who wished to eat there. A queue was forming and I watched with dismay as the stocks seemed to be dwindling. A second man came out with fresh supply and I relaxed. There was no sign of my being served and I would get late for my morning routine. I looked for the second man and he was carting out the garbage. Then he carried out some buckets of water. It was no use appealing to him for fast service. He seemed a dolt fit only for the mundane tasks. At last my turn and I managed to pack a sample of everything.

       Everyone relished the food tasting and suggested that I parcel larger quantities in future.

        A holiday was approaching and I thought I would surprise my family. Armed with my list and money, I set off to the catering house. The man with the crisp dhoti was standing behind the blue counter. Boldly I gave my order.

  “So much quantity amma, I have to check with my brother. He is the boss and Chef. I can’t take a bulk order. Please sit down.”

    He looked around and I too peered into the shadowy dim recesses seen from the open doorway. The second man emerged, carrying two buckets of water. I expected the dhoti man to send a word in for his boss brother to come out.

     By Jove, was I so wrong again! The man I had assumed to be a dolt was the boss brother, the chef who transformed the ordinary breakfast fare into a festive repast. The dhoti man asked him about my order. Without pausing in his stride, hands holding the now empty buckets, he nodded and disappeared into the house.