Global roaming: Tamil Nadu

Welcome to India’s southern-most state, where the colours are brighter, the spices are fresher, and every dish is even better than the last.

Source: David Hagerman

I stood at the counter in Milk Farm, a corner shop on the highway north from Madurai in the South Indian state of Tamil Nadu, mired in indecision. Would it be a crispy dosa (fermented crepe) from the slab of blackened cast iron beneath the shop’s red-and-white awning, or a handful of curry leaf-studded pakoda (fritters) pulled sputtering from a mammoth oil-filled kadai (wok) outside? Oval bonda, made from ground nuts and filled with hard-boiled egg, also tempted, but so did rotti, purple-black millet wafers dotted with caramelised eschalots and chilli. And then there were the boli, coconut and jaggery pancakes, sizzling on a round griddle to consider.

I settled on flavoured rices topped with a ladle of spicy, soupy sambar stew. I carried my plate outside to one of Milk Farm’s tall tables and stood, silently swooning, over the milky, slightly sweet coconut rice, the emerald-hued and fresh-tasting coriander rice, and the tamarind rice – my favourite – characterised by a sharp tang, slight chilli heat and whiff of smoke. I ate slowly, carrying rice and sambar to my mouth on the tips of my fingers, all the while congratulating myself for choosing well. That is, until my guide, Rajesh, set his plate down next to mine and dug into a dosa dabbed in mint, tomato and coconut chutneys. So goes grazing in Tamil Nadu, where indecision is followed by satisfaction, then finished with a wave of regret rooted in the knowledge that for lack of opportunity, appetite or both, you’ll never taste it all.

Source: David Hagerman

I’d arrived in India’s most southern state three days prior, keen to flesh out a sketchy familiarity with its cuisine that I’d acquired over the eight years I’d been living in Malaysia. Much of the Indian population on the island of Penang, my adopted home, traces its ancestry to Tamil Nadu, and the restaurants in the capital George Town’s Little India are staffed mostly by Tamil cooks on work visas. I landed in Tamil Nadu’s capital of Chennai – a chaotic city of ‘cool houses’ (shops serving juices and refrigerated bottled drinks), coffee bars (the state’s own coffee, prepared in brass drip filters and ‘pulled’ with hot fresh milk, is not to be missed) and careening auto rickshaws – well-versed, or so I thought, in tiffin and rice meals, dosa, Chettinad chicken and milk sweets. But the Tamil cooking that I ate on the street, in messes and in homes during my visit was so much more varied and vibrant than anything I’d enjoyed in Malaysia. It seemed like another cuisine altogether.

 “It’s the spices. They’re fresher here, of course,” food writer and textile expert Sabita Radhakrishna told me on my second day in the state. A Bangalore native and author of cookbooks, including Aharam: Traditional Cuisine of Tamil Nadu, Sabita offers cooking demonstrations in her tidy South Chennai kitchen. Over a lunchtime feast that included kuzhi paniyaram (crispy fermented rice batter balls cooked in a special mould); kozhambu or curry of chickpeas and daikon slices with ginger, garlic and coriander powder; tamarind-soured fish curry; and lime rice, a pilaf of rice and fried peanuts flavoured with turmeric, lime juice and the Tamil tempering trio of mustard seeds, split black gram (or urad dhal) and curry leaves, Sabita sketched out the basics of Tamil eating. Thali rice meals (served on a banana leaf or on a round metal tray – a thali) are eaten for lunch, while lighter ‘tiffin’ dishes, often prepared with fermented rice batter (believed to aid digestion), are consumed for breakfast and dinner.

Source: David Hagerman

“You must eat hot rice from a banana leaf. And don’t miss our tiffin! Pongal (a rice dish), uttapam (thick fermented pancake), idli (steamed rice cakes), dosa – you’ll never get this variety anywhere but in the south,” Sabita asserted.

Though not a breakfast eater at home, I took Sabita’s advice to heart during my travels, beginning at Milk Farm. It was Chennai-born Rajesh Venkatraman, my superb driver and even better culinary guide who, entirely simpatico with my desire to dive deep into Tamil Nadu’s culinary realm, had steered me to Milk Farm and its delectable rices and snacks. “The belly is coming out, madam,” Rajesh said as we walked, rubbing our stomachs, to the car after our breakfast. His observation became a refrain during my time in Tamil Nadu.

A few hours later, I stood in a smoke-blackened kitchen in Karaikudi, a smallish town in a region of Tamil Nadu known as Chettinad. Chettiars, as the area’s inhabitants are known, are historically traders and financiers; many followed the expansion of the British Empire to South-East Asia in the 19th and 20th centuries. Their wealth and mercantilism is evident in the grand mansions, combining Indian, East Asian and European architectural styles, that line streets in Karaikudi and other Chettinad towns and villages. Many are adorned with a relief of Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of wealth and prosperity, wearing a precious jewel in her belly button. I was in the family home of Meenakshi Meyyappan, owner of Chettiar home-turned-boutique hotel, The Bangala. Upon learning of my interest in Tamil home cooking, Meenakshi invited me for lunch and wisely suggested I arrive early to observe it being prepared.

When I arrived at the kitchen – a large open-air room with a black-and-white checkerboard tile floor that had been worn by a century of shuffling feet – Meenakshi’s 70-year-old cook, Sethuraman, his assistant, Chandra, and two helpers were busy preparing lunch for a dozen. In a far corner of the room, a flat granite mortar with a pestle as thick as my forearm sat near an electric rice grinder; on the large stone hearth to my right, a small kadai filled with wedges of potato sat over a blazing fire. Each of the hearth’s burners are painted with three horizontal white lines and a red bindi, the tilak forehead mark worn by male followers of the Hindu god Shiva. Each day the marks, which are a sign of the deity’s blessing, are renewed during the morning prayers. “Chandra is working with fire, so there should be no mishap. And what she is cooking, we are eating, so of course we should pray to the god beforehand,” explained Meenakshi’s sister-in-law, Umayal Chettiappan.

As one of the helpers sliced ginger and onions by passing them over a aruvalmanai, an upright blade fixed to a base for cutting vegetables, Chandra added spoonfuls of vermillion chilli powder to the potatoes.

Looking utterly unflustered in a pressed striped shirt and spotless white lungi (sarong), Sethuraman simultaneously tended a pan of chicken curry and blanched shredded cabbage (for what Umayal called “our light dish”), and prepared the tempering for a dhal, dipping into a compartmented wooden masala box for black gram and cumin seeds, and stripping the leaves from a curry leaf stem to add to a pan of hot oil.

“I did not study cooking. I learned on my own, just by watching my mother and father,” Sethuraman told me as he stirred coconut milk into the fragrant chicken curry. His natural talent for cooking was evident at Meenakshi’s dining table, where helpers spooned rice onto the bottom half of our banana leaves and portioned small servings of spinach purée, mustard-seasoned shredded cabbage, potato masala and a lentil and chow chow (choko) dhal above the rice. Ghee was offered – just a drizzle to enrich the rice – and then came chicken and mutton curries, curd and a thin, sour and spicy broth known as rasam. “It’s all about balance. We have a little meat, but mostly vegetables. We finish with curd and rasam because they’re good for the stomach, to help digestion,” said Umayal, using her fingers to mix curd into the last of her rice. It all left little room for the diamonds of guava jelly arranged on plates set in the middle of the table, or for Sethuraman’s saffron-scented almond halwa.

The next morning, I set out with Meenakshi’s assistant, Unnamalai, to learn about snacks, a generic moniker for the infinite variety of crisps and chews both sugary and savoury that are sold all over Tamil Nadu. At Soundaram, a food workshop behind a house on Karaikudi’s outskirts, we found women toasting urad dhal to be ground with raw rice for murukku, (crunchy twists) and sifting rice flour to make spicy crisps known as thattai. Before heating a cauldron of oil in which the sweet jaggery biscuits athirasam would fry, a worker placed a pinch of dough beneath the gas cooker, an offering to Ganesha.

“There’s always a sweet and a savoury snack set out for children returning home from school,” Unnamalai told me. It was Sunday morning and a steady stream of customers filed in and out of a room where dozens of sealed bags covered tables, a windowsill and the floor. The fact that by the end of the day Soundaram would be nearly sold out is a testament to the Tamil love of snacks.

Back in Madurai, with the help of Rajesh’s cousin, Vasanth, I got serious about tiffin. At a hole-in-the-wall on a street lined with old tailor shops, I sampled a parade of dosa at Ayyappan Tiffin Kadai, whose master of economics-degreed owner and griddle master crafts some 25 varieties of the fermented rice batter pancake. Ayyappan’s sweet-savoury ghee dosa with sugar and podi, a coarse mixture of ground spices and dhal or nuts that varies with the whim of the cook, cemented my love for this versatile seasoning.

Early the next morning, we worked up an appetite with a visit to East Masi Veedhi Street (commonly referred to as Kila Market Street), the centre of the city’s wholesale trade. We strolled through the area’s banana market, consisting of rows of stems clustered with unripe fruit, and made our way to Meenakshi Amman temple at the city’s centre where, just outside its north-eastern corner, sits the Sri Gopi Iyengar Coffee and Tiffin Center, which is over 90 years old.

Established by a Brahmin family, Sri Gopi Iyengar serves vegetarian tiffin made without onion or garlic (those who follow Sri Vaishnavism do not eat onion or garlic, as it cannot be offered to Krishna). Inside the small restaurant, a narrow counter runs along one wall and four black granite-topped tables seat up to 20 diners. Delicious filter coffee and tea are pulled with hot milk at an open bar next door. Sri Gopi’s kitchen is little more than a massive oiled griddle set into a wood-fired stone hearth.

It was in this small pokey shop, with its moisture-mottled yellow-green walls hung with images of gods and saints that I found the tiffin of my dreams: a thick uttapam whose slightly tangy fermented rice flavour married perfectly with the nearly black curry leaf, chilli, turmeric and sesame seed-based podi that blanketed its spongy surface. I spooned a small hillock of moist, crumbly jaggery onto my banana leaf. I dipped, tasted and marvelled at the seasonings and caramel-flavoured sugar. Vasanth ordered me a second uttapam. I ate it all with no regrets – until the moment a lacy golden rava (semolina) dosa arrived to the banana leaf of the diner sitting to my left.

The writer travelled courtesy of Banyan Tours and Travel and Singapore Airlines.

“So goes grazing in Tamil Nadu, where indecision is followed by satisfaction, then finished with a wave of regret rooted in the knowledge that for lack of opportunity, appetite or both, you’ll never taste it all.”

“Before heating a cauldron of oil in which the sweet jaggery biscuits called athirasam would fry, a worker placed a pinch of dough beneath the gas cooker, an offering to Ganesha.”

 

 

Discover the Real India

As a schoolboy, Jamshyd Sethna was enamoured by the Himalayas mountain range towering above Darjeeling in north-east India. Later, as a tea planter in Upper Assam, his passion for remote India grew.

However, it wasn’t until he completed an English literature degree and found himself unemployed that Jamshyd had the opportunity to indulge this passion and share his country’s extraordinary landscape with others. “I spent my only six months without a job playing bridge with a group of people who were senior managers of Mackinnon MacKenzie & Co (a P&O travel company), who encouraged me to join them,” he recalls.

Tourism in India during the 1990s was focused on group travel, conferences and charters. Jamshyd noticed that no-one seemed to pay attention to private travel; any requests for individual treatment were usually farmed out to trainees in travel companies. And so in 1996, Banyan Tours was launched, with Jamshyd showcasing his take on “real India” to visitors. With no set group tours on offer, experiences are completely tailored for each traveller – visits to friendly villages, inhabited tribal regions, the stunning Himalayas, as well as the many working-class restaurants where Jamshyd says the food is “undoubtedly the best”.

“The inherent generosity of our people and the genuine desire to be the perfect host are what Indian culture is all about,” he says, aware that discovering the local cuisine plays a central role when travelling in India. And Jamshyd’s must-try dish? “A well-made lamb biryani.”

 

 

The hit list

Eat
Mylai Karpagambal Mess
Flavoured rices, vadai and other snacks, plus great filter coffee near busy Kapaleeswarar Temple. 20 East Mada St, Mylapore, Chennai.

Saravana Bhavan
Beginning in Chennai, and now with branches all over the world, this eatery serves excellent vegetarian fare. Many locations around Chennai, saravanabhavan.com.

Kottaiyur Chettinadu Mess
A tiny village mess serving banana leaf meals and delicious Chettinad chicken. 27 Bazaar St, Kottaiyur, Karaikudi.

Soundaram’s Chettinad Sweets and Snacks
Packed sweets and savouries. 62, M.G. Rd, 3rd Cross, Soodamanipuram, Karaikudi,[phone]. 

New Shri Ram Mess
A popular spot for vegetarian thali meals. Don’t miss the buttermilk (thinned yoghurt) poured over rice at the end of your meal.  2 Kaka Thoppu St, Madurai.

Sri Gopi Iyengar Coffee and Tiffin Centre
Fantastic uttapam, dosa, and idli, as well as Madurai’s best filter coffee in a 90-year-old shop. 37/35 West Chittarai St, Madurai.

Pechiamman Pal Pannai (Milk Farm)
Flavoured rices, dosa, vadai and more. 167/A Theni Main Rd, P.P. Chavadi, Madurai.

 

Stay
Vivanta by Taj, Connemara
Chennai’s only heritage hotel boasts a swimming pool and a newer tower block designed by Sri Lankan architect Geoffrey Bawa. A central location and superb breakfasts. Binny Rd, [phone], vivantabytaj.com.

The Bangala
Large rooms are arranged around two courtyards in this beautifully refurbished Chettiar mansion. Just a 15-minute walk from the centre of sleepy Karaikudi. Devakottai Rd, Senjai, [phone], thebangala.com.

The Gateway Hotel Pasumalai Madurai
Rooms and suites set over 25 hectares populated by peacocks boast views of Madurai’s temples and the Kodaikanal Hills. 40 TPK Rd, [phone], thegatewayhotels.com.

Rajakkad Estate
The serenity enveloping this guesthouse, a timber mansion from Kerala rebuilt on a coffee plantation in the western Ghat mountains two hours from Madurai airport, makes it an ideal antidote to urban Tamil Nadu. Perumparai Post, Manjelparappu, Dindigul. [phone], rajakkadestate.com.

 

Do
Banyan Tours and Travels
This specialty luxury tour company will design an itinerary around your culinary interests and provide you with experienced guides to help you dive deep into local cuisines. Visit banyantours.com.

 

Fly
Singapore Airlines
Singapore Airlines operate 121 flights per week between Australia and Singapore. Singapore Airlines and SilkAir operate 11 onward connections to Chennai each week. Visit singaporeair.com.

 

 

Photography David Hagerman.

 

As seen in Feast magazine, April 2014, Issue 30.