Deccan odyssey: from Pune to Bangalore

July 13, 2014 01:40 am | Updated 01:40 am IST

THE MAGIC: Whether the tea in Pune is so special is debatable, but the charm of those petite, usually cramped places serving the beverage is indisputable

THE MAGIC: Whether the tea in Pune is so special is debatable, but the charm of those petite, usually cramped places serving the beverage is indisputable

You feel something akin to first love, to the city where you had your college education and where you indulged in youthful misadventures. It’s an indelible mark. That was Pune for me. Many an irksome afternoon, I catch myself staring out into an azure emptiness physically, while mentally walking through stone-paved walkways with a canopy of efflorescence, sometimes a blaze of yellow and at other times a shocking red, as determined by the cycle of blossom charted by the estate maintenance mavens of the University of Pune.

It seems almost by design that the gardens fronting the main administrative building, the erstwhile ostentatious residence of the British Governor of Bombay, inspired by Prince Albert’s Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, flaunt such cinematic enchantment. For the discussions that transpire on the regulation-green painted benches are perhaps equally, if not more life-moulding, as the more arcane ones within the hallways.

Silicon Valley, pub capital, traffic black-hole… the epithets were familiar from television and newspapers. And when the Hiring Manager said, “choose between Bangalore and Chennai”, probably a heady Bangalore brew beat Chennai tiffin and kaapi in my media-saturated mind, and I plumped for the former.

From the bright red of the soil that greeted me on that September morning in 2007, seemingly stretching unendingly from the carriage-door of the train that I boarded the previous afternoon at Pune; a dazzling contrast to the familiar black of the volcanic Deccan plateau, the journey has been one of discovery.

Starting with the ubiquitous masala dosa . In Pune, it was nothing short of a pricey delicacy. Many paens have been sung about a particular restaurant on Fergusson College Road. At a princely Rs.30 (in 2001), it would serve a wafer-thin and brittle envelope around a tablespoon worth of potato-filled centre, with a bonsai-size bowl of sambar . You dare not ask for more; extra sambar was chargeable. And then the variants, one spoon of butter made it butter masala dosa at an extra Rs.5. In case you needed some chutney spread on the inner surface of your dosa , that was ‘Mysore masala dosa’ at a premium of Rs.15.

Pleasant surprise

To my pleasant surprise, every run-of-the-mill masala dosa in a Bangalore darshini was ‘Mysore…’ by default. A spoon of butter on the roasting batter was a routine. Unlike its dieting Pune cousin, the dosa itself was sturdy. And the icing on the cake… bowls and bowls of sambar , enough to drown the last morsel and more.

But a masala dosa gained was a kandha poha lost. The crisp sev (gram flour fried noodles) sprinkled yellow bed of rice flakes (avalakkai), doing tango with translucent sautéed onion dices, garnished with roasted peanuts and sprigs of coriander, complimented with a lemon wedge is an archetypically Pune breakfast staple, often downed with steaming cups of masala tea. Bangalore, with its spectrum of culinary options from Lebanese to Lucknowi, has not offered me anything close to that.

Talking about teas, there is an institution as characteristic to Pune as tea-tasting clubs are to London. It is the ‘Amrutatulya’. Literally translated, it means ‘equal to ambrosia or nectar’. Whether the tea here makes one immortal is debatable, but the charm of this petite though usually cramped place serving the beverage and fried snacks is indisputable.

The master-brewer has a place of pride right at the entrance. Perched strategically on a gleaming aluminium stand — more of a stage, actually — he commands his kingdom of milk. A huge cauldron is on the boil, and like the director of a symphony he stirs it in metronomic timing.

Call out for a ‘special-tea’, and the work begins. The hiss of the pressure building up in the stove is the overture. A small blast into flame, on goes the saucepan. Milk, CTC (crush, tear and curl) tea leaves — the purists vouch that it has to be strong Assam, sugar swiftly added with a ladle. Those with a history of diabetes in the family may skip a heartbeat. Then the magic potion that distinguishes one Amrutatulya from another: the masala. Some have it all combined together — one mysterious mixture. Others prefer an ensemble. As the milk comes to boil, the pressure is released to assist low-flame brewing. The syrup that finally emerges, strained through a muslin cloth, has a trademark punch, and curiously, the ladle full of sugar has blended in.

Markedly different from high-brow Darjeeling or mild Earl-Grey, this represents a myriad burst of strong flavours — one which is sorely missed amid Bangalore’s coffee culture.

Like many other trade-offs, my immigrant home has other offerings that overshadow my Punekar sentiments… but like a familiar fragrance that has wafted past, Pune still enchants with a wistful longing.

phil.ts@gmail.com

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