Take a leaf out of this…

PANKAJA SRINIVASAN has eaten well and varied, but she keeps going back to the elai saapadu for the real deal

27mp south indian

June 1987. Somewhere in the labyrinth of lanes in Madurai, our rickshaw driver stopped. We were ravenous and gratefully ducked into the cool interiors of what looked like someone’s home. This is where he ate lunch every day, the driver informed us. Banana leaves were laid on the floor in readiness and we sat down to a meal like never before and never since. I don’t remember a thing about what we ate, but I do remember with grateful clarity the feeling of bliss. On our next visit to Madurai, we tried in vain to locate the same place, but it was as if the street and house had just disappeared from the face of the earth.

But the happy experience has continued with other elai saapadu in the ensuing years. Recently, when the supervisor in a restaurant came up to our table and said, “Be sure to taste the v athakuzhambu , it has sundakkai in it.” I could have got up and hugged him. How civilised is that! What a nice feeling that someone cares enough to urge you to try something out, just as though you were eating at a favourite relative’s home.

In between the courses, I have often thought how wonderfully honest this fare is, served the way it is meant to be served, respectfully and with care. And almost all the time, it is. And, usually, it is all unlimited, and so reasonable. If you want to have another helping of rasam, or even a third or fourth one, there is no problem; unless you are the kind who wants to eat an appalam with every mouthful.

Like one of our friends from England who was bowled over by the banana-leaf meal and the appalam. A waiter apologetically whispered to my husband that any more appalam will have to be charged extra! We gave this friend several packets of appalam as a parting gift.

My dad loves to tell this story from his youth, of the Sunday lunch at Ramakrishna Lunch Home, Kolkata. Those days, along with the vengaaya sambar , the potato was the hero. And best of all, it was unlimited. Of course, my dad and the waiters differed on the definition of ‘unlimited’, and after a half a dozen times of serving daddy the curry, the waiter refused to make eye contact with him anymore or even come anywhere near his table!

Another meal I remember is the one we ate in Lower Coonoor in a restaurant called Tamizhagham (I am not sure if they still function), many, many years ago. My husband and I, with our toddler son, wandered in lured by the smell. Watching the steam rise lazily from the rice on that cold day is the enduring memory I have of that lunch, besides the

mahali kizhangu (sarsaparilla) pickle. And, of course, the fact that it cost us something like seven rupees to eat. I had absolutely no hesitation in feeding my year-old son the hot rice with dal they served. Despite being nothing more than a hole-in-the-wall, the place was clean, the food was fresh as can be and we still talk about the

mor kuzhambu they served.

There are some places where I go only so that I can have their podis. Coconut podi, karuvepillai podi, paruppu podi…Where the white rice makes a nice contrast with the leaf green. The podi is put on the rice (sometimes it makes you sneeze) and then there is a fraction of a second of hesitation…should I have it with ghee or is it going to be the aromatic nalla ennai? So, I have it both ways and if it is my lucky day, there is a thokku to go with it.

The hundreds of elai saapadus I have eaten have always left me pleased as punch. I hope to eat hundreds more. I have just one fear (unfounded I pray) — that they will sneak paneer into it. I love paneer, don’t get me wrong. But, not on my elai .