Wake up and smell the idlis

Source :Bachi Karkaria, TOI Crest | Jan 3, 2012, 12.00AM IST


 A tribute to breakfasts past and future... 

Breakfast is the mark of civilization, but it has become the most ill-served of meals. It deserves a leisurely journey, not the grab and run to which it is subjected. Think of the full English breakfast and then think Egg McMuffin. And if you prefer the latter you deserve to be given the bamboo, put in a steamer and turned into a puttu. 

Not only has it missed the bus, in the bid to catch it every morning, breakfast has been bypassed in all the to-ing and fro-ing of food fashions. When brunch became the next big thing, you would have imagined that it would have slipped back into our life with the ease - and entitlement - of a sausage in a skillet. But it was not to be. The 'unch' overwhelmed the 'br'. Overwhelmed by the handis, no wonder the bacon curls up and dies on restaurant buffets. 

Only the aficionados save the day. In every city, there exists a small band of valiant fighters crying 'Poha/ upma/ sanna/ aloo parantha is my birthright, and I will have it.' Setting out at break of day, they sniff out the alleys where the real McCoy isn't coy about its true place in the culinary sun. They make little notes in the Glutton's Guide to the Galaxy of steamed, stir-fried and sizzled local breakfasts - and sometimes even write pretentious essays on the subject. 

Forget the impostor indices of knowing how many strands of saffron are too many or getting into a dill se discussion on the sea bass. The real differentiator of those who truly know their onions is their attitude towards the perfect akuri. How far they will go for it, how long they will wait for it, and how fiercely they will defend the fact that said onions in said ambrosia must be sliced, never chopped. 

To equate this creamy Parsi breakfast speciality with the north Indian egg bhurji is to drive the community closer to extinction. Like all dishes, it is best home-cooked , but since most Bombay (not Mumbai) clubs are honorary Parsis, theirs comes close to the real thing. Even if they insist on serving it on toast like spurious sahibs. 

My Chitrapur Saraswat daughter in-law has introduced me to surnoli, a spongy, fermented pancake made with poha, gur and coconut, again best turned out from a home kitchen. 

Every region of India has its divine breakfasts, and to search and try them out is to get a taste of heaven. For starters, early morning is the best time for an adventure as urban as culinary. 

The pollution hasn't yet overpowered the mist, fumes haven't overwhelmed the aromas, the city is still stirring not stomping and shouting. The sun is still cradled in gentleness. Even a sharp chill eggs you on as you set out for hot jalebis dipped in scalding brass tumblers of milk or paranthas sizzling as a hearty dhabawalla strikes his tawa with all the ceremony of a butler sounding the dinner gong. 

In Kolkata, a tram ride down Lower Chitpur Road takes you past the hoary harmonium shops and into Tiretta Bazar, where the mysterious old China Town was metamorphosed into a mundane electricals market. But at a winter 6 am, the makeover still sleeps under roller shutters, and the earlier avatar creeps out of the alleys to set up the woks, steamers and other accoutrements of the full, traditional Chinese breakfast. 

In my earlier Calcutta days, I felt seriously deprived when, going to noisy Sabir or Amjadia for lunch, we would be told that several of the exciting specialties were available only before 7 am. So I rose early enough to get there on time - only to find that, lily-livered, I could not face the masala kaleji at that ungodly hour. 

But you don't have to be bleary-eyed to get breakfast in this city. The kochuri with aloo torkari is available hot off the karhai even at 10 am. At the other end lies the fabled Flurys breakfast. Baked beans on toast for the vegetarians, b & eggs for the non. 

In his exile, does M F Husain get his favourite morning dish of keema, spiked with fresh garlic and the egg broken and stirred into the hot handi with the flame turned not down but off? Even in his native Mumbai, the death of the Irani restaurants has killed the keema pav, both victims of the realty boom which has gobbled up the prime street corners where they stood. 

You can still buy slabs of the warm yeasty laadi pav or crusty brun pav, and slather it with your own 'maska', but if truth be told, Amul isn't a patch on the Polson's which gave this Mumbai breakfast staple its distinctive taste. 

It's no rocket science to figure out that the early worker catches the best breakfasts, and the bestest are to be found where the morning shift congregates. In eclectic Mumbai, it ranges from the Race Course to Bhaucha dhakka, where the passenger ferries and fish trawlers land. The jockeys nibble on buttered melba toast while the wharf side jostlers gorge on vada pav or upma wrapped in banana leaves and - surprise surprise - a crisply fried slice of fish. Straight off the boat, hopefully. You can even end your day with breakfast. 

Interns and junior doctors staggering out of government hospitals after handling the night shift's casualties and emergencies are met by a bosomy army of Maharashtrian mausis dispensing plastic packets of home-cooked poha. And the ebony man on the bicycle with his dhoti doubled up above his knees wheels up with upma and idlis. The stall near my yoga class makes up in variety what it lacks in mobility and loses nothing in speed as it parcels out even a cheese dosa to those rushing to Matunga station for the 8.17 fast. On Sundays, this humble workday crowd is rivalled in size at the parallel Madras Cafe where the SoBo crowd arrives in SUVs and leisure gear to sample Suresh Kamath's latest innovations. At one time everything in ragi was 'big' at another, the kadubu steamed in jackfruit leaves. My choice, however, is Mysore Cafe. The wait is shorter, the dosa longer, and they are crisp enough to crackle but so crisp that they substitute the pappadom. 

Poha has become pan-Indian. I prefer the Gujarati variety, or the vegetable-studded one dispensed in Delhi's health conscious Jain House where I lived happily for two years. The mint and coriander chutney added extra vitamins, making me feel virtuous for the rest of the day. And when sattvik refused to satiate, Dilli provided enough of rajsik breakfasts to make even an emperor sick. 

Poha or pauva, Gujaratis don't cook breakfast. They open a tin instead. No not the ring-pull kind, but the steel dabbas filled with sev, gathia or khakra. Even theplas keep for a good week. If you still want a hot breakfast you can go over to the farsan shop for the monster fafda and jalebi. 

'Nasto' may sound like 'nashta', but Gujaratis perversely use the term not for breakfast, but their mandatory 4 pm snack.


 In idiomatic Parsi-Gujarati, to make 'nasto' of someone is to make mincemeat of him. It's meant to be derogatory, but the foodie isn't too worried about that. Make as much keema of me as you please, so long as you serve me up with a soft, warm, yeasty pav.