To escape the many splendors of Sri City, where I live for part of the year, it is important to get away from time to time. The easiest option is to spend a weekend in Chennai. For many of my colleagues, Chennai means concerts. For others, it means stocking up on miso and pesto. For others, it means brunch at Pumpkin Tales and cocktails at Madco. What will Chennai mean to me? I enjoyed the gastronomic wonder of Tulika Books’ whims and fancies. I jumped rope at Madras Club and ate cloud pudding at Kappa Chakka Kandhari twice. I also had a bit of a spiritual awakening after seeing the cock swinging on the ramp at Kapaleeshwar Temple.
All delightful experiences, no doubt, but mere footnotes to one thing that will bring me back to Chennai again and again: the simple idli chutney. To be specific, the range of chutneys in Murugan Idli.
When I first visited the GN Road outlet in T Nagar, I had no idea how much of a treat these chutneys would become for me. I had a simple idli placed on a banana leaf, over which the waiter poured a generous portion of sambar. There they were, in white, green and two orange varieties – a quartet of chutneys so delicious that the idli seemed like an afterthought. There was just the right hint of spiciness, and what did I taste? It was the mole, its grand use of genius. I went to Murugan again for dinner and came back the next day for lunch.
Now whenever I reach Chennai this is almost always my first stop.
What about Murugan? This is simple. But the same can be said for any restaurant in Chennai. Service is indifferent on a good day and annoying on most days. No one will go to any outlet even for the sake of atmosphere. If I’m not going for the vibes or the service, why would I dedicate myself to a meal – sometimes two meals – a day? That’s because I’m totally addicted to chutney. Nothing else matters – neither the crispy rava dosa nor the sambar. Neither puffy idli nor harmless uttapam. I eat chutneys – huge pieces – as if they were the main dish with idli as an accompaniment. How I love making salty water on a banana leaf with my fingers, mixing one, two, three or four chutneys with a little idli and taking the mixture dripping from my elbow to my mouth, turning my shirt yellow, and filling my gluttonous heart with unbridled joy.
I would soon realize that few topics polarize Chennai more than Murugan Idli. For every foodie who unequivocally declares the restaurant as his favourite, there is one who foams at the mouth gushing about its meticulous hygiene. “Went…a month ago, and it was terrible,” my editor says, not one to mince words. There are also people for whom lack of continuity is irritating. “I will only go to the church opposite the Armenian church,” my co-worker Kaveri once announced. My sister points out that in a city full of excellent food, Murugan is mediocre, but he also slices and dices his own dosa, so his opinion doesn’t matter. Some people say, eating circles any day. Then Sangeeta is a militant. No self-respecting Sangeetha devotee would call himself a fan of Murugan.
Of course, not every Murugan is created equal. I will step into Besant Nagar location only to carry chutney and nothing else. Whatever dosa I ate there, it did not come out hot. Moreover, in the neighborhood of country tiffins and relaxation – the former’s idli is so thoroughly fermented that it renders the chutney useless – a dull-glazed Murugan is just going to generate anger. I’ve given the outlet three (three!) chances, and I completely sympathize with those who disagree with the greatness of Murugan because this is a place where nothing can go right. That doesn’t mean I won’t judge these Murugan haters for completely dismissing my beloved series. I would evaluate them almost as seriously as I do food writers who describe idli as a rice cake, dosa as a crepe and – the biggest horror of all – chutney as a kind of pickle.
Friends joke that I am responsible for quadrupling Murugan’s profits. But they are wrong. Idli is a cheap food. I feel bad seeing that the 4th, 5th and 6th free chutney may cost me more than the Rs 23 I am charged per idli. To avoid this guilt, I always order Rava Masala Onion Dosa, which requires a few more ladles of chutney to eat. I return to Sri City with more chutney than blood in my veins.
Prajwal is the author of Parajuli Gorkha’s daughter And the land where i runHe likes idli, hates naan and is indifferent to coffee, He teaches creative writing at Kriya University osBridges between New York City and Sri Lanka.
