May 13, 2012 at 7:35pm
Last Sunday we were off
to Ramanagara at about 8 in the morning to see the progress on my
father-in-law’s farm and he suggested that we have breakfast enroute at a place
calledNamma Ooru Thindi which roughly translates
into “Our town Delicacies or Snacks”. This place was one of
those standing only restaurants, very popular in Bangalore and was located on
the South Western edge of the town.
So early in the morning, on a Sunday, Bangalore being euphemistically a “Laid
back city”, I didn’t expect much of a crowd. To my surprise, I found that it
was chock a block full, we literally had to push and shove our way in!!
methinks that if you open a eatery with decent food which can be served hot,
with no nonsense of ‘fine dining’ & all that jazz you have a winner on your
hands in Bangalore!!. Imagine the eatery, it was about 30 ft in length, with
about 30 ft depth. This 30 feet depth was divided into 3 sections, the first
10-12 ft for the diners to stand and eat on high round tables scattered around,
the second about 8 ft for the servers to dish out the delicacies on a steel
counter / platform separating the diners and the servers. The last section was
where the cooks literally sweated over our food… the short end of the dining
area had the bill counter.
Now let me potray it as I saw it. As
I entered, I saw about 50-60 people standing and busy eating in the diners area
clustered around the tables. There were about 3 servers across the length of
the serving counter and across each of them were clustered about 10-12 people
thrusting their order bills at them. There was another cluster of about 8-10
people at the billing counter as well. So my competitive instincts kicked in
“game On”, I gamely shoved and pushed my way in at the billing counter,
thrusting my wad of notes hoping to catch the attention of the clerk. The clerk
himself was a fascinating sight, with mechanical precision, he accepted the
note thrust at him, furiously pounded away at the machine and efficiently tore
the receipt and dispensed the change. The pace at which he was working was as
fascinating as it was frightening.
The next level of the competition was
at the serving counter. I was lucky that the counter was relatively free when I
reached there and was immediately able to hand over the order to the server. He
looked at it mechanically and with a slight backward inclination of the head
shouted “Bhattre, Mooru Neer Dose, ondu masale”-“Cook, three
Neer Dose and one Masala Dose”. Now in the background you
could see Bhattre (means cook in West
Kannada lingo), who was dressed in a lungi folded at the knee and a bright
floral shirt leaning on a HUGE frying pan pour a cleansing splash of water on
the pan. By the time he poured the batter for our order for Neer dose and
Masala dose, the server had already screamed to him “Bhattre
innu yeradu masale, yeradu neeru”-“two more masala and neer dose”. So finally the pan had
about nine round squiggles of delicious smelling doses under preparation. While watching Bhattre, I
suddenly felt someone pummel my right ear and someone else groping my back. It
was only the second and third tier of patrons who were trying to get through to
the server and hand over the order. In this process, one spectacled gentleman
had his glasses knocked off in the bargain and was followed by a round of
swearing and ranting at the appalling behaviour of youngsters today.
Now Neer dose takes a while to cook,
so I had to wait a while but wouldn’t give up my prime location. When the other
orders were ready, the idly vada with a full bowl of Sambhar and Chutney, they
were passed perilously close to our heads and other body parts, to the patrons
behind. Now the tall people here had an advantage, carrying two and sometimes
three plates over their heads to the tables where their other brethren had
already managed places for the entire family. The shorter ones were more
dangerous, carrying the full plates at waist level and everybody was in danger
of having red sambhar or green chutney spilled onto him to avoid which they
keep jumping out of the way.
When the Neer dose and the masala
dose were finally ready, my bro-in-law Anil, I and his wife Sudha played a kind
of passing the parcel game. We formed a loose chain between the serving counter
and the table which we had garnered and jealously guarded. We had to resort to
this because the crowd at the serving counter wouldn’t permit more than one
plate to be safely carried in spite of our height and there wasn’t place for
more at the already heaving and jostling counter. So we made it, safely with
our orders, un-spilt and got busy devouring the delicious food. Surrounding us
was a cacophony literally, people screaming their order at the billing counter,
or trying to get the attention of the server at the delivery counter, the vessels
clanging as they were deposited for wash or after a wash and the general bedlam
of conversation. While munching on the food, I was wondering at this obstacle /
endurance competition we had just undergone and wondered how it would have been
if it was the USA.
I could imagine the billing counter
with an orderly queue of people who would have kept saying ‘pardon me / excuse
me / coming through-whatever but apologizing for every inconvenience to their
fellow patron they caused. The bill / order would have an order number and this
would automatically get transferred to the cook who would be sporting a clean
apron and a chefs hat. Once the food was prepared, the order number would flash
on the display at the serving counter along with the muted tinkle to alert the
diner. All the diners would be peacefully waiting for their order to flash and
enjoy the soft music playing in the background. When it was you turn, the
server-oops the ‘food service assistant’ would smilingly hand it over to you
and mutter ‘enjoy your food’ and you would mutter a thanks and calmly walk
unimpeded to your table and enjoy a perfectly and hygienically made plate of
absolutely bland and worthless neer dose.
I wondered why this bedlam, this
chaos in our country. Well I could primarily pin it down to our enormous
population- a simple demand versus supply equation, but there is something
more. There is something in our blood and the air here that makes us
undisciplined and inconsiderate. The very same set of Indians I saw at JFK
airport who kept doing the same ‘pardon me / excuse me / coming through’ act
dramatically altered the moment we landed in Bangalore. Everybody wanted to get
off the plane at the same time and jostled and fought to get a place at the
luggage carousel. I guess we have an inborn abhorrence to rules and regulations
and a ‘why should the other person be ahead of me’ syndrome and this becomes
evident at any railway crossing. First you will have a line of vehicles in an
orderly line on the left side of the road. Soon someone loses patience and
decides to occupy the right side to get ahead. Immediately thereafter there is
a deluge of alike thinkers and in a short while both sides of the road are
packed like a can of sardines. It is similar across the railway line as well. Of
course one must not forget our desi Bonds or the Agent Vinods who tilt their
cycles / bikes under the barrier and cross the railway track right in the path
of a hurtling train, brazenly under the nose of the gate keeper. The moment the
train crosses and the barrier rises, all hell breaks loose. There is chaos on
both sides for the next ten minutes and hardly anyone moves across. Why is it
that we cant wait in an orderly manner on the correct side of the road? We
would probably cross across faster don’t you think?
But there is something about this
chaos we love I guess, it adds spice and flavour, to our food, our lives and
our existence. The neer dose tastes better, you feel you have won a hard fought
victory and beaten everyone else, at the airport or at the railway crossing or
atNamma Ooru Thindi. As I was thinking about
this, another diner elbowed me in the middle and casually said “Swalpa
adjust maadi” – “kindly adjust” as he shoved his plate
next to mine on the counter and stood shoulder to shoulder as he ate and I
wryly smiled.
