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LAST WEEK, while travelling in Kerala, I had the opportunity of eating in people’s homes. My time there, spent mostly in villages, meant that finding restaurants or the equivalents of dhabas wasn’t always an option. Luckily, the kind people of Kannur in Kerala turned out to be excellent hosts. Living in the northern part of the country, I have always considered the banana leaf a dining accoutrement, an affectation that five-star hotels use, lining silver platters with it to give a meal a touch of authenticity. Here, in these village homes, the banana leaf is a natural platter. Most homes come with a patch of land and a well. And on this land grow banana trees.
The lady of the house, leaving the kitchen with a knife in hand, is a good indicator that the time for lunch has come. She returns with banana leaves that are set on the table by the man of the house—these homes reflect an enviable division of labour. Unlike with a thali, though, which is brought out pre-portioned, diners are encouraged to sit at the table before the food is served in Kerala. The first to be served is the rice, which is placed at the centre of the leaf. The quantity might seem excessive, but rice is what the entire meal revolves around. Sambhar is poured generously over the side of the rice. In some cases, it is placed in small bowls just like in a thali. Usually, with rice, there is a dal and sambhar. In more excessive servings, there might also be rasam and fish curry for non-vegetarians. There are usually two vegetables: avial is the staple and the other could be a beetroot dish or a preparation with drumsticks or locally-grown beans. Vegetables we are familiar with—potatoes, cauliflower, etc—are absent here.
Pickles, served as condiments, are water-based and not heavy on the palate. A thick raita accompanies the meal and papads, fried in coconut oil, are pre-prepared for the meal, replenished generously. The food is never excessively hot, as the whirring fan overhead moderates the temperature the food is served at. Lukewarm water is served with the food, an Ayurvedic standard that is applied in all homes. There is usually a bottle of cold water to be found in homes that have refrigerators. These are requested by people like me, parched by the hot sun and those whose thirst isn’t quenched by warm water, as healthy a habit as it is. However, buttermilk, served alongside water, counter-balances and cools the insides in a better way than even Cola.
The dessert is payasam, which is served in many avatars. Cooked on a slow flame and submerged in jaggery, it is a thick and satisfying dish. The meal in its entirety—from its preparation and the balancing of flavours to the counter-balance that the warm water provides—is almost always light despite the many dishes one finds on the banana leaf. It is a mystery how it leaves one rejuvenated and with a spring in one’s step. No need for an afternoon siesta exerts itself, neither are the hosts excessively insistent about taking more than one helping. It confirms what I have always believed without the crutch of scientific study, but only by listening to the murmurings of my palate and my stomach: in a traditional Indian home, the wisdom of this ancient land exerts itself in the meals that we have eaten through the ages and the recipes passed on from generation to generation, unadulterated in their intent and ingredients. Here, away from the calls of fast food and instant dining, the tradition is intact. And we are all happier for it.
But no mention of dining in northern Kerala would be complete without acknowledging the Tellicherri biryani, a dish of such gentle balance that it sets itself apart from its counterparts across the country. The flavourful lightness might come from the choice of rice (kaima)—it is a short-grained and aromatic local rice. This dish, also known as the Kerala biryani, is an enviable combination of Mughal and Malabari cuisines. Seemingly extracting the best from both cuisines, it uses the ‘dum’ method of preparation. It is one of the most famous dishes of the region and a must-try. A restaurant attempting cosmopolitanism with a name like ‘Paris’ serves the best kind. Packed in banana leaves and then a newspaper, it’s a little parcel of gentle goodness. Much like this part of Malabar.
Advaita Kala is a writer, most recently of the film Kahaani. She is also a former hotelier having worked in restaurants in India and abroad
Source: financialexpress.com