Chetty, Chetty, Bang Bang!

One is lucky to eat like a Chettiar not only because of the dazzling array of food but also because each dish is aromatic and reflects their history and participation in the ancient spice trade, writes Ajit Saldanha

The word kairasi in Tamil means luck, but I like to think it could also be used to describe chefs blessed with a golden hand. Taking the road less travelled from Thanjavur to Chettinad via Madurai can be a richly rewarding culinary experience. Even in a tiny hamlet, one can always find a Muniyandi Vilas or ‘Military Mess’ serving an assortment of specials from mutte barota (egg paratha) to vartha kari (fried meat). What they lack in hygiene they will make up for with honest sapad. It is fascinating to watch these sweaty, bare-bodied, mustachioed chefs at work as they perform mundane tasks like slicing onions as if they were subjects of a Harvard ‘time and motion’ study.

The true kairasi samurai have an unerring instinct; a rule-of-thumb method so to speak, which allows them to work without constant recourse to recipes which are traditionally passed on from father to son or mother to daughter. This expertise with seasonings and an innate ability to provide a magical finishing touch is what defines the best of them.

A group of us recently went to the Bangala in Karaikudi, the domain of Mrs Meenakshi Meyyapan who has single-handedly put the traditional cuisine of the Nattukottai Chettiars on the global map while providing a stage for great chefs like Karuppiah and Pandian to display their craft. Chettinad cuisine calls for a judicious blend of spice, freshly ground masala and the use of sun-dried meats and salted vegetables, reflecting the dry environment of the region. Most dishes are eaten with rice or idli, dosa, iddiyappam and chapathis generously laced with ghee. Through their mercantile contacts with Burma, they learnt to prepare a rice pudding with sticky red rice. Chettiars were traditionally vegetarians, but they have the rare gift of assimilation; once they established trading ties with Christians and Muslims, fish, mutton and chicken became entrenched in their cuisine and when trade with Ceylon, Burma and the Dutch East Indies started, there was no looking back. They are wonderful hosts and a meal at a Chettiar home is a lavishly satisfying experience since the table is likely to be groaning with an array of dishes.

One is lucky to eat like a Chettiar not only because of the dazzling array of food but also because each dish is uncommonly subtle and aromatic and reflects their history and participation in the ancient spice trade from Penang, the Banda Islands and Arab ports in the Straits of Hormuz. Guy Trebay says, “To the coconut, rice and legumes that are staples of South Indian cooking they added Tellicherry pepper, Ceylon cardamom, Indonesian nutmeg, Madagascar cloves and blue ginger, or galangal, from Laos and Vietnam.” They had the good taste, pun intended, to pick the rock stars from each of the countries they traded and travelled in and amalgamated them into one dazzling United Nations of flavours. Even those weaned on chilli chicken would have heard of Chicken Chettinad — succulent morsels of chicken, seasoned with pepper, green chilli and spices dry roasted to perfection, prior to being garnished with curry leaves. Other exciting options are Nandu Rasam, a spicy soup made with small crabs, Karaikudi Eral Masala, prawns fried in a mélange of spices with shallots and tomatoes or uppu kari, which literally translates as salt meat but is far more than that. Whole cloves of garlic, shallots and a liberal number of gundu molaga, special chillis from the region are slow-cooked with chunks of mutton marinated in turmeric and fennel until by the magical alchemy of Chettinad, the dish transforms into a dark, smoky delicious treat best eaten with steamed rice and rasam. More adventurous “foodies”, much as I loathe that word, will relish the brain fry or the ratham poriyal which is er, coagulated goat’s blood dry roasted with spices which is highly nourishing.

My favourite is Sora puttu: shredded shark meat sautéed with ginger, garlic, coriander, curry leaves, green chilli and onion — recommended for those who enjoy fish but don’t want to pick out the bones. Cabbage poriyal is a lightly spiced, sautéed and steamed dry vegetable dish which tastes best when served with tomato rasam and steamed rice that has been topped with fragrant ghee. They make a fabulous banana flower and coconut milk curry and ennai kathrika, brinjals in a piquant sour and spicy curry, which is to die for. Then there’s the Paruppu Urundai Kuzhambu, which is simply lentil koftas simmered in a tangy tamarind sauce. The complex interplay of sweet, sour, and piquant flavours in this versatile dish will have you begging, like Oliver Twist, for more. A daily staple is Mandi Curry which is fresh veggies cooked with chickpeas in rice water: simple, yet so satisfying.

Then there’s mutton koala balls (no, they have nothing to do with those adorable cuddly little creatures from Down Under), it’s a sort of shammi kebab, and kal dosa (traditionally fermented with toddy) served with chutney or with a tangy meen kozhambu curry made from a tiny fish called netthile (anchovy).

The food is enjoyably spiced: finely balanced at the point where your scalp prickles and your nose runs but you don’t need to gulp water. Quail and rabbit are great delicacies here and before I provoke howls of outrage from wildlife enthusiasts, let me clarify that these are domestically reared Japanese quail, not the endangered species. The rabbit roast or 65 has an unusual, gamy taste and is supposed to be low in cholesterol. Wind up your meal with thayir sadam, banana, beeda and a belch, though not necessarily in that order!