Kerala’s love affair with parotta and beef fry is legendary. It transcends caste, creed and politics. The Left, the Congress and the BJP may disagree on everything from economic policy to foreign affairs, but put a plate of flaky parotta and spicy beef fry before them and ideological differences melt faster than a blob of butter in a hot pan.
Some Hindus in the state, while polishing off the delicacy greedily, are quick to clarify that it is buffalo meat and not the holy cow. Gastronomic secularism comes with explanatory footnotes.
Having worked with Malayali colleagues in Qatar and Dubai, I can testify that merely uttering the words ‘beef chukka’ or ‘beef fry’ could trigger visible salivation.
Men who otherwise discussed geopolitics, oil prices and office politics with great seriousness would instantly transform into food critics. Pairing options were endless – idli, appam, idiyappam, rice and, of course, the iconic ‘Mallu parotta’.
And do not, under any circumstances, attempt to correct them by saying it is actually ‘paratha’. The raised eyebrows that follow can freeze you in your tracks. In Kerala, it is parotta, full stop. Linguistic reformers are advised to mind their own business.
Gravy as a fundamental right
So, when a Kerala lawyer recently dragged a restaurant to a consumer forum because it refused to provide gravy with beef fry and parotta, I was not entirely surprised.
For many Malayalis, gravy is not a side dish. It is a constitutional necessity.
How, the aggrieved lawyer must have wondered, is one expected to consume dry beef fry with parotta without occasionally dunking a piece into rich, spicy gravy?
What began as a missing ladle of gravy has now snowballed into a legal battle involving consumer rights, customary practice and implied obligations.
The Hyderabad shorba story
The controversy brought back memories from closer home.
In the good old days, when one ordered tandoori rotis at Irani hotels in Hyderabad and Secunderabad, a small bowl of shorba would invariably accompany the rotis. This was usually the same fragrant gravy served with Hyderabadi dum biryani.
The rotis then cost 50 paise or, at most, one rupee. Those were simpler times when inflation had not yet discovered the humble tandoori roti.
And remember, for Hyderabadis, all restaurants are ‘hotels’. Explaining that a hotel is actually a place where one stays overnight is a pointless exercise. Just as Malayalis will not surrender ‘parotta’, Hyderabadis will not surrender ‘hotel’.
Sadly, our Irani friends gradually stopped this generous practice. Free shorba disappeared from the menu. Today, you need to order a biryani or non-veg curries to earn the privilege of receiving a bowl.
Shrinking rotis, expanding bills
The tandoori roti itself has undergone a remarkable transformation. Its price graph appears to have faithfully tracked the price of gold.
From one rupee, it has marched steadily upwards to Rs 30 or more. Yet, as the price expanded, the roti mysteriously shrank. It is now thinner, smaller and less substantial.
The once proud tandoori roti seems locked in a fierce competition with our humble chapati. At this rate, future generations may need a magnifying glass to locate it on the plate.
Perhaps it is time someone moved a consumer forum. After all, if gravy can become a legal issue in Kerala, why should shrinking rotis in Hyderabad escape judicial scrutiny?
