Bounty house
In this mansion in the heart of Chettinad, days in the company of pots, pans and spice-smells are full of never-ending feasts
The clay pot of rice boiled over, and we clapped as the water hit the fire, sizzling: at last! Soon, I was eating hot, thick pongal—the popular khichdi-like rice dish cooked with dal, ghee and in its non-savoury form, with jaggery. Several coconut-laden vegetable curries accompanied the pongal.
It was late afternoon on the day of Pongal, Tamil Nadu’s big harvest festival, and I was celebrating in its heartland.
Having grown up in nearby Kodaikanal, I had been initiated at an early age: Chettinad food is to Tamil Nadu what Punjabi food is to Delhi. Spicy, flavourful and famous for the sumptuous meat dishes its vegetarian originators soon adopted as they travelled, it is the food of legendary feasts and special occasions. The Chettiar traders’ glorious heydays spanned the late 18th century through independence and gave them strongholds in places like Myanmar; these voyages also gave spices a special place in their cuisine.
I was there for three days to complete edits on a cookbook co-authored by Meenakshi Meyyappan (Achi or Aunty Sabs to family and friends), co-owner and hostess of The Bangala, Chettinad’s celebrated culinary mainstay.
I had ridden into Karaikudi that morning on a bus while it was still dark, into a flat landscape full of buffaloes and water pumps. By sunrise, I was drinking the first of my many cups of tea, exploring the verdant courtyards and airy living rooms full of art books and sofas. The hotel is a cluster of buildings, added to several times, that in colonial period served as the Town Club. Its condition had progressively deteriorated until the Meyyappan family turned it into a heritage hotel in 1999.
It was soon time for breakfast, served by a dozen men in white veshtis and shirts at a long communal table in the partially covered dining area that was open to the elements. Paniyarams (little fried pancakes made of ground rice and dal) were accompanied by a tomato chutney, with the mustard fried and popped just enough to release its flavour throughout, and the tomato tangy and tart. The sambhar was simmered to just the right mix of flavours. There were fluffy idlis and crisp dosas, and lots of pineapples and bananas. Finally, steaming filter coffee, poured from tumbler to tumbler.
And at last, entered Mrs Meyyappan herself, a small—just about 5ft tall—septuagenarian in a brown sari who looked at me sternly through her glasses. She shone her smile on me when I earned it, and spoke with the British accent and idiom particular to a certain generation of privileged Indians; references to “supper” and eminent art personalities in and outside India abounded. The lady of the house had travelled widely, having grown up partly in Sri Lanka, and was as cosmopolitan as she was bound to tradition, referring to a gay visitor’s partner with great tact. “People have forgotten the fine art of conversation,” she remarked in an aside one day, when a guest wouldn’t let up. “One must let other people talk!”
Mrs Meyyappan never actually cooked herself, of course. She set me up with her magic men, a dozen-odd chefs and assistant chefs with whom I spent pre-meal hours that spilled over into demonstrations and interrogations. What, for example, was the exact movement of the hands involved in making a parotta? This was something I had puzzled over with Sumeet Nair, a keen-eyed home chef and co-author of the book I was editing. “Here, watch!” said one young man who had been apprenticed there for a while. He picked up a ball of dough and quickly kneaded, chopped, mixed, pounded. “Once again?” I asked, and he laughed.
I scampered in and out of the two large kitchens, peering into large steel pots, well-stocked larders and old wooden cupboards. They possessed that sedate order and bumbling appeal of traditional households now silent all over India, and made me homesick for a home and a time I had never truly experienced myself.
Lunch was a fantastic procession comprising the uppu kari, fish kuzhambu (fish curry), beetroot poriyal (a light preparation usually prepared with coconut), various kootus (vegetable curries using dal), chutneys, lemon rice, and once our banana leaves had, at last, been closed, some fresh ice cream.
Once the meal had found its natural rhythm, I chatted with the guests: journalists, film-makers, elderly American tourists. Many were repeat visitors and suggested local points of interest such as the old mansions and the odd jumble of the marketplace, which turned out to be full of antique houseware, the colourful Athangudi tiles Karaikudi is famous for, and enamel ware from Sweden and Japan once brought over as dowry. Naps followed the palpable post-conversation calm—a resting of sated people pretending to read books. After I had woken and had tea, I left to meet Mrs Meyyappan at her home, one of Karaikudi’s ancestral mansions.
The large wooden doors to its many rooms were locked, the carvings on their exteriors a testament to the skill and craftsmanship of their creators. A passageway led from one area to another; from the reception or entertaining chamber to a dining chamber, and then on to the living area. Each of these chambers contained four or more rooms.
Black and white photographs and large tables and chairs filled the rooms. Everything had an air of not being around for much longer, but having managed thus far, and fairly well. All evening, Mrs Meyyappan fielded calls on her little Nokia phone. Her children lived elsewhere; she didn’t know who would take over from her.
I returned to The Bangala for a multiple course dinner, a mix of Western and Indian called butler cuisine which the Chettiars had popularized. Chicken rasam was followed by mutton chops, roast chicken, vegetable bake, parotta and a quail Chettinad pepper masala. The meal ended with a tender coconut pudding.
Talk turned to treasure; a friend had told me diamonds were available here for half the market price. “Maybe next time,” Mrs Meyyappan seemed to suggest with her little smile, as she sent over more pudding.
Rajni George was a reader at Granta and literary editor at Punctum.
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First Published:21 Jun 2014, 12:20 AM IST
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