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A place pegged to the past
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Dewar's Bar isn't just another pub around the corner but one that has kept its colonial legacy alive in a city that rarely spares a thought for its own cultural past. M.V. CHANDRASHEKAR raises a toast to the old haunt
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CHANGED TIMES In the pre-Independence days, when Bangalore was divided into City and Cantonment, you would not see a single Indian face at Dewar's except that of the owner and his family Photo: K. GOPINATHAN
Varadaraj is talking about the days when horse carriages used to pull up outside his establishment and British soldiers would come in for draught beer and snacks. He is talking about the Irish cook whose method of frying fish he sticks to even today. "Take a large fish," says the 57-year-old owner of Dewar's Bar. "Cut off the head and the tail. Wash the remaining part and remove the skin." He makes a huge sweep with his hand to show how it should be cut lengthwise to de-bone it. The fish is then sliced, marinated in salt, turmeric powder, chilli powder and vinegar. "You must use breadcrumbs," he emphasises, "to get the binding." The slices are stored in the refrigerator and taken out just before frying.
Safekeeping cook
The aforementioned Irish cook was the personal cook of a jockey named Duffy. When Duffy went out of Bangalore to ride in races in Ooty, Mysore and other places for six months at a stretch, he would leave his cook with Varadaraj's father, K. Krishnamurthy, for safekeeping so that others would not steal him! Krishnamurthy was fond of the races — a bit too fond of them for his own good, which is why he was forced to sell off much of the property he inherited from his father P.D. Kanniah Naidu, including Dewar's Wine Store on St Mark's Road.
Varadaraj remembers his grandfather, who died in 1967, as being a strict man with a tall, imposing figure. Naidu started Dewar's Bar on Cockburn Road beneath Benson Town Bridge in 1933. The building was earlier a hakim's shop selling native medicines, then a bar, and then a post office. "The rent was Rs. 30 in the beginning," recalls Varadaraj. "Now I pay Rs 5,000." Dewar is a Scottish name, but many Indian establishments those days used to Anglicise even local names so that they would appeal to British ears. Varadaraj figures that the name Dewar was chosen by Devaraj, his grandfather's brother.
No brawls
In the pre-Independence days, when Bangalore was divided into City and Cantonment areas, you would not see a single Indian face at Dewar's except that of the owner and his family. Naidu ran his bar with an iron hand and would not tolerate anyone kicking up a ruckus. If any of the "tommies" started a drunken brawl, he would immediately telephone their sergeant and have them thrown out. The soldiers would usually come in for draught beer (three annas for a small glass, six annas for big), and chomp at sandwiches, boiled eggs, omelettes, goat's brain, liver and fish. On Saturday evenings, they would buy bottles of Scotch and head off to dancing halls — the nearby St. John's Parish Hall, or Funnels on M.G. Road, which now houses Deccan Herald.
"A bottle of Scotch used to cost Rs. 9.50," says Varadaraj. "We used to sell it for Rs. 11. Before Independence we had only imported liquor: Pal's, Tuborg and Bech's beer from Germany, Black and White and Johnnie Walker whisky, Hennessy cognac, Biscuit brandy, Jamaican rum, Russian vodka... Even after Independence my father used to make trips to Madras harbour to get stocks when the ships came in."
After Independence, Indians started trickling into the bar, and it took at least 10 years before the last of the British sailed back to Old Blighty. Dewar's has retained its homey atmosphere over the decades and is always teeming with regulars. Varadaraj has not changed the furniture bought by his grandfather: the ceiling fans, the large, sturdy wooden tables, and, of course, the comfy cane chairs. The chairs were made of rattan imported from Singapore and woven by one Muniswamy from Broadway in Shivajinagar — they cost a royal sum of Rs. 33 for a dozen! Solid wooden partitions divide the place into cosy nooks (they were a later substitute for wooden screens). Behind the counter you can see a whole range of framed and fading pictures acquired over the years: Queen Elizabeth II, the pantheon of Indian gods, the British royal family on the lawns of the Balmoral castle, the newly-built Vidhana Soudha and so on. There is also a photograph of a man who came in as a customer of Dewar's and died as one of its most trusted employees. (When he fell on bad times, Krishnamurthy gave him a job.)
Today, instead of Brown, the retired police officer, and Brunton, the retired solider, you have a wide spectrum of Indian regulars who haunt the place as well as visiting foreigners. No techies or yuppies here. The place seats about 40, and if you're at a table with a friend, don't be surprised if a bunch of others join you. They'll smile and nod and carry on with their conversation while you do likewise. You'll hear cries of "Bhaskar!" as they hail one of the popular waiters here (most of the staff are old hands). Brain fried with onions is a hot favourite here, and the kheema balls taste deliciously homemade. In the old days, Dewar's was closed between 2 p.m. and 5 p.m. for the routine afternoon siesta, but now it's open from 10 a.m. through 11.30 p.m.
"I started coming to help my father at the bar when I was 12," recalls Varadaraj. He stopped studying after high school although his father wanted him to continue. Varadaraj's two sons do help out but they are more interested in call centre jobs at the moment. Times have changed. One hopes that Dewar's doesn't. Let's raise a toast to it.
Dewar's is at No. 3, Cockburn Road. Phone: 25555460.
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