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the reluctant gourmet

A paean to parathas

Photo: R. Ravindran

FOOD ON THE MOVE Dhabas are highway comfort stations

Shockingly, the African djembe drum turned out to be a good idea.

This despite the fact that he took so much place in the car it seemed only polite to address him with an appropriately grandiose title, which is how he became Monsieur Drum. After all, traffic jams can be so darn boring. Carrying our own entertainment seemed like a remarkably self-sufficient move.

Admittedly the foldable picnic table was less brilliant. Not to mention the voluminous speakers. And the gigantic striped umbrella. Though, in hindsight, we had unintentionally really just recreated the romance of old-fashioned travel. Days when the journey was just as much fun as the destination. Days of silver-foil wrapped cutlets, cellophane-packed sandwiches and warm unwieldy flasks filled with sweet coffee. Of roadside dhabhas with flaky parathas, vivid pickle and strong, milky tea.

Unfortunately, Indian highways seem to have become rather colourless over the years. With no picturesque eateries in sight, our road trip on the fabulous Bangalore-Chennai highway — for instance — rapidly degenerated into a mutiny, with the backseaters stubbornly beating out warlike rhythms on Monsieur Drum and yelling for dinner.

Roadside dhabas, traditional stops for truckers and motorists, have always been one of the most interesting things about travelling in India. Especially because food changes so dramatically with geography and location.

In Kolkata, breakfast consists of steaming luchis (the Bengali puri) and an earthen pot of tangy alu-dom featuring potatoes with crispy skins. Also, deliciously plump kala jamuns. Around Mumbai, there are fluffy phulkas and sabji. In Kerala, freshly baked buns, as soft as cotton. The Delhi-Agra highway features dhabas with those quaint, and immensely practical, charpoys, so you can lie down, watch some blaring open air television while you drink frothy cups of lassi. Once your food is ready (aloo parathas, rajma and achaar. Or if you’re in the mood for comfort food, just kadi-chaaval) it’s placed on a sensible wooden plank across the charpoy.

Abroad, in the U.K. and U.S. for instance, highway ‘comfort stations’ have a completely different character. Strategically placed between big towns, they feature restaurants, washrooms, massage chairs and — of course — the indispensable souvenir store. We’re not far behind.

As it got darker on our journey, the incessant rain and exhaustion that came from non-stop driving set in, and we thankfully tripped upon the new Trendy Indian ‘dhaba’. Conveniently attached to a Bharat Petroleum pump, it gleamed welcomingly. Catering to more than 50 busloads of people a day, according to a friendly waiter, this new genre of dhabas with frills might be short on romance, but is certainly high on practicality.

There are clean washrooms, refrigerators crammed with soft drinks (ranging from good old ‘Slice’ to something called ‘Rani Float’) and most importantly lots of energy bars and Red Bull. Also food through the night, besides goodies like Special Mysore Pak, chocolate burfi and coconut poli from Ananda Bhavan.

Completely rejuvenated we restart the journey, zipping down the road. The last stop’s at 4 a.m., at a tea stall, called Highway Hotel (or something equally generic.) There are red plastic chairs, glass jars filled with biscuits and scalding glasses of tea. Occasionally a car whizzes past, but it’s calm, quiet and dawn is just beginning to break.

There’s a Monsieur Drumbeat coming from the car as the rest wake up, sensing a scenic pause. The romance of the road is undeniable. And tea never tasted so good.

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