Romance by any other name
A digressive dosai walk through London 🚶🏽♀️🚶🏻
For my first trip post covid-19, I went back to London for two reasons: one, to attend the graduation that got postponed, and the other, quite personal, to finally meet with my partner after two+ years of long distance. One of my many ambitious plans, while I was there, included compiling a list of dosais to eat in every zone possible (or at least central, south, north, east, and west). This didn’t turn out as I’d hoped because my time in London was short.
As an import, it isn’t the first thing anyone in London thinks of when you say ‘Indian food’, but I do think the dosai has had a deep impact on food culture, and Indian food history in particular. Today, there’s a number of varieties riffing off on the original, from chilli cheese and chocolate to Schezwan noodle and the dilkhush dosa1. Experiments with the dosai have been possible due to its blank canvasesque appearance and taste: a traditional dosai requires accompaniments—whether chutney, sambar, or curry—because the ingredients are simple, requiring just urad dal, rice, and salt (fenugreek seeds, flattened rice flakes, etc are dealer’s choice) to make them.
I decided to keep the methodology simple: a plain dosai at every restaurant (usually roasted in vegetable oil) along with a dosai that caught our eye (the more extravagant the better). So we set out, my partner and I, armed with the essentials: a pocket notebook, few pens, empty stomachs (plus ulcer tablets), and no expectations. What started off as a dosai list, became a circuitous journey into London’s different zones.
I’m not going to claim that this is restaurant and travel writing, because to do that I will have to essentially recommend something. I also don’t have the expertise of place writing—here, London—as the city is still new to me even though some of the experiences feel aged. I’ve experienced London as a tourist and a temporary resident, and both have been unfamiliar experiences to each other. As Jonathan Nunn wrote in ‘London Finds Itself’ for his newsletter Vittles, “So much of restaurant writing is not written from a position of home but from the position of a traveller – restaurant writing, really, is just travel writing in miniature.” A position that I’m well aware of as I write this.
London’s restaurant landscape is as familiar to me as the back of my neck; in contrast, the dosai landscape seems easier to navigate (for me). I’ve eaten my fair share of dosais in Chennai (at home, in restaurants, in kaiendhi bhavans2, friends’ houses, wedding breakfasts, while travelling for work etc), in Tamil Nadu (a spectacular kari dosai in Madurai, among others), in darshinis in Bangalore, in street side stalls in Mumbai, and once or twice in Kerala while travelling.
But I know London much differently than I know Chennai, the city I grew up in and still reside; Mumbai, the city I was born in and later returned to for work; or Bangalore, the city where I studied in and also returned to for work. No doubt I’m an outsider in London, but as Nunn writes, “there are places in London that [still] have the shape of home to me” — and I hope I’ve captured some of those places here. I’ve also been careful to not construct London as a food destination or this piece as a dosai itinerary/map, because maps and lists are mere compilations and I have no intention of directing people where to go. Simply, these are restaurants that aren’t contained to a specific neighbourhood in London; it’s where I ate dosais, and felt at home.
We first headed to Ganapati in Peckham, walking from my partner’s flat to the Clapham High Street Overground Station and taking the train to Peckham Rye. From there, we weaved through the station, passing by two vegetable stalls that reminded me of home—in particular, the large roots of taro; rows of bright yellow bananas and plantains; mounds of fruits and chillies; and just everything out in the open. This visceral sense of aesthetic, this creation of place emulating a sense of home through sights (and smells and sounds) is not only designed for people to shop but to gather socially. It’s one of the things that I do really love about Chennai.
Ganapati’s dosai of the day was a beetroot uthappam topped with leeks. I may have made amends with the beetroot a long time ago but its presence in this uthappam was insipid. The uthappam itself was limp, lacked salt, and clearly lacking in fermentation (which I can understand in a perpetually gloomy and cold city like London). Burnt leeks on top were a nice touch and added flavour to an otherwise lacklustre dish3, while the tomato-coconut chutney was smooth and luscious. It was also January by the time we started our dosai journey in London, which meant that I had a month left of my trip. What direction we gained in seeking out dosais, we temporarily put on hold in figuring out our relationship.
Another day, another dosai. So from Clapham, we ventured further south to Dosa n Chutney on Tooting High Street, taking a tube from the former to the latter, on an exceptionally cloudy day. Eating at Dosa n Chutney usually requires planning since it means three extra stops for me, at Tooting Market, Pooja Sweets, and VB & Sons. Not today, however. At Dosa n Chutney, we ordered a podi dosai (with extra ghee), a kothu kari dosai, and a very south Indian inspired channa bhatura (for nostalgic purposes) for lunch. A golden red podi dosai, drenched in the middle with the extra ghee, arrived first, accompanied by three chutnies and sambar. It was the kothu kari dosai that outshone the other two, delicately spiced with cardamom, star anise, ginger-garlic, and saunf. Tender mutton mixed with boiled potato and sauteed onion, stuffed into the lacy-edged dosai that was rolled into four pieces, and accompanied by the usual suspects—chutney and sambar. I remember being ‘choked with food till my chest’, as my mother calls it.
The more we set out to document dosais and discuss flavours, the more we found small courage in talking about the things that were left unsaid. Future, plans, work, life, desires, and, eventually, pathways. Crisp dosais brought out certain joys hidden inside ourselves, while stodgy dosais broke uncomfortable silences. I remember dinner at Sagar (Leicester Square?) more than our lunch at Dosa n Chutney, exchanging awkward smiles with another couple at the table adjacent to us ordering the same dishes. Bronzed dosai, thick uthappam with a generous smear of molagai podi4 on top, and, surprisingly, beet red vadais. This starchy dinner signalled a long walk after; we covered Leicester Square, Soho, and Piccadilly, before coming back to Charing Cross to take the tube back home. We walked a lot that day, finishing dinner by half six but reaching home three hours later, using the time to be vulnerable. Our legs were weary, but our hearts were full of hope.
If you ask me what my favourite dosai is in London, I’d lean towards the kara podi dosai at Vasantha Vilas in East Ham. Not that I love podi dosais exclusively, but more so because it reminded me of home, of the excellent nei podi dosai sold outside the Brilliant Tutorials training centre off Pondy Bazaar, which I used to frequent when I was in school (the streetside shop, not the tuition centre) and, later, during college.
Pondy Bazaar itself was a post-school/college hangout for me, from shopping for earrings and clothes to browsing for second-hand books (most prized possession includes a copy of Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy in a muddy brown cover with a small picture of a woman in a red sari), and snacking on vella and uppu paniyaarams5 after. I’d either take the bus, skipping out on chemistry and maths tuitions, or my trusty black scooter dodging evening traffic. If my cousin was around, we’d hit McRennett in nearby Nandanam, rounding off the day with slices of chocolate and pistachio cakes or the very solid chocolate donut that has come to inform some of my donut choices in life.
Anyway, since we were at East Ham, it made sense to eat more dosais. Taste of India, where we tried a crispy-to-bits rava dosai and the paneer dosai, which was simply grated paneer mixed with turmeric sprinkled on a triangular dosai. Happy to report that the accompaniments were the same sambar and chutney. As a break, we went to La Chingada.
Taco break notwithstanding, we were back on the dosai beat. This time to Kilburn-Willesden Lane, neighbourhoods new to the both of us. There is significance in areas that don't boast of swanky restaurants, Michelin Star dining, or tourist traps, as Nunn reminds us in his piece for Eater London on the Best-Value Restaurants in London. The fixation on ‘cheap eats’ is indeed problematic. More importantly, it is also quality, budget, and community. “The following list of restaurants is essential in another way: for Londoners, these restaurants span all the neighbourhoods and cuisines that define the city. They’re the places to visit two, three times a week for cooking that tends towards home and comfort.”
At Anjanaas, it felt like stepping into home—thanks to both its dark wood interiors and soft instrumental Tamil music in the background. One large brass kuthuvilakku reminded me of karthigai deepam6. On a sunny, albeit cold day in January, we tucked into an extremely flaky ghee dosai (that would put a good croissant to shame) and a chicken dosai, which, thankfully, was soft enough to pick up the shredded chicken masala. My only regret was not making it to Vijay India to sample their adai7 and avial.
Post Anjanaas, we stopped at the Black Lion—wonderfully magnificent! fucking amazing!!—for a drink, which turned into three, and then into five. Endless conversation, cheese-stuffed naans, addictive onion bhaji, spiced lamb... the nerds that we were, we ended up downloading slideshows of quizzes (from leagues I was previously a part of), and questioning each other till after the last call. Is it romantic to note that we were the last two remaining, before we were quickly hurried out of the pub? Walking in the cold, our fingers freezing in -4C, catching the night tube home, and buzzing our heads off. I don’t remember much else from that night, except a slow realisation that I can allow myself the slightest bit of happiness from time to time. And a bit more.
Further reading
This piece by Nikhita Venugopal on a dessert dosa.
If you’d like to attempt making dosai, here are some helpful links.
A number of pieces helped me with shaping my thoughts for this newsletter: Alicia Kennedy’s series on culinary tourism, Jonathan Nunn’s piece ‘London Finds Itself’, Rachel Hendry’s ‘Wine & Company’, Yvonne Maxwell’s ‘Meet Me in Brixton McD’s’
The dilkhush, literally translating to joy to the heart, is a bizarre concoction of veggies, cheese, fruits, and dry fruits on a dosai. I am yet to try one!
Roadside stalls
All dosais aren’t created equal, since the creation of one depends on time, place, and temperature. Unlike alcohol (which also depends on time and fermentation), it depends on confinement — leave the batter alone to rest in a warm place, and it blooms. But like alcohol, it needs company too — the marriage of rice and lentils, has given us one of many distinctive creations.
Colloquially gunpowder, literally translated to chilli powder. A powdered lentil accompaniment to dosais and idlis that’s usually mixed with sesame oil.
Sweet and savoury little dosais. Rambutan, the new Sri Lankan restaurant in London by Cynthia Shanmugalingam has the Sri Lankan version called gundu dosas.
Festival of lights observed by Tamils, in the Tamil month of karthigai.
Which I have disliked previously, but I’d still like to do my due diligence. Plus, I’ve found that two-day fermented adais are better for my stomach, if I stick with no more than 2 servings.
Is there really a place called "La Chingada" in London? Are the tacos worth the trip?