Masala onion dosa.
Masala onion dosa.
Repeat after me: masala onion dosa.
It was 11.00am, and like a good Mumbaiker, I slept in until ten to wait for
the rest of the world to wake up. Even then, I was bleary-eyed after spending
all night writing and watching My Name is Khan. Anyone who knows me well
knows that I do not function without breakfast. One should not approach me if
an hour has passed in my morning without food, and yet I was determined to find
somewhere that was not my usual Cafe Mondegar affair.
Contrary to all requests by Andrew, I was also determined to find myself a
reasonable looking kurta to join in the Indian celebrations at school.
Half the staff are Indian: sometimes I feel left out, especially when I see
other Western teachers taking up the casual attire, bragging about how
comfortable it is. So, after making my way through a couple of higher-end
cottons stores, picking up a kurta and a couple of other tops I'd had my
eye on, I made it my mission to find breakfast, and not just a tourist cafe
option.
It took a little walking through Kala Ghoda, and a fair bit of looking
around, but there, behind the laneway, in a little parallel street it stood: Welcome
Restaurant. I dodged the traffic to get across the road, momentarily proud
at how adept I'd become at racing through Mumbai's chaos. I glanced inside.
Melamine covered tables in rows filled the canteen, with steel edged chairs and
faded linoleum flooring. Metal plates were sprawled across the tables of
businessmen, and a couple of women were seated inside. Perfect. The alien menu
came to me again, but this time I was not afraid. I ordered a masala onion
dosa, thinking it was what I had had the night prior, only to find out it was
clearly not. Apparently, I'd had uttapam, and I'd truly been missing out.
This beautiful treat of a meal was like a giant rice flour pancake, cooked
only on one side and bubbling yet fluffly on the inside, like a good pancake
should be. It was filled with the most luscious combination of potatoes, light
but heady spices, mild curry, onions and butter, folded into a square and served
upside down on my plate. One had to work hard with fork and spoon to initially
break into the crispy, fluffy glory, but as soon as it touched my tongue, I was
in breakfast heaven. But that's not all; down further on the menu, I saw it, my
love. Special masala tea. Heavens to murgatroid, my day had come!
I continued to pull apart my dosa, soaking it in the tomato-based soupy
accompaniment and the familiar picklies that go with idli. I had no idea if I
was doing it right, but it tasted great and I savoured the bliss that was the
sweet, spicy, milky and searingly hot REAL masala chai. I also had no idea if
what I was eating was even mildly suitable as a breakfast food. Was I enamoured
with the equivalent of beef stroganoff for breakfast? Or was my devouring this
curried goodness a sign of being a good traveller, like those who know that a
Thai green curry is for breakfast, not dinner?
Quite frankly, I didn't care too much.
So long as I had my fix of masala onion dosa and hot, spicy chai, I was happy.
What I did care about however, was that when I paused from snarfing
my meal, I looked down at the shift dress I had donned for the morning and
realised I had put it on inside out after trying on kurtas. I reeled in
horror at the fact that all the seams were on the outside running down
the front of the dress. Thank god for heavy printed fabrics available for 100
rupees at the market, because I don't think anyone else could tell.
Well, I hope so, because I didn't have anywhere to turn it back out and
headed out for the day's adventures.
