I pride myself on being a conoisseur of fine Vadais. First things first, though – let’s get the name straight. Being a dyed-almost-in-the-wool Tam, the dish in question will always be a Vadai for me – note the last syllable, which rhymes with “eye”.
When I was young and green, the paruppu vadai, also known as the aamai vadai was my favourite. Crunchy, with golden bits of paruppu sticking out of a brown vadai, this was a lunchtime staple during festivals. The antithesis of the paruppu vadai was the ulundu vadai. The twain never did meet; it was always ulundu vadai during breakfast, and paruppu vadai during lunch. Mind you, the breakfast and lunch in question were either on festival mornings or at a friend’s, cousin’s, neighbour’s or distant relative’s wedding. Bigger in size than the paruppu vadai, slightly more succulent with paper-white insides, the ulundu vadai was what you got when you asked for a vadai at most eateries in town. Some served it submerged in spicy hot sambar, and some served it plain, with sambar and chutney as afterthoughts in minuscule stainless steel cups. When eaten past lunch, it was a sin to have a vadai without a cup of piping hot coffee on the side.
When I finally passed out of school and stepped out beyond the confines of my TamBram home into the big bad world outside, I was introduced to the sinful joy of eating vadais stuffed with that forbidden bulb, the Onion. Better still were vadais stuffed with onion and spinach. Many were the people who frequented the Central theatre or its twin, Kanakadhara, endured the torture of Govinda wilting in pain as Dilip Kumar tortured him with a Maa ki haat se banaya hua Roti, only to reach Nirvana by sampling the lip-smacking Keerai Vadai dished out in its canteen. Central had the admirable policy of screening only English movies, and I spent many pleasant hours there watching Beetlejuice, The Last Emperor and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, among other things. They also had an annual Charlie Chaplin festival, which always drew a huge crowd. The keerai vadai was an invariant companion on all these occasions. Other exotic variations included the much hyped vazhaippoo vadai, which was vadai stuffed with banana blossoms. Excellent when made well, but made badly more often than not.
My maiden venture outside my hometown was to Hyderabad, that wonderful city of djinns. The vadais there sprang no surprises, but met me instead as old friends. The sambar was a trifle too spicy for me, though. That’s the Andhra Chilli for you. Ere the affronted hasten to correct me, I am aware that there is no such thing as an Andhra Chilli, that there are a myriad varieties of this amazing fruit that grow in that vast land that is Andhra. There! I was earning by now, and words can simply not describe the pleasure of sitting in a restaurant (Shanbhag, Swagath, Chutneys, and who remembers where else?) and paying for a vadai with one’s own hard-earned money.
I crossed borders yet again, to the big bad city of Bangalore that is now (and will always be) home. Here I encountered the mysteriously named Maddur Vade. (That’s Vade with an ‘e’ – the last syllable rhymes with “day”.). The quaint little canteen in the Institute with Tree Lined Avenues which served strong shots of tea, coffee or milk in small thimblefuls also stocked huge plates piled with tall towers of this interesting creation, which was unlike any Vadai (or Vade) that I’d ever seen in my life. Frantic investigation revealed that Maddur was a small town between Bangalore and Mysore, which was the birthplace of this work of art. As soon as the first Maddur Vade melted in my mouth, my taste buds yearned to go on pilgrimage to this holiest place of holies, but alas, I have not set foot there till now. Someday, I shall. The Uddin Vades were different too – they strongly resembled the Ulundu Vadai in looks and in recipe, but they had an uncharacteristic crust that lent more crunch, and were slightly sweet to taste, as was the sambar that accompanied them. As always, one had coffee on the side to avoid committing sacrilege. One avoided the chicory if possible, but that was permissible sacrilege.
My fortunes took me north of the Vindhyas to Pune, and here I met a strange new Vada (yes, Vada. Last syllable “ah”) – the one and only Batata Vada, that lent itself to the famous Vada Pav. Stuffed with Potatoes, Onions, and other secret lethal ingredients, this child of alchemy resembled that faithful southern teatime (actually, coffee-time) companion, the humble Bonda. The resemblance ended with the looks, though. While the Bonda was more or less harmless and manifested itself as flatulence at the worst, the Vada was more deadly. Unless tempered with Dana Chutney, which had the mitigating presence of Jaggery, the Vada was liable to singe one’s tongue with capsaicin. Of course, homemade Vadas were more benign, but I had my trial by fire at Divadkar’s. I preferred the spicy killer Vadas at Divadkar’s over the ones made at Joshi Vadevale. The dingy smoky canteen at Khadki Railway Station actually harboured some pretty decent Vadas. The Batata Vada, unlike its Southern Cousins, went well with a cup of tea, rather than coffee. Not that I was complaining, though. When in Pune, do as a Puneri does.
Regrettably (or maybe not), I had to leave Pune for Bangalore again. By now I had shed my inhibitions about the nature of the food that I partook of – after all, everything has Buddha Nature. (Yes, the Vadai too has Buddha Nature, and no, I don’t get hit on the head by a stick here – I’m the guy talking about Buddha Nature, and I’ve had more Vadais than the Zen Master.) Vadais stuffed with Prawns, Chicken, and who knows what else, all accompanied by sacred libations of Coffee, opened my tastebuds and enlightened me – much as Offlian Priests were enlightened by eating the earthly shell of fried Sausages, while the true sausagidity ascended to Offler by means of smell. Having tasted many Vadais, I became a staunch Vadaiphagus, and am on my way to attaining Nirvana. After watching the Travel and Living Channel, I was doubly offended that neither Anthony Bourdain nor Keith Floyd ever tasted or even talked about the Vadai. My first sighting of the Orion Nebula didn’t remind me of cigarette smoke, as it did to most people – it looked to me like a quaintly misshapen celestial Vadai. What are Doughnuts if not Vadais in disguise? (Don’t forget the coffee).
Life is a Vadai, and I don’t want my money back.
