The last time I ate biryani was two months ago. I had pushed and shoved through the packed entrance of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, that I had tracked down deep into an old wholesale fruit market in Coimbatore. The first thing I did once inside was, take a deep breath of the masala-infused air. It felt like heaven. I found a seat next to a noisy bunch of boys and ordered mutton biryani and chilly chicken.
It was only after I wolfed it all down did I realise that there was not a single window in the entire restaurant, and the only ventilation was from an exhaust fan that puttered away deep inside the kitchen. Until I walked out, I had focussed on nothing but what was on my plate.
This is the first thing I want to do is eat outside and not worry about anything other than the food. To rub shoulders with fellow meat-lovers; to nod at the pot-bellied security guard at the biryani place I frequent; to stand in queue for a glass of tender coconut sherbet at a popular stall on the street (then feel full half-way through and wonder who on earth would buy a tall glass of sherbet after a heavy meal); to hunt for a parking space for my scooter in front of the ever-crowded Kovai Biriyani Hotel; to wait on the plastic stool outside Unnimaya Chaat Centre as the anna there drops masala-coated mushrooms into hot oil…
I want to huff and puff my way through the crowded streets of Town Hallfor vadais and bajjis from that shop that does not have a name board; I want to have thick, sweet coffee from Aroma Bakery and round it off with an egg puff. Make that two. I want samosa from that Rajasthani tea stall near my home.
I want to smile at the senior waiter at Annapoorna who brings my sambar vadai; to annoy the soan papdi seller on the bicycle by not handing him the correct change for a small paper cone filled with the fluffy white sweet… After lockdown, I want to eat heartily, but mostly, I want to see all the familiar faces I associate with my favourite food joints.