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| Photo Credit: Saai

To survive the many splendours of Sri City, where I live part of the year, one must get away every so often. Weekending in Chennai is the easiest option.  For several of my colleagues, Chennai means concerts. For others, it means stocking up on miso and pesto. For yet others, it means brunch at Pumpkin Tales and cocktails at MadCo. What would Chennai mean to me? I had enjoyed the whimsy of Tulika Books and the gastronomic wonder that was Avartana. I had jumped rope at the Madras Club and had twice eaten the cloud pudding at Kappa Chakka Kandhari. I had also had a bit of a spiritual awakening watching a rooster sashay down a ramp at the Kapaleeshwarar temple. 

All delightful experiences, no doubt, but mere footnotes to the one thing that would bring me back to Chennai again and again: the humble idli chutney.  The array of chutneys at Murugan Idli, to be specific. 

I didn’t know what a preoccupation these chutneys would become when I first made my way to the GN Road outlet at T Nagar. An innocuous idli was plonked on my banana leaf, on top which the waiter ladled out a generous portion of sambhar. There they were in white, green, and two varieties of orange — a quartet of chutneys so flavourful that the idli seemed like an afterthought. There was just the right hint of piquancy, and what was that I tasted? It was sesame, its lavish use genius. I went to Murugan again for dinner and returned for lunch the next day. 

It is now almost always my first stop when I get into Chennai. 

What is it about Murugan? It is unassuming. But that can be said for any number of Chennai eateries. The service is indifferent on a good day and infuriating on most days. No one will go to any of the outlets for the ambience either. If I am not going for the vibes or the service, why would I submit myself to a meal — sometimes two meals — a day? It’s because I am a chutney addict through and through.  Nothing else matters — not the crisp rava dosa nor the sambhar. Neither the fluffy idli nor the inoffensive uttapam. I eat the chutneys — dollops and dollops of them — like they are the main course and the idli, the accompaniment. How I love making snaky rivulets on the banana leaf with my fingers, mixing and matching one, two, three or four chutneys with a smidgen of idli, and guiding the concoction to my mouth as it drips down my elbow, yellowing my shirt, and filling my gluttonous heart with unbridled joy. 

I’d soon realise that few topics polarise Chennai more than Murugan Idli. For each foodie who unequivocally declares the restaurant as her favourite, there’s the one who froths at his mouth recounting its circumspect hygiene. “Went … a month ago, and it was ghastly,” pronounces my editor, not one to mince words. There are those for whom the lack of consistency jars. “I’ll only go to the one across from the Armenian church,” my colleague Kaveri once declared. My sister points out that in a city brimming with excellent food, Murugan is middling, but she also forks and knifes her dosa, so her opinion doesn’t count. Eating Circles any day, some say. There are then the Sangeetha militants. No self-respecting Sangeetha loyalist will out himself as a Murugan fan. 

Sure, not every Murugan is created equal. I’ll set foot in the Besant Nagar location only for takeaway chutneys and nothing else. Not one dosa I have eaten there has come out warm. Plus, in a neighborhood with Native Tiffins and Vishranti — the idli at the former is so well fermented that it renders the chutney useless — a lack-lustre Murugan is just wrath-inducing. I’ve given the outlet three (three!) chances, and I fully sympathise with those who are unconvinced of Murugan’s greatness because it’s the one location that can’t get anything right. That doesn’t mean I will not judge these Murugan haters for dismissing my beloved chain altogether. I shall judge them almost as severely as I do those food writers who describe the idli as a rice cake, the dosa as a crepe and — the biggest horror — the chutney as a kind of pickle. 

Friends joke that I am responsible for quadrupling Murugan’s profits. But they are wrong. Idli is cheap food. I feel awful that the fourth, fifth and sixth free chutney helpings likely cost more than the 23 rupees per idli that I am charged. To circumvent this guilt, I invariably order a rava masala onion dosa, eating which requires … another few ladles of chutney. I return to Sri City with more chutney than blood in my veins.

Prajwal Parajuly is the author of The Gurkha’s Daughter and Land Where I Flee. He loves idli, loathes naan, and is indifferent to coffee. He teaches Creative Writing at Krea University and oscillates between New York City and Sri City.