Dosai, goats and not everything that you want to know about India

Day 2 Chennai (Madras)

We’ve traveled and eaten from the Bay of Bengal on the east to the Arabian Sea on the west. We’ve encountered slow internet connections, outdated browsers and dodgy mice which is why I haven’t updated since Chennai (Madras), where we first tasted how fragrant Indian food can be when made with freshly ground local spices and plenty of curry leaves.

There is so much I want to tell you but there is only one thing you sickos want to know through Facebook, emails and telephone calls: did I do a Dubai? Well I’m not going to answer that questions straight off. You’ll have to keep reading to find out. All I’ll say is that I’m back and have plenty to show and tell and I’m not talking about my underpants.

I’d like to first tell you about the excellent coffee which is drunk more than chai in the south. There are the variations on chai, all tooth-achingly sweet, from delicately spiced masalas to brick red builders’ tea.

We’ve seen human and animal suffering and smelt the stink of shit in the waterways surrounding rubbish-strewn shanty towns and real life slumdogs – but very few millonaires (although we saw the film in Bombay).

Chennai (Madras)

We’ve also encountered sexily posed beach goats, families enjoying the beach as well as fractious European yoga types who aren’t quite that chilled when push, as it inevitably does, becomes shove in India.

Until we reached Varkala in Kerala our days started with a mix of Dosai – a sort of Indian crepe served with coconut Chatni and a spicy sambar or sauce – and idli – a volumptious pillow of fermented rice formed in a soft cake which is steamed and also served with the same chutneys and sambal.

Chennai (Madras)

We’ve eaten dosai from upmarket hotels to home stays and working men’s cafes where we caused some amusement. Each Dosai has its own character. The hotel – Raintree Chennai – served a small and delicate one served plain of masala (stuffed with spiced potatoes) and dipped delicately by hand in the chatnis and sambal. At working men’s cafes they were large and rustic and the sambal was dumped on top. We ripped pieces off and shoved them in our gobs.
This is real south Indian food and probably as close as we got to eating it.

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