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The Hindu
7 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Hindu
Author Prajwal Parajuly chases the perfect dumpling and finds it in Chennai
Almost all my favourite restaurants in New York and London, or anywhere else, are east Asian or Southeast Asian. Clearly, I have a bias for foods from a certain part of the world. In New York, I often go to Thai Diner and Jeju and Atoboy. For no-frills Chinese, I like Chili. I've sadly not met a single New York dim sum I can unreservedly recommend—not in Chinatown, not in Flushing, and not even at the aforementioned Chili. For the perfect dim-sum, I choose Royal China Club in London. How serious a patron am I? On a recent weeklong trip to the city, I went to the restaurant four times. I twice took the train from Paris a few years ago just to eat the crispy lobster dim-sum for lunch. For Japanese, I like Akira—I was once fed an avocado there, skin intact, and was open-mouthed at the chef's ability to render spectacular the inedible. For somewhat pretentious Chinese fare, I like A Wong. The New York Din Tai Fung is better than the London one, but neither can quite capture the magic of the Asian DTFs. Closer home, in Calcutta, I go to Beijing and Chinoiserie and Ban Thai. In Delhi, I patronise a Chinese restaurant I shall not name. It's so good and so seedy. Because Chennai is the most Korean city in South Asia, I've been able to continue indulging my love for the cuisine here. But I've long asked people where to go for the best Chinese and Thai and Indonesian food here. Some recommendations were better than others. Three in particular stood out. When I was first told of Pumpkin Tales, I bristled. Any restaurant that dabbles in that much range, I'd say, deserves to rot in the same culinary backwater where five-star-hotel buffets belong. Pumpkin Tales, though, is cuisine-agnostic in the best possible way. The offerings are as varied as laksa and Balinese curry; Tuscan chicken and garlic sherry mushroom; and sandwiches and Mee Goreng. I could say the restaurant is multi-cuisine, but the term is a pejorative in my book — every place that calls itself that serves unremarkable food. Pumpkin Tales definitely doesn't do unremarkable food. Run by Chef Chindi Varadarajulu, it specialises in these wholesome, homey dishes that are often earnest and always charming. I marvel at the chef's ability to craft a sourdough pizza with as much aplomb as the Thai green curry. I marvel that my family of self-righteous eaters smiled wide after sampling almost all the vegetarian stuff on the menu. Still, if the restaurant does Asian food so well, I once asked in between mouthfuls of bibimbap, why not just open an Asian restaurant? It turns out the team had the same idea. Zhouyu, a Chinese restaurant located two floors up in the same building, comes from the house of Pumpkin Tales. I was nervous about visiting the place, which specialises in Cantonese, Sichuan and Hunan cooking, because it came recommended by my editor, with whom I disagree on everything from chutneys to commas. To complicate matters, we decided to go together. As we worked our way through the yuxiang eggplant and prawns with ridge gourd, I noticed a shift: for once, she and I were on the same page. We agreed on the originality, know-how, and flavours. We both declared everything excellent. We'd be back soon. I returned part of a big, unwieldy group of ten with ridiculous dietary requirements. Some of us were vegetarian. Others were pescatarian. Some of us liked our tongues singed by mala sauce. Others had the spice tolerance of two-year-olds who hadn't experienced the world beyond applesauce. In its recommendations, the restaurant managed to accommodate us all. We ordered the Hong Kong fish, a delicately spiced sea-bass, with zero expectations and evolved into unequivocal fans. I'd rate the dim-sum here better than any I've had in New York in terms of wrapping texture, stuffing succulence and freshness of ingredients. I caught an avowed pescatarian in our group scarf down a chicken-and-chive dumpling. There's an easy competence to these restaurants. The service is heartfelt. One of the partners is always present — the standards are high. High is also where you go to use the bathroom, which is on an altogether different floor. Both the restaurants are the size of football fields, and I'd love it if they were divided into smaller, cosier rooms. Right now, at least Zhouyu feels a bit like Singapore — seemingly perfect and a tad antiseptic. But who notices the ambience when a bowl of soybean tauchu calamari is plopped in front of you? I come from a culture in which fermented soybean is a delicacy, but I have seen it polarise eaters whether I am in Japan or in the northeast. At Zhouyu, the fussiest of us declared the dish a hit. If soul — zany, kitschy, irreplaceable soul — is what you are after, you should head to Dahlia. Origami of various sizes and colours vie for your attention in a space that could have been conjured up in your trippy dreams. Like that weren't eccentric enough, the entire restaurant is serviced by one staffer, the famous Valli, smile unfaltering. You are incredulous that you are being carpet-bombed with butter fish, kaatsu and chawan mushi in this strange joint that is suspended in time and between continents. Is it 1960s Havana, 1970s Tokyo or 1980s Chennai that you are in, you wonder. That, of course, is part of the appeal. It helps that the food is unembellished and unpretentious. It is also delightful. If only one of these restaurants opened a Sri City outlet, how delicious life would be. Prajwal Parajuly is a novelist. Karma and Lola, his new book, is forthcoming in 2026. He teaches creative writing at Krea University and oscillates between New York City and Sri City.
The Hindu
28-05-2025
- The Hindu
Author Prajwal Parajuly on why chutney, not idli, is his go-to dish
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.
