The disgruntled youth looking about himself sullenly, walked into the adjoining kitchen room where a dhoti clad nonchalant sweaty brown creature with a pear shaped paunch was leaning over a table. With his heavy hairy hands, he was scrubbing mounds of thick black oily smudge from the kitchen table with a chequered piece of cloth wrapped around his wrist. The cook patiently entertained the youth’s complaints about serving late, nonplussed and reserved, he pointed in the direction of the hot pan on the stove, mumbled something about the huge number of orders. With that, he pulled out a grimy broom from the floor, beat it against the charcoal black wall to get rid of the roaches, and swept the pans clean. He then proceeded to dip his grisly hands in the vessel containing dosa paste with a flat bottomed tumbler before mopping his deeply furrowed forehead off the torrential sweat that never ceased to bother him.
The youth was slightly taken aback; the ghastly nature of the kitchen left him feeling squeamish and disgusted. But he was a man of perspicacity; soon enough, he ordered for idly instead of the dosa. Pulling open the buttons of his sweat soaked t-shirt, still muttering something under his breath, the cook lifted a plastic bucket lying under the leaking wash basin and emptied it in the street. Tucking the empty bucket in his arm pit, with a belly that wobbled with every step he took, the cook reached out with his hands and opened the idly vessel. With one fling of an arm, he threw the bucket that was dripping slime into the corner, tapped it with his feet until it lodged itself underneath the leaky wash basin. Now he proceeded to pull the steaming idly plates, felt the idlies with his finger tips before scooping them out and serving to the youth in a steel plate that had a dented bottom.
When it comes to meals, neither the rice nor the curries are warm. The rice is lumpy, for it has been over 4-5 hours since the time of cooking, lizard eggs on the walls, smelly glass tumblers, and uncouth kitchen with doors ajar. Even, air born bacteria would sense the indifference of the diners in the hall, such is the depravity. As soon you sit before the table, a man walks over to distribute plates followed by another man shoving rice onto your plate, followed by a pappad and curd. Curries, sambar and rasam are within reach, but at room temperature, and I have never seen anyone complain.
Chennai is horrible. This place subdues your twitching taste buds and in its place grow the buds of hunger. You descend to the levels of primitive man and feed in the incurably unhygienic mess halls. Where once you relished and fantasized the widest buffets, where drooling lips and heavy munching could be heard in the halls; here all you find is conspicuous apathy. Here, to dine, is not to relish the succulent rich flavours of food, but to refill the machine.
Pull over near a mess hall and refill.
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