A curious bystander, leaning its neck across the street turning in L-shaped enquiry. Impossible to miss from either of the roads with a name boards for each arm of the right angle- "Ramaas Cafe" spelt in white over navy blue polythene stretched tight, clean large old-fashioned capital-letter calligraphy, instead of the usual neon ugliness and illuminated projections of alphabet metal.

I knew I was transformed into a regular the minute I stepped in because I didn’t feel the need to look at the menu or deliberate over decisions. I already divined for example that the best time to onion vadai would be around dour-o-clock when they would be hot and freshly made and not six when the batch would have run out. That the perfect circles of parottas would be gold-specked and crispy to a thickness of 2 mm and then white chewy and elastic. That the coffee here was prone to eccentric swings of personality- deliriously sugary one day and despondently dilute the next. Thick and strong sometimes on those rare early afternoons that I drop into and milky-light and teary-eyed at the end of a long caffeine-intensive evening.
But I preferred this temperamental concoction, its roller coaster rides between stainless steel tumbler and “davara” and the sight of the coffee kicking up deliciously brown foamy fuss (watching the foam rise to the brim is an aesthetic stimulus that can compensate for any defects of taste). Rather than subjecting myself to the hiss of a shamelessly displayed coffee-maker that makes the same decoction (the making of which is an art and not a formula) day after day in a fast-food joint that gallingly, serves it in plastic cups minus the all-important “davara”

It was the kind of place that couldn't have made you feel any other way but an old-timer because baubled familiarity hung all over it. Between the perpetually-rolled up bamboo-stalk window shades, on the mica-sheeted tables, behind the juice and chat counters and all over the waiters who would treat you as if you’ve been eating there forever, even if it was your first time. The kind of place that promised to remember your order by-heart and then prompt you, “Idly- vadai , as usual? And then half a serving of coffee?” even before your memory clicks awake.

I chose the corner table for that was the closest I could get to the street and with the window shades rolled up and welcoming, the street lounged within its precincts all day. This has never happened before, my wanting to enjoy roadside views as an accompaniment to amid-evening meal. My “ambience” preferences have always been carefully disinfected of noise of any kind and vehicular noise has the same effect on my mood as that of a well-oiled spanner on an ill-fitting bolt.

But then identities were stripped off in that quaint Madras setting and everybody assumed the role (Sambar guzzling south Indian whose audible burps somehow gladden proprietorial hearts?) appropriate to the setting. All of us ordered the same things, ate with their hands, smearing entire finger length with chutney-flecked sambar. The establishment must have dispensed with spoons altogether because it was impossible not to spread sambar and chutneys over you plate and soak your hands with that satisfyingly untidy mixture. It was a relief not to be confronted with an sulky spoon or to feel awkward about asking for your fourth extra helping of Sambar. The waiters always refilled my cups without a single word or glance being exchanged. And I’m certain that they don’t stock tissue paper or choose to arrange those coarse sheets into flimsy white floral patterns within glasses.

In short, it was a place the likes of my father would have patronised in their youth or my grandfathers (I’m quite sure of this though I haven’t known either of them, alive.) would have turned to all their lives. It has survived the fast-foodisation of Madras café s, the disgusting pretences of pseudo-gourmet culture and the wander-lust impulses that gastronomic infidelity has inspired among my contemporaries (Most complain of having run out of “Italian places” in Madras to “sample”. I suppose they wouldn’t condescend to give these idli-dosa joints a try) and has still preserved remnants of my city’s old-world hospitality. And to think that a newly constructed flyover (I don’t know which one, there has been a spate of flyover inaugurals in the last 3 years) almost shut this place down. Its transplantation from the bustling heart of an Alwarpet main road to this leafy little street corner might have been the best thing that’s happened to it. I wouldn’t have enjoyed an exhaust-clouded view of a or bust-honk-symphonies too much.


PS: Glamorizing places that are sworn to antiquity or falling in love just for the fleeting taste of the past is habit I don’t seem to be able to break.