FOODIE SPECIAL....................Hot on the sambar trail

Hot on the sambar trail

Lazy afternoons in Thiruvananthapuram always had their genesis in lunch. Heady summer vacations were punctuated by hours spent in the family kitchen. It was here that grandmother's alchemy birthed soul food to die for: fluffy rice, fish fry, Guruvayur pappadum and cabbage thoran. Anchoring this medley was her sambar – an elixir so comforting, it could stopgap the 'sambar versus rasam' debate. Defining sambar is as difficult as counting backwards in a hypnagogic state. Sure, there’s a broad outline: lentil and tamarind-based gravy with one or more vegetables, to which sambar podi or powder is added. But unlike standardised restaurant variants, sambar is diverse. And that’s really why it’s hallowed in south India. “You’ll find sambar-rice in railway stations, Amma canteens, temples, lunchboxes,” says Chennai-based culinary writer-editor Padmini Natarajan. “But we all have our own ways of making it. In Tamil Nadu itself, the podi differs across regions, communities and households.” Speckled history A family tradition – of sorts – is believed to have introduced sambar to the world. The story goes that Shahuji Bhonsle, the second Maratha ruler of Thanjavur (who reigned from 1684-1712), was to welcome cousin Sambhaji – son of Shivaji – to his palace. But preparations for a royal feast were hindered as kokum, used for Maharashtrian amti, was unavailable. “Since there was no kokum, they used tamarind, the local souring agent. This dish was named ‘sambar’ in honour of Sambhaji,” says Thanjavur native Nandini Vitthal. Vitthal belongs to the Thanjavur Maratha Deshastha community, whose forefathers were priests and officials in Thanjavur Maratha courts. So the quintessentially Tamilian sambar was a Maratha creation. Reservations are rife about this story. But academic and food historian Pushpesh Pant believes it to be true. He says Thanjavur’s Saraswati Mahal library has manuscripts that prove this, and adds: “The late KT Achaya (India’s most famous food historian) noted there was no mention of sambar before the Thanjavur Maratha era.” That said, it doesn’t help that our food history is either disputed or poorly documented. Jayanti Rajagopalan, owner of Hyderabad-based culinary tour company Detours, points to a 1648 account of huli. “Huli, meaning ‘tamarind’ or ‘sourness’ in Kannada, was written about by Govinda Vaidya, a poet in the court of Wodeyar king Kanteerva Narasa Rajendra Vijaye. Described as toor dal with vegetables, it was akin to sambar.” Huli is prepared the same way too, but has jaggery and coconut. Regardless, there’s no disagreement over the influence of the Thanjavur Marathis on Tamil cuisine. When this relatively little-known community migrated from Maharashtra, it brought along dishes like puranpoli (boli in Tamil) and pitla (pitlai) and developed a unique cuisine, a confluence of Maharashtrian, Kannada and Tamilian flavours. One of their contributions, says Padmini Natarajan, is none other than the divine brinjal dish, kathirikai rasavangi. Spoilt for choice Homemaker Savita Rao has much to say about the homogenisation of ‘Karnataka sambar’. The famous (or infamous) Udupi sweet-sour sambar sans vegetables is hardly made at home, she says, since it is satvik – cooked by Brahmins at the Sri Krishna Matha. That it became endemic in eateries is more a testament to our collective palate. “Anything to do with the south is considered ‘Madrasi’,” she laughs. “But in Karnataka, sambar is known as koddel (Tulu), kolombo (Konkani), huli. We Tuluvas add white and red pumpkin, drumsticks and bhindi. We don’t use as many vegetables as in Malayalee sambar.” Sambar isn’t as pivotal to Andhra food. That spot goes to pappu charu (dal rasam). For accompaniments, people prefer pacchadi/chutney and podi to sambar, says Jayanti Rajagopalan. “And in Telangana, where food in fluenced by Nizami cuisine, there’s kaddu ka dalcha – meat and chana dal cooked with tamarind and sambar-like masala,” she says. Curiously, sambar is rarely called so in most Tamilian homes. Both Rajagopalan and Padmini Natarajan say kuzhambu, an umbrella term for ‘gravy’, is commonly used. As for varieties: “There’s paruppu urundai sambar/kuzhambu, where dal is balled into kofta-like dumplings and cooked in the base. And muttai kuzhambu – egg sambar,” outlines Natarajan. Palghat Iyers, who came to Kerala from Tamil Nadu, may have brought sambar to the state. Their sambar is distinct due to a crucial local ingredient: coconut. But even Kerala sambar without coconut is unique since all seasoning is in coconut oil. “Ulli or onion sambar is a traditional recipe,” says dietician and food blogger Nimi Sunilkumar. “And it’s hard to find today.” Ulli sambar is an exception in a state where just about every vegetable, from beans and raw banana to brinjal and yam, is used in sambar. Even bitter gourd finds its way in sometimes. “But our sambar has nice consistency. Tamilians put a lot more water,” chuckles Sunilkumar. Theory of evolution Making sambar masala was once tough – sun-dried ingredients were roasted and ground to a paste. Such pastes may have evolved into ready podis, but Pushpesh Pant swears by sambar made the old school way: “My favourite is Mylapore Tamil Iyer sambar with home-ground paste. It had MG hing aromatising it, tempered with fresh curry leaves and ghee on the side. Bliss with steaming, fluffy rice. Who needs a loaf of bread or a flask of wine to gain paradise now?” No arguments there. roshni.nair@dnaindia