They say an army marches on its stomach. If that were true, then no army would get anywhere in a hurry. Can you imagine a whole bunch of jawans crawling from base to battlefield on their stomachs? The whole shebang would be over before anyone could say ‘Fire!’ Yes, yes, of course I’m taking it too literally; the imagery was too amusing to resist. What the phrase refers to is the simple fact that without a regular and plentiful supply of grub, we’d ALL be shafted, never mind the army. Team BSM is no different, and I thought I’d give you a little account of some of our go-to places when we feel like a bite (which is pretty much all the time).
I’d like to start with Anna, our wonderful Tamilian street-cart owner, who’s an absolute magician with batter and deep-frying. In the morning, he serves up piping hot idlis, but it’s after 5 pm that the real action begins. Whether it’s his patented mix-plate (one medhu vada, one potato vada, lots of sambhar and coconut chutney) or his heavenly butter sada (a crisp dosa squirting butter at every bite), there is absolutely no going wrong with this man. He’s the bedrock on which many hundreds of people survive, and when the municipal corporation occasionally drives him away, a cloud of depression descends over the entire locality. ‘Anna for President’ is what I say.
Within touching distance of Anna is Chacha, a short, wiry old man with every one of his years visible in the lines on his face. He’s the sukha bhel (bhelpuri without the chutneys) specialist, apart from being a provider of freshly roasted peanuts. To watch him at work is an experience in itself. Barely have you placed your order than he’s off, flicking the ingredients into a paper cone with barely perceptible movements of his wrist; the end result is a sweet-salty-pungent snack that’s hard to beat for both taste and VFM (Rs 5, anyone?). Chacha is also occasionally harangued by the corporation, but being a one-man, mobile operation, he usually finds it easier to leg it.
A few yards down from Chacha is a lady (name unknown, so let’s call her Mausi) who serves up fresh-off-the stove bhajiyas of every persuasion – potato, onion and spinach being the chief attractions. Her vada pav is arguably the best in the vicinity, and her dry garlic chutney is lethal in the way it creeps up and clobbers you over the skull. Mausi is peculiar in that she’s only to be seen dressed in a nightie, no matter what the occasion. I strongly suspect she has bespoke Kanjeevaram nighties that she stuns people with at weddings and the like.

Mausi’s friendly neighbour is another nameless character, whose areas of specialization are pani puris and the unique-to-Bombay ragda patties, both of which he has mastered to a nicety. His pani puris are just right – not too spicy, not too sweet – and the delicious ragda patties (essentially mashed up aloo tikkis with chhole)… well, I defy you to try one plate and then refuse a second.
There are two or three more establishments that we frequent, chiefly a sandwich joint where the owner plays Telegu movies at full volume and a chap who makes bread pakoras, but these tend to be stand-bys, for when our feeders-in-chief are indisposed for whatever reason. No matter where we’re putting down our hard-earned, though, there’s always one ever-present element – our 100 per cent pure, unadulterated, certified love for food. Indeed, if by some horrible twist of fate all these places were to shut down, it’s entirely possible that we might stop coming to work.