From kurkure chicken momos to gobi manchurian, the Indian palate has been enlivened by an array of weird and wonderful dishes. Why be mealy-mouthed about an idli burger?
Consider the position of the average idli: Why should this food, with no real taste of its own, but blessed with a spongy texture that allows it to soak in other flavours, be doomed to an eternal pairing with just sambar and chutney? There is no time like now to ponder this question as the Indian internet has a collective meltdown over a video of a Delhi street stall’s “idli burger”, where an idli is sliced from the middle, slathered with chutneys, sauces, mayo and sprinkled with grated vegetables and cheese, before being put back together.
Even as food purists have a fit of the vapours over this so-called “abomination”, they would do well to remember that food is more than just meat and vegetable, cereal and dairy — it is an ever-evolving display of human ingenuity and creativity, a canvas on which individual tastes can be projected and opened up to the possibility of collective enjoyment. Did the food vendor in Bombay, keen to sell a quick meal to harried workers, imagine he was inventing a classic when he sliced open a pao and slid an aloo vada into it? And did the person who first decided to combine cold ice-cream with hot gulab jamun realise that she was creating a dish without which no wedding feast in India would be complete?
As for the idli, here are all the ways in which it can be enjoyed: Dunked in sambar or rasam; dipped in an array of chutneys; coated in a paste of molaga podi and ghee; soaked in fish or chicken curry; with a fried egg on top; sliced, deep fried and sprinkled with chaat masala; chopped and stir-fried with vegetables and sauces. From kurkure chicken momos to gobi manchurian, the Indian palate has been enlivened by an array of weird and wonderful dishes. Why be mealy-mouthed about an idli burger?
