Food for my soul: Andhra Pradesh Bhavan Canteen
I write this as an ode to the oldest, most famous state canteen in Delhi. The capital is home to a smattering of state canteens and bhavans, but ‘Andhra Bhavan’ as we colloquially call it, is my go-to place for mood-altering meals with faultless consistency. They have various options to choose from: I can lose myself in some tangy curry if I’m having a bad day, or experience a celebratory meat extravaganza. I could even go for a hangover cure of Rasam with rice that will instantly jolt me out of my slumber; this beacon of homely canteen food has given me some of my tastiest meals in the city.
The words ‘Andhra Pradesh Bhavan Canteen’ are plastered in an old uninspiring font on a red Coca Cold backdrop outside the restaurant. There is a long line that snakes past this board on Sundays when they serve Biryani. People coming flocking in droves, with queues long enough to make you believe that this is the last time they’ll ever serve biryani again.
The experience of eating in this conveyor belt of endless food is manic and rich with experience and flavour. The foreman of the establishment shouts numbers at the top of his voice, while the next set of customers wait with urgency; their stomachs are refusing to comply, they need to satiate their growling appetites.
You can clearly visualize the meal you’re in store for if you notice the patrons who’ve just finished their food. The sweet cajoles of an upcoming siesta are visible in their eyes, as they slowly stumble away from their bare metal tables, their bellies quivering under the weight of mounds of rice and meat that have been shovelled into their hapless mouths; their hands and teeth working in tandem while ignoring the faint cries of the stomach. ‘I’m full! Not another bite, please. I think I’m going to pass out’.
The number of people they serve for a meal can reach close to 500 on Sundays(which is their busiest day of the week). Their servers have arms like automated catapults, chucking food into your thali with expert precision; I’m pretty sure they could do this with their eyes closed. It doesn’t take them long to fill you up. Barely a few seconds go by when the craters on your plate are empty; the shiny steel of the plate only momentarily visible to the eyes. It’s almost as if the men serving you have a spidey-sense. They know immediately that there is a customer in trouble, he’s not full yet and the world is depending on them to make sure he is immobile before he decides he’s had enough. A veritable, suave, Andhra Jam-es Baand. Sambar, seri?
The food has also occasionally given me the feeling that my mouth is on fire and that my face may slowly melt off and fall into my plate, but I still feel it’s worth it. Every bite of furious flavour that burns my taste buds is worth it. Despite every raindrop of sweat on my head, every hiccup or grenade of acidity, I wouldn’t change it for the world. My last meal had me sweating so much that my cream coloured shorts were pockmarked with beads of perspiration that slalomed slowly down my cheek and hung off my chin, leaving a pattern of dots on my thighs. We took a few deep breaths before heaving ourselves to our feet. As we walked out the door with smiles on our faces, and fire on our lips, Andhra Bhavan was readying itself for its next set of hedonists. Cue the magic all over again.
