The South Indian DOSA

Breakfast is the mark of civilization, but it has become the most ill-served of meals. It deserves a leisurely journey, not the grab and run to which it is subjected. Think of the full English breakfast and then think Egg McMuffin. And if you prefer the latter you deserve to be given the bamboo, put in a steamer and turned into a puttu. Not only has it missed the bus, in the bid to catch it every morning, breakfast has been bypassed in all the to-ing and fro-ing of food fashions. When brunch became the next big thing, you would have imagined that it would have slipped back into our life with the ease - and entitlement - of a sausage in a skillet. But it was not to be. The 'unch' overwhelmed the 'br'. Overwhelmed by the handis, no wonder the bacon curls up and dies on restaurant buffets.

Only the aficionados save the day. In every city, there exists a small band of valiant fighters crying 'Poha/ upma/ sanna/ aloo parantha is my birthright, and I will have it.' Setting out at break of day, they sniff out the alleys where the real McCoy isn't coy about its true place in the culinary sun. They make little notes in the Glutton's Guide to the Galaxy of steamed, stir-fried and sizzled local breakfasts - and sometimes even write pretentious essays on the subject. Forget the impostor indices of knowing how many strands of saffron are too many or getting into a dill se discussion on the sea bass. The real differentiator of those who truly know their onions is their attitude towards the perfect akuri. How far they will go for it, how long they will wait for it, and how fiercely they will defend the fact that said onions in said ambrosia must be sliced, never chopped.

Every region of India has its divine breakfasts, and to search and try them out is to get a taste of heaven. For starters, early morning is the best time for an adventure as urban as culinary. The pollution hasn't yet overpowered the mist, fumes haven't overwhelmed the aromas, the city is still stirring not stomping and shouting. The sun is still cradled in gentleness. Even a sharp chill eggs you on as you set out for hot jalebis dipped in scalding brass tumblers of milk or paranthas sizzling as a hearty dhabawalla strikes his tawa with all the ceremony of a butler sounding the dinner gong.