Teppan-yaki, Teppan-yummy

Sukh Sagar opened near our house a month back. Anando and I had watched with keen interest as the shop was readied for its opening, droolingly anticipating a homely food experience in Dubai. We kept track of when the tables were set up, when the tablecloths were laid, when chairs were brought in. If one of us walked past the restaurant we'd report the visible progress to the other.

Finally it opened, and a friend who had eaten 3 meals there in 2 days urged us to try the "all you can eat Teppanyaki dosa", recommending it highly.

"All you can eat" is always music to the ears, and yesterday we strode purposefully to check out what all the fuss was about. To watch the teppanyaki dosas being created, we perched on bar stools, banana leaf covering our plates kept on the bar counter, as the chef deftly served us rounds of a mind-boggling dosa variety! Mushroom, spinach and cheese, Szechwan, rawa, and so many more I can't remember. I was quite excited about the whole concept of teppanyaki dosa now that I could smell it, and peering over the counter, I watched as the man cooked up the crisp marvels.

And then, I realised, this wasn't new at all. I had been eating teppanyaki dosa since the age of 9! The school canteen cooked dosas in front of us at lunch time! Back then, being given money rather than a lunch box was always a special occasion, with the pride and maturity I felt at being allowed to handle money to buy a meal. I'd check my pockets all day to make sure the coins hadn't fallen out. If it was a note, it would be carefully tucked in my pencil box. And at lunch time, trying to appear nonchalant, I would enter our high-ceilinged, bustling canteen.

I still remember the faces of those dosa-makers. tall, dark, moustached - they would scoop out the dosa paste with a bowl, tap it on the griddle to create a small, puffy circle of not-yet-dosa, and then, flipping the bowl over, would use its base to spread, spread, spread the paste outwards, creating a solar-system shaped, crisp dosa that was brown on the outside and white on the inside. A quick two-scoop of masala aloo, and my dosa was on my plate, and drowning in sambhar before I could voice my objection. I watched that process in fascination for 7 years, growing from the tiptoe-height of the flame to a height where I could look down on my lunch being prepared.

Sometimes it would be Narayan making the dosas. Versatile Narayan - who was my bus conductor on PV 11 when I first joined school, and assured my parents I would reach the correct classroom, who brought in trays of water glasses during exams, grinning conspiratorially at the kids taking advantage of the temporary break to peek at other papers or sneak in a quick consultation, who updated us on cricket scores on days we were unwillingly at school while cricketing history (or so we thought) was being made elsewhere, whose moustache is finally turning grey and whose hair is at last thinning.

So what made the dosas last night especially yummy was the memories that sizzled off the griddle and wafted me back in time - when bliss meant having a jingling 2 Rupees in your pocket for a hot, hearty meal.