Kola urundai, a la mode

On my first visit to Puducherry a few years ago, I was bemused to hear a wizened old man seeking alms say “ Merci , ma!” when I gave him some change. A colony of France it might have been, but I didn’t realise the French influence extended so far. The food is always a theme, though. Puducherry has some nice restaurants serving French and continental food, but I don’t know if there are any serving Franco-Puducherry food - a fusion of French and local cooking styles. I was unaware of it till a few years ago. When I was invited to Dakshin at Chennai’s Sheraton Park Hotel & Towers to sample it, dormant memories gave way to both curiosity and scepticism.

Did that sort of cuisine really exist? What kind of local people cooked it? And didn’t the French flavours get drowned in the local spices? Executive Chef Praveen Anand and Senior Chef Harish Rao, however, insist it’s a cuisine all its own, asserting it has enough breadth to qualify. It’s an undiscovered cuisine, says Anand, who adds that it likely owes its origin to people with French employers. His exploration of it began with the serendipitous discovery of a recipe book from the late 1920s. “It was probably meant for private circulation,” he says. A Marie Kulandaiswamy and her daughter were behind the book written in Tamil. The recent publication of the English version of The Pondicherry Kitchen by Lourdes Tirouvanziam-Louis has also stoked some interest in the cuisine.

To begin with, I try the

meen puyyapaise — which is the local adaptation of the famed bouillabaisse , if not in form then in spirit. What I get is a clear soup in which float shrimp, chunks of fish, potato, carrot and brinjal (er… let’s call it ‘aubergine’). It is excellent and does its job of stimulating the appetite for the rest of the meal. Next comes the kasa kasa kola urundai (fried rounds of lamb mince with poppy seed) with a green mango and green chilli chutney. The condiment is tangy with an aftertaste of heat, though I can also detect some sugar. Next on the menu is the beetroot saladu (salad). It is dressed in French mustard and coconut milk and makes a pretty picture with the pinkness of the beets staining the green lettuce and cabbage accompanying it. The crunch of the greens contrasts well with the soft-boiled beetroot but I could not taste the mustard.

Chef Harish makes up a

thali of the rest of the food. The recipe for the langouste curry (lobster) contains thyme which, he says, was probably brought by the French when they travelled to India. It’s unlikely the Puducherry weather would permit it to be grown here. The curry is a rich red, but mild and tasty, though I can’t spot any thyme in it. Among the other curries in the thali , the coq curry stands out. Lest your knowledge of French tell you it’s chicken curry, be warned, this is pure vegetarian — a rich and tangy affair of brinjal and tamarind. The vaadumai curry, made with ground almonds, is a clear marker of French influence, says Chef Praveen — the use of almonds in South Indian food is rare. It is an almost-white gravy with only the beans and carrots adding some colour. The use of saffron also marks Franco-Puducherry cuisine as distinct, he says. Most of the spices are “mellowed” and ghee rice is popular. The vegetables used are all Indian except the gundu mullangi or turnip, of which we try a kootu .

I feel a little restless because so far the food has not really stood out from other South Indian cuisines. It is not as spicy, though. Chef Harish then tells us of the yera-nungu curry, which is made with prawns and the jelly-like fruit of the toddy palm that is a summer favourite. Alas, the season for nungu is over!

The dessert is what really stands out and convinces me that I might go back to try more of this food. There’s coconut baguette — toasted French bread in thickened coconut milk flavoured with just a hint of cardamom, and Puducherry cake. What looks like a solid, solemn block reveals little black raisins when I cut into it, providing a tart contrast. Chef Harish serves it with a rose petal basundi — a clever combination, because the cake is so dense and crumbly that it needs a moist touch to go down.