IN PRAISE OF INDIA’S CHAI STALLS

Wherever you wake up in India – whichever city, town or village you’re in – HE is there.

HE is the perfect start to your day.

Whatever you’re feeling, whatever your mood, HE will fix you.

HE is your CHAI GUY.

And even if you’ve never laid eyes on HIM before, you can recognise your CHAI GUY from 100 metres.

First, there’s the CHAI STALL itself, replicated a million times across India. All nearly identical.

It’s a plain wood façade… with unpainted planks dropping straight to meet the tarmac. The stall blends with the street as seamlessly as a wavelet kissing the beach. There’s no glass, no sign. Just the pure, polished carapace of the stall. The whole space where the CHAI GUY does his thing is about the size of a Tardis.

There’s a brief tinkling of metal on metal; a sigh of happily escaping steam.
Then, magically… IT’s in front of you.

The serving counter itself finishes just below chest height – and above it you see three things: a permanently steaming metal urn, a glass-fronted cabinet full of sugary eats, and your CHAI GUY.

To unlock the alchemy, you say two words:

‘Masala chai’.

There’s a pause; brief tinkling of metal on metal; a sigh of happily escaping steam; the sound of cascading liquid. Time swirls for a couple of lazy minutes.

Then, magically… IT’s in front of you.

In Calcutta, they served IT to me in single-use clay thimbles; in Bangalore, they used paper cuplets; in Mysore, tiny glasses; in Madikeri it was tin beakers. No matter.

Even before you touch the cup – always filled to the brim – the aroma hits you.

The ‘three C’s’… cloves, cinnamon and cardamom… the Ayurveda’s holy trinity of body-warming spices.

Masala chai talks so eloquently to your senses that reality can’t get a word in.

You reach out to pick up the drink. It’s too hot to touch, let alone to sip – but that never stops you. You put your lips to the rim, and inhale.

BOOM.

The universe shrinks to fit into your tea cup.

Traffic noise evaporates; time stops.

Your CHAI GUY has done his thing.

HIS masala chai talks so eloquently to your senses that reality can’t get a word in.

The fireworks of caffeine, dairy, sugar and spices light up every neuron in your head.

The rest of the day – like the rest of everything – are perfect… because they don’t quite exist.

Nirvana.

Retail price… 20 Indian Rupees (about 20p).

A million recipes, one brew

And here’s the thing… EACH of the millions of CHAI GUYS across India brew their masala chai in their own unique way.

And still it hits your taste buds, every time, with the same laser precision.

Your CHAI GUY may be using cane sugar, palm sugar or even raw jaggery… and stirring in one teaspoon or four. HE may be using cow’s milk or buffalo milk… raw, homogenised or powdered. HE may be brewing with tea leaves or powder… bagged or loose. HE may be adding whole peppercorns, ground pepper… or none. He may be ladling your tea, sieving it or ‘throwing’ it from a height of one a half feet into the pot.

It’s all detail… schmetail.

From the moment you see the stall, from the second you say the words ‘masala chai’, the rest of the script is written.

The only question is if you will have a second cup.

You do.

Choosing your CHAI GUY

Navigating a new city or town in India in the early morning, there’s sometimes a moment of panic that your CHAI GUY might not exist on the street you’re in.

As you wander the pavement, an array of glassy modern, air-conditioned coffee shops try to temp you:

Perky Bean Café; Sip ‘n’ Swing; Brewed Brilliance; Cappuccino Carousel

They are everywhere. But this is NOT what you are looking for.

Imagine a warm ‘pain aux raisins’… filled with with souffle-light egg and palm sugar… and you’re getting close to Chatti Pathiri

You keep the faith, you keep moving… because even in the ritziest part of the glitziest city, HE will be there.

Bingo.

Finally, in the tiny gap between the three-story mall and the international bank – there HE is.

Or rather, there THEY are… the CHAI GUYS.

Three of them… packed side-by-side in a cul de sac… in a space where you’d struggle to park two cars.

They’re identical.

How do you choose?

In Calicut, Minhaj gave me the answer.

Making the Calicut

In India, life at 1,000 metres above sea level is a breeze.

After two weeks cycling in the cool uplands of Coorg and Wayanad, adapting to coastal temperatures in Calicut was tough.

Even at 8am, the humidity was off the scale. Minutes after hitting the street, my T shirt was clinging to me.

I needed my CHAI GUY.

Near Mittayi Theruvu street, epicentre of the city, I found two chai stalls – almost side-by-side.

Minhaj was standing next to one of them, carrying carefully-wrapped parcels from his motor scooter, and easing them into the glass-fronted cabinet.

Which part of the brain is it that instantly tells you the food in front of you will be delicious?

In one hand, Minhaj was holding a tray of freshly-baked chatti pathiri – a blessed fusion of wafer-thin rice pancakes, raisins, egg and palm sugar. The chatti pathiri were still warm to the touch, and so delicious I wanted to cry. Imagine a warm, moist ‘pain aux raisins’… filled with with souffle-light egg and palm sugar… and you’re getting close.

In the other hand, he held an ada – a pocket-rocket of pleasure, with rice flour woven around fresh coconut, sugar and cumin – baked in banana leaves.

This was the stall to go to.

Minhaj and I chatted.

Multiplied a million times across India, the CHAI GUYS are supporting tens of millions of independent bakers, entrepreneurs and suppliers

Filling the food cabinet with different goodies, he explained that a different member of his family creates each one.

Every day, his aunt bakes the chatti pathiri. His grandmother makes the ada. Other female relatives specialise in their own dish. Each woman brings a lifetime of skill and experience to create something that is… literally… perfection.

Minhaj is the middleman who delivers everything to the CHAI GUY.

For me, he’s also the bridge between the old and new Indias.

“Student and entrepreneur”, as he smilingly describes himself, Minhaj connects the India of traditional skills and deep family bonds with the restless new India of change and transformation. I would have loved to chat longer… maybe even meet his family… understand more about their passion for creating insanely delicious, traditional food.

Stading in the early morning sun – sipping my masala chai, eating my chatti pathiri – it suddenly hits me that the CHAI GUY is the visible tip of an iceberg of micro industries.

Each CHAI GUY isn’t simply selling tea to thirsty punters – HE’s a national institution.

Multiplied a million times across India, the CHAI GUYS are supporting tens of millions of independent bakers, entrepreneurs and suppliers who sell to them. Café cum meditation centre; eatery cum ayurveda spa; baker cum talking-therapy clinic… the CHAI GUY is the tranquil eye of the Indian storm. In every street, in every town, in every village, HE is there – calmly serving the greatest drink on the planet to the most populous country on Earth.

Can it last?

Or will the CHAI GUYS be starbucksed into oblivion?

In 20 years’ time, will the CHAI GUYS still be there at dawn, in their Tardis-sized micro enterprises – waiting to serve you a drink that thrills you to your core?

When Minhaj’s grandmother retires, will the next generation bake fresh ada in banana leaves?

Right now, I’m riding a masala high, and I’m too happy to think straight.

Past and future are eclipsed by the deliciousness of the present.

Every day, Minhaj’s aunt bakes the chatti pathiri. His grandmother makes the ada. Each brings a lifetime of skill to create something that’s literally perfection.

Minhaj pays the CHAI GUY for everything I’ve eaten and drunk (two chais, a chatti pathiri and an ada) and won’t take a single rupee from me.

We exchange phone numbers – and I promise to ping him when this blog is up.

A truly charming, welcoming man – proud of his culture, and keen to welcome others to share it.

I hope he likes the blog.

Thank you Minhaj.

Thank you India.