Halasuru Hannu: New Al - Ameena

The internet has killed the joy of serendipitous discovery. There are no more chance encounters with good food. Everything is documented and reviewed and re-reviewed claiming to be the original review. At best, you are second, or third, in the long list of people that claim to have discovered that biryani joint in Chintamani that was originally in Haveri back in ’66. 

“You went there just last week? I went 12 years ago on my fodder’s Luna, bob. That time, the taste was much better macha. Now it tastes like bakwaas.” You were just about to say how awesome it was before this dude sharted all over your perspective. Now, you play out your gastro-amorous qualms by making fun of people on Zomato who go to Nagarjuna and order paneer butter masala claiming the “food was strictly so-so, but the ambience was nice”. 

Nobody goes anywhere without checking it first online. Average 2.5 stars? The expectation is already built for a crappy meal. “I told you. We should have never come here in the first place”. If you’re a famous food blogger, you’re luckier. You get invited to tastings and restaurant openings after which you may proceed to sound the death knell, or toast the masses with literary expression. Verbal assassination is a concept that works well for you. It’s easier to write a scathing review than it is to write a gushing one. Casa Picola survived in Bangalore for a good part of quarter of a century serving indianised continental food until people on Burrp realised that the arrabiatta didn’t taste like arrabiata. They killed it. Along with that god-stupendous warm marble cake with ice-cream. Did anyone ever notice that? At all? 

“Did you ever go to that that idli place in north / south Bangalore? It’s so amazing! Even that dosa place with the extra benne? Delicious!” You went, it tastes nice. Strictly so-so. And the ambience is not nice. Did I really wake up at 6AM to be elbowed in the gut and sip coffee from a fucking paper cup? Give me a dubbara tumbler with my coffee or don’t give me coffee. “Donne Biryani? You should go to city. Go to Banashankari. Stand in line, man and get one token for me also. So amazing it is.” Everyone knows every place. There are no secrets. Only the prospect of a new discovery. A chance encounter of the food kind. 

Take a walk with me sometime. Heck, just take a fucking walk. First walk southward, from your house, past that masala puri guy you used to have masala puri from after school. Walk a little bit further and buy 5 pieces of assorted bhajjis for 8 bucks. Hop, skip, jump up to that torn curtain. Shift it to the side and a take a minute to let that stale smell of cheap booze waft over your head. Send a stiff ninety, served from an open quart and a loose bottle of 7up. This is your place. You may smile too, just make sure no one’s watching or someone’ll think you won a fortune at a game of cards or the races. This is serious business, don’t make a mockery of it. Is your head adequately woozy? Step out into the open. Stretch your arms above your head. That was a good drink. Every bar drinker knows how good a drink was after he steps out of a bar. It’s not lightheaded or relaxed. It’s just that feeling that makes all the traffic sounds go away. Everything seems strangely in order. Alliswell.

Step in next door for your meal. The hotel you stepped into is 50 years old. Think about that for a minute. A muslim hotel opposite a kannada church near one of Bangalore’s oldest temples. You know you’ve been here before, when the hotel was called Madeena and the food was better, but you still wanted to check it out. Think about the area it’s in. Halasuru. Named after your almost favourite fruit. Halasina Hannu. An old and much ignored bastion of forgotten nostalgia. Remembered only for that dry day in Indiranagar during the Someshwara Temple festival. An old market remains, one of the oldest in the city, serving residents since before the days of the raj. Still around. Nothing else here really. Except a brilliant biryani and a fantastic bar send, worthy of a Sunday afternoon.

 

I should totally Instagram this.