Gopichand Katragadda the former CTO of Tata Group and founder of AI company Myelin Foundry is driven to peel off known facts to discover unknown layers. X@Gkatragadda
Credit: DH Illustration
Recently, a dear friend found it funny to learn that I periodically audited the raw material, the process, and even the colour of my cook’s Sambar. But then, Sambar matters! And many a meal has been held hostage by Sambar Wars!
Ah, Sambar Wars! It is a culinary battleground where lentils, vegetables, and regional loyalties clash like valiant warriors in an epic saga. The humble lentil soup, Sambar, has sparked debates and broken families. If you thought the Mahabharata was intense, you must watch the tensions in a South Indian household over how ‘proper’ Sambar is made!
First, there is a fundamental truth: Sambar is Sambar. You can’t just throw in some dal and vegetables together and call it Sambar! Beyond Sambar, other stews vie for our tastebuds’ attention: Charu, Rasam, Akukoora Pappu, Pappucharu, and plain old Pappu (dal) as examples. Each has unique flavours, and each deserves its moment in the spotlight. However, confusing them with Sambar is a culinary faux pas akin to wearing a Hawaiian shirt to a black-tie event.
The choice of vegetables in Sambar is where things get stickier than a pot of overcooked lentils. Drumsticks? Absolutely. Small onions? A must-have. Radish? Sure, but it better be sliced like rupee coins; otherwise, you’ve committed Sambar sacrilege. Carrots and beans, you ask? You might as well start a vegetable revolution, but please, don’t call it Sambar.
And let’s talk about tomatoes, the red rebels of the Sambar World. People dare to toss them into the pot, causing the colour of Sambar to shift. But remember, Sambar already has a sour sidekick, tamarind! Adding tomatoes is like inviting two superheroes to the same party and expecting them to share the limelight. It’s a recipe for disaster. If you do it, add the tomatoes at the end -- let them be there, but they dare not change the essence of the dish.
Now, let’s add a pinch of sugar to this simmering cauldron of Sambar-related controversies. Sugar in Sambar? How can you?
And just when you thought the battle lines are clear, another culinary controversy emerges. Sambar rice with curd? How can you? Sambar is a complex flavour symphony that dances on your taste buds, and introducing curd to the mix is like crashing a solo violin performance with a heavy metal guitar solo. It’s just not done!
Let’s also talk about the temperature of Sambar when it hits the table. Oh, it’s a matter of utmost importance. When Sambar makes its grand entrance, it must be steaming hot! I’m not talking lukewarm or slightly warm. There should be visible vapours rising from the surface. The smell should be uniquely Sambar, an aromatic blend of spices, vegetables, and love. It’s like a fragrant symphony that announces the arrival of a South Indian feast.
Adding a regional twist, your mom made Sambar the Madras way, you say? Well, you’ve just ignited another war front. Another mom, hailing from Andhra, may swear by her spicy version. The regional pride is best captured by the sacred Sambar powder. Store-purchased? No way. The true magic of Sambar is in the art of grinding the spices fresh. It’s a ritual that has been passed down through generations. The authentic Sambar experience demands the dedication to grind, mix, and season the spices just right, creating a flavour explosion that’s nothing short of divine.
Then there is the pronunciation. Some dear friends, with all the love in their hearts, can’t seem to say “Sambar” correctly. They call it “Sambur.” It’s almost as if they’re summoning some mystical creature from the culinary underworld. So, to all those dear friends, I say, “go Sambur yourselves!”
I am quite unreasonable in my Sambar expectations, you see. But then, everything is fair in Sambar Wars!