The philosophy of Idli

Master these principles and cookery is no longer alchemy, writes Ashwin Ramachandran

Last week the Twitter community went berserk trying to defend the honour of the ubiquitous Idli; lashing out at those who dared to call the staple “boring”. I don’t wish to argue for or against it, what with the perception of flavour and taste being a subjective matter (except a heaping spoon of un-oiled Idli-podi for the one who uttered those words first).

At its core, the Idli is rice, black gram (split and de-skinned), water and salt. A relatively simple concept bolstered by the wondrous act of fermentation, whose origins lie in neighbouring regions, probably Indonesia or the Ancient Arab world, depending on which historian you want to agree with. This is of no consequence today, because in whatever avatar the dish came to our land, we took it to our hearts, tweaked it and ran with it without looking back (I wish sometimes that the fake news about UNESCO declaring it as the best breakfast in the world was true).

Here is the thing about the unassuming Idli, it teaches you at the very least two important philosophies. One is to do with the foundations of cooking and the other is to do with life itself. Firstly, it is the simplest of preparations that are the hardest to execute. The Idli, in this regard, is an exposé of the best kind because there is no veil of complexity where one’s incompetency can hide. You might want to serve an array of chutneys, sambar, podi or even a lethal Meen Kozhambu (a spicy flavourful fish gravy) ladled by its side, but they are still accompaniments, against which an Idli always holds its own.

Cracking the recipe of an Idli is a crash course in the principles of cookery:-
Step 1: Focus on the ingredient — specifically on the right variety of rice and lentil, their quality and their respective ratios in the batter.
Step 2: Understand the function of the ingredient in the dish (as a source of starch and protein, as a source of microbial culture for fermentation, providing favourable attributes with regard to flavour, texture and nutrition.)
Step 3: Execute a process that best justifies the nature of the said ingredient — washing and soaking, adequate grinding and appropriate fermentation.
Step 4: Taste the product. Adjust the components and process if needed. Taste again. Repeat until satisfied.

Master these principles and cookery is no longer alchemy.

Secondly, the journey of Idli, from when it came to our shores all those centuries ago, and more aptly with regard to the versions you are trying to better at home (i.e., from rock-like rice cakes to cloud-like rice pillows), harks to a simple yet important philosophy in life.

It is possible to pursue perfection in the most basic of tasks that we engage in daily, leading to a more fulfilled and satisfied existence.

The Japanese refer to this unrelenting and continuous pursuit of incremental improvement as ‘Kaizen’, we could settle for calling it ‘Idli’.

(The author is a chef and co-founder of a delivery-only kitchen specialising in Gourmet Asian cuisine based out of Mumbai. He enjoys making comforting sandwiches and serious ramen.)