Hotel Saravana Bhavan

I refuse to bow down to Hotel Saravana Bhavan (HSB), the tallest peak in Chennai's bhavan-scape and arguably the big daddy among the vegetarian restaurants in Chennai. There, you heard it. I'm a rebel of sorts, refusing to be drowned out by the oohs and aahs from the many who venerate the brand and consider a meal there as the ultimate culinary experience under the Chennai sun. Before you think that I'm claiming moral high ground, my avoiding HSB has no connection with the cocktail of crimes that the management has been accused of. For all I know, the owner of the local Sree Bhavan (Adayar) that I used to visit could make Sandalwood Veerappan look like a gardener or Sangeetha's owner make Auto Shankar look like an eve-teaser from Nandanam Arts College.

So why do I hate a brand that is considered as integral a part of the Chennai experience as Marina, Ranganathan street and fleecing auto drivers?

Save for a quick bite at their Vellore outlet en route to Bangalore, I've stopped patronizing HSB since the late 80s which was when one could enter their restaurant and actually find a vacant seat during meal time without having to subtly nudge the elbow of a patron getting medieval on a masal dosai or cough in the general direction of someone trying to send back the final dregs of an expensive coffee in order to announce your arrival and speed things up. (Although, these attempts, more often than not, turn out to be counter-productive.) Well, the scene isn't all that different at the other bhavans, I agree. But even from those visits, my collective HSB memories are limited to getting charged by an unapologetic cashier for a thayir sadham that had a finger nail clipping in it (may be it was from a toe, I'm not sure) while a life-sized Kripananda Vaariyar was smiling down upon us from behind him (HSB, Vadapalani), being reprimanded by a burlesque supervisor in an olive green safari for sharing an item from a "u-share-this-i-break-ur-face" meal (HSB, KK Nagar aka The Mothership) and our Bajaj Chetak getting bumped by their delivery van on Mahalakshmi street in T Nagar.

Call me quirky, but multi-hued uniforms, matador vans bearing the phone nos. of their various branches and ever shrinking, ever expensive portions (HSB definition: A bonda will have exactly 6.023X10^ 23 bondons, at Re 1 per bondon, fried with leftover oil from Milikan's oil drop experiment.) just don't turn me on. So if there exists an overall "HSB experience", then I'm not aware of it.

You know that fraying banian (vest) that you haven't quite given an honorary discharge and thus is still a part of your wardrobe? You don't usually go for it and thus it gravitates to the bottom of the stack and languishes there until either your laundry laziness or a rainy week makes you reach for it? Well, being in Singapore, HSB is that ill-fated banian. The choice of vegetarian restaurants here, even if limited to a handful of eatouts clustered around Mustafa stores, is enough to keep me happy most of the time. But every once in a while, I look beyond them just to break the monotony.

So when a colleague of mine was visiting on a rainy afternoon, I dragged him over to HSB on Syed Alwi Lane for lunch, thus trying to revive a relationship gone cold. We both placed our first orders which arrived without incident. On to the second dish. Mine, the regulation onion rava, arrived and his didn't. So I decided to wait for his dish. After a few minutes, I started to nibble at the edges of my OR. His dish was yet to arrive when I was using the last piece to mop up the remaining traces of tri colored chutney off my plate. The food was not worth writing about but the service was. And write I did on their customer feedback register - a 100 word entry that gave vent to my feelings about the franchise. Amidst all the outpurings vouching for the value, taste and clean food, mine suggested various other businesses that the management should consider. I stormed out of that place with a full heart and a half-full pit, vowing never to go there again. Ever.

For reasons outlined earlier, I've been there twice since (over 2+ years) and just as they maintain the taste and consistency of their sambar down to an atomic level across their outlets, they have maintained their service levels exactly at very bad levels.

The common problems that afflict this place, in my opinion, are:

2 floor seating: It is a double edged sword. Yes, the dining space is nearly doubled and hence little to no waiting. But when you factor in indifferent waiters having to climb flights of stairs to get you the food, the quality of service comes down. Moreover, their staff persuade us to wait and take a seat below rather than go upstairs. A choice between bad service below or delayed bad service above.

Sample this real conversation I had with one of their staff (Italics show the unsaid responses, of course):

Ajay Devgan look-alike: Sir, where are you going? (Abey kidhar jaa rahe ho tu?)

Me: The ground floor dining hall is full. (To take part in the mushaira upstairs and read out a couple of shayaris that I've composed. Hell, last I heard, this is Saravana Bhavan and I'm here for some grub.)

AD: Sir, wait here (pointing to the ground floor entrance) (I dare you to climb one more stair...)

After about 10 minutes, he located a yet-to-be-cleared table and insisted that we sit there.

Hindi Speaking Bearers (HSB): I don't know about you, but when I walk into a *.Bhavan, I want idly, vadai, dosai and sambar. Not iddely, wadaw, dosaw or samburr. The next thing you know, they'll start calling idiyappam as idyuppum and adai as adey. Wait, they have started doing that already! And for the record, it is appalam (pronounced appalaan) and NOT pappad! God help the guy that asks Anil Kapoor for an extra cup of kaarakkuzhmbu or poricha koottu to be brought from one floor below. For some reason, Poornam Vishwanathan's dialog in Thillumullu is ringing in my ears: "tamizhan tamizhana irukkanam, telungan telungana irukkanam..."

Technology: All South Indian waiters evolved from sweaty, oily men processing multiple orders in their brain and relaying orders to the kitchen by a 150 dB yell in the general direction of the source of all the smoke. They never missed an order, the manager never lost a rupee and believe me, things were generally efficient. At some point in human history, HSB introduced the safari-clad homo supervisorous species (complete with a notebook and pen) into the scheme of things and spoiled it for everybody. Since then, service has been reduced to a game of telephone message and people stopped getting what they wanted when they wanted. HSB has taken this one step ahead and have put a fancy order taking machine in the hands of their Supervisaurus (Homo supervisorous mutated). Long story short, your order is lost in translation, data corruption and you can kiss your food good bye. It is one thing to sport cool machines and look like someone from the future. But it is quite another to take an order and get the items served. Which is where they come up short.

Unapologetic, bad service: When I voice my grievance about the lack of service, at least put up a sad face and try to look like someone feeling bad. As soon as I ask for the feedback register (a brown, musty diary that bears two of my long entries), she reaches for it with gusto and gives me a look with a Steve Bucknorish smile that says, "The path of the arrogant restaurant is beset on all sides by the whining of the shortchanged and the cribbing of wronged, overcharged customers. Blessed is he, who in the name of conformance and following the herd, shepherds the hungry through the streets of Little India to our doorstep, for he is truly the loyal customer and the finder of more business. And I will strike down upon thee with bad food and pathetic service those who would attempt to question and challenge my ways. And you will know my name is the Lord when I throw that hefty check upon thee."

I'm willing to look beyond all their shortcomings, yes, all of them, if the food is great. But alas, I've sampled idlies with a molten core, anaemic dosais that clung on to the plate rather viciously, indifferent sambar and could-have-been fried rice. Consistently. I mean, you can be the soup Nazi, but your soup better be kick-ass.

So, 25 years and probably as many attempts later, I'm retaining my original opinion of HSB: Great locations, OK food, bad service and pathetic attitude.

The Mustafa maze

I've begun to notice, in recent times, that roughly once a week, around the weekend, our household runs out of stuff that we require to keep it going. As we gaze at the empty shelves inside the refrigerator, we slowly realize that now's as good a time as  any to grab our trolley and head out to Mustafa Center to stock up. This scene plays out simultaneously  across every Indian home and, in a few hours, a sea of humanity and shopping trolleys descend on Syed Alwi  Road. Mustafa center, the giant Indian shopping center that carries everything from gold to garam masala  and whatever goes inbetween, is located in the Little India belt in Singapore and spans across 2 city  blocks, 4 floors and 3 time zones (all of them running late) and still growing. In fact, NASA recently  confirmed that this store is now visible from Jupiter because it IS the size of Jupiter. They also  confirmed that since this store started expanding, earth's spin has slowed down and they've had to add a  few seconds to the year (OK, I made this up.) In other words, this is a cross between your local Nadar  store and a Burma Bazaar shop. Except, the kid is on steroids (I did not make this up.)

Entry into this monstrosity, with a tastefully done exterior matched only by the aesthetic appeal of the  interiors, is strictly monitored. One cannot carry any bags or containers inside unless they have been  secured with a nylon tie wrap. They couldn't quite figure out how to secure the wide lid of my lunch box  and hence put one right across the strap, for whatever worth it was. You then proceed past two watchful  security guards that can catch the slightest of inappropriety in your carry on items, also have an eye on  what the shoppers carry out, while still catching up on each other's lives back home in India. If you  possess any object that doesn't pass their standards, you will need to deposit that, and your DNA sample  (for matching the owner), with two burlesque guys at the entrance. In return you will be handed a security  tag with an alphanumeric code on it. It may take anywhere between 8 to 12 hours from when you reach the  store entrance to when you actually step inside. To put things into perspective, without a prior  appointment, it takes a little under 30 minutes to get a private audience with the Pope, at the Vatican on  a Sunday. 

Not to discourage propsective shoppers that might be contemplating heading elsewhere, there is a display  at the entrance that assures them that the total occupancy is a benign and manageable 97 at a time when  there is barely elbow room within. A more accurate number would be the display number times 38 plus 12,400  (the ever present floating population a.k.a Mustafa's constant) minus one (That is, if you are still  outside.)

The store is laid out in such a way that no matter how long (or short) your shopping list is, it takes you  roughly 3 hours to pick out the stuff. A fraction of this time, upwards of 96%, is spent in navigating  through the aisles which are comfortably wide enough for a worm. Some parents firmly believe that if there  was one place to teach their kids life's lessons, it would be the aisles of Mustafa's. With their shopping  carts firmly Wedged between two shelves, blocking everybody, they will let their kid pick out the 500gm  packet of chana dal from amidst a maddening array of all kinds of dals known to mankind - a test that Chef  Sanjeev Kapoor failed. Twice. 

Then there are the folks who are in the store because it is their idea of a leisurely evening stroll. They  float at nearly 2kmpy (kilo microns per year) past shelf after shelf, pushing their near-empty cart,  inspecting everything that comes in their line of sight. Then there is the sleep-walking tourist, usually  on a layover at Changi on his way to India, who, upon setting foot into the store, will enter an excited  state and will try to be at all sections at the same time and appears as a blur to the others. I also have fond memories of waiting for the only elevator, my fingers turning blue from the loaded plastic bags that I'm carrying, while a set of parents encourage their daughter, all of 24 inches and 25  months, to reach out to press the elevator button. The girl turns around and beams at her dad after  pressing the wrong button. The dad, ever the patient teacher, gently chides her, "Chotu, we need to go  uuuup (finger pointing upwards). But you pressed the dooooown (finger pointing downwards) button. Try  again!" without the slightest hint of urgency. 

After negotiating the maze of aisles and the crowds multiple times (we shop from a list committed to  memory), I join the billing line, the end of which is actually in a different postal code. At this time,  the shopper needs to be aware of two rules. 

Rule 1: The person ahead of you in the line will be billing 3 cart loads of stuff as you wait with your  single shopping basket.

Rule 2: Roughly 12 (24 in the weekends) people will rush to take up positions ahead of you when you locate  a counter with a slightly short line. 

In the event that the above incidents don't happen and its the turn of the seemingly innocent person with  just a single basket standing before you in the line, members of his family, till then occupying positions  in other lines will materialize, with a cart each, to satisfy rules 1 and 2. Jumping lines (with carts),  now considered a human rights violation by the UN, can be such a painful experience that I don't realize  that the store stacker just parked a loaded cart of Malaysian pineapples with a wheel sitting on my left  foot. After billing and collecting my groceries, neatly packed in plastic bags that can accommodate a  sedan, we walk out triumphantly, relieved at having survived this sadomasochistic ordeal, and make our way  to the train station, forgetting the items we had left at the security desk, the security tag dangling  from my pocket, and the cart of pineapples still stuck to my foot. 

(Image courtesy: http://farm3.static.flickr.com)