Thursday, February 1st, 2007
Smell the kapi and wake up
(This article appeared in the Times of India)
The taste of kapi takes me back two generations.
Mauma, my mother’s grandmother would rise at 4am and about an hour later, our rambling ancestral house was redolent with the aroma of kapi. It lulled you out of bed and invited you to seize the new day, one sip at a time (kapi diem). Mauma made the coffee in a copper kettle and served it in stainless steel tumblers. The kettle and tumblers are to kapi what the kullad is to chai. Or paper cups, green lounge chairs and jazz notes are to Starbucks Coffee.
Are kapi and coffee one and the same? Well, they come from the same bean but that is pretty much where the similarity ends. Coffee is the urban sophisticate, kapi is the country cousin. Coffee has aligned with Thomas Friedman’s flat world but south of the Vindhyas, it is kapi that makes the world go round.
The closest one came to Mauma’s kapi was at Taj Mahal restaurant in Mangalore. Mauma lived in Mulky, a hamlet so tiny that even the map survey misses it. On weekends, we would all be packed off to Mangalore in a bus that would shame a sardine can. Getting a window seat was cause for much joy, the wind would grapple with coconut oil in our hair, the bus would speed past paddy fields, coconut groves and charming houses with Mangalore-tiled sloping roofs.
In Mangalore, we always took our tiffin at Taj Mahal. Tiffin is not the aluminium or plastic box as we know it. In the south, tiffin refers to a light evening snack. Tiffin at Taj Mahal (no relation to the hotel chain or the monument but a landmark all the same) was anything but light. It was a journey into the heart of deep-fried hell. Goli bajjes, banana fritters, bondas and loads of coconut chutney (cholesterol was such a faraway word then). Whatever the snack, the beverage was always kapi glorious kapi.
Mauma didn’t mind us having kapi at Taj Mahal but she was horrified when we had coffee, especially the instant variety. She grumbled that subsequent generations were in way too much of a hurry to know what they were missing.
I certainly miss Mauma. And on more than one morning, I miss a good kapi. The world is now in a bigger hurry (climate change experts warn the world doesn’t have too much time left anyway). There are many more varieties of coffee now available (will that be Americano, Espresso, Cappuccino, Latte, Machiato, Mocha, Frappe, Afogato). There is even an assortment of sizes (tall, grande and venti, if you’re having Starbucks, those guys brand everything).
I was beginning to wonder if a time machine was the only way to recapture the taste of an old generation. Till one day, after a meeting at Bombay House (the Tata Group’s headquarters on Homi Mody Street off Flora Fountain), I repaired to a quaint restaurant on Tamarind Lane next door. My nose twitched in disbelief and I followed it to the counter to spot a kettle exactly like the one Mauma had. I was overjoyed and forgave the restaurant for serving kapi in a glass. With every sip, I was transported. To the many summers of my childhood, the bus ride to Mangalore, the wind in my hair, the paddy fields, the coconut groves. The bus is crowded and heck, so is Poornima restaurant but I am not complaining.
In Pramod Nayak of Poornima, I found a kindred spirit. He explained that the copper kettle is actually a filter. There is a fine mesh between the upper and lower containers. The freshly-ground coffee powder (a blend of 70% peaberry Arabica seeds and 30% chicory) is placed on the mesh, a perforated plunger is placed atop it and boiling hot water is added. The coffee powder soaks it all up and the lower container collects the decoction, one drop at a time. In about 40 minutes, the decoction is ready (no wonder Mauma used to rise so early). Pramod says the secret is to never place the decoction on a direct flame. At Poornima, they keep the concentrate hot by placing it on the lid of anything else that is cooking. That way, the decoction stays hot but is never cooked.
The French Press and the mini stainless steel filter never quite recreate the magic of Mauma’s copper kettle. Kapi has a texture, a coarseness all its own. It’s a bit like walking barefoot on the beach or hearing Louis Armstrong’s voice.