A plateful of KheeKa.

Even a Maharashtrian (and by that I mean a non-Punekar), I'm willing to wager, has not heard of KheeKa. To say nothing of MUST and ST.

But allow me to digress. Having written what I have, I must now spend some time in explaining the taxonomy that makes up my state. One can, of course, slice and dice up people in this state on the basis of religion, caste, language and dialect. And of course, people have done this for ages on end.

For a true blue Punekar though, the state is split along three primary categories.

If you are in Maharashtra, you are a Maharashtrian.
If you are in Maharashtra and in Pune, you are a Punekar.
And if you are in Mumbai, you ought to be kicked.

That's just the way it is, and Mumbaikars would be well advised to just suffer through life just so. It's their lot.

In the future, expect a post about Mumbaikars who come to Pune in the summer holidays and deride all that is Puneri. There is a lot of angst in me, as there is in every Punekar, about this very charming trait of every Mumbaikar.

But be that as it may. This post is about breakfast in Pune, and today we talk about the most Puneri of establishments.

In one of the many bylanes of Deccan Gymkhana - in fact, this bylane ends up at Garware Bridge and at the end of this lane lies Chitale Bandhu Mithaiwale - is the prestigious, and ancient, Deccan Gymkhana. A large, sprawling club, it holds within it's campus a large cricket ground (on which, if memory serves me correctly, Neil Harvey once played), some tennis courts, a basketball court, it's offices, and in one little corner, behind the tennis courts, the Deccan Gymkhana cafeteria.

Appa. Started way back, and again, if memory serves me correctly, in 1958, Appa used to run this little joint to which members of the Deccan Gymkhana club would flock after an invigorating game of tennis. Over time, people who lived in the vicinity also started queuing up for the snacks that Appa would serve. Today, the same joint is run by his son, Shree - a delightfully eccentric character who runs his little fiefdom with an unwavering acerbity that is the quality most revered in a Puneri shopkeeper.

He'll glare at you as you step into the dingy little seating area that has in it four ramshackle benches, in front of which lie four equally flimsy tables. There is a dark, dusty caged fan that whirrs along manfully, making not the slightest difference to the stifling air in the room. The walls are painted a light blue, and were last varnished back in 1958.
To the right is the kitchen, at the mouth of which stands Shree. Bowlegged, with a stubble that is not quite a beard, in trousers and a half sleeved shirt, Shree looks at you as if he's contemplating murder. Rest assured, he means no harm. He is merely calculating if he can fit you in that little room. Permutations mapped, he'll either nod in the direction of the tables, or wave a hand towards the door. Your cue taken, you wait further commands.

Depending on the day of the week, these will include a grudging offer to partake of pohe, khichadi, dosa, sheera, matar usal, idli, or dahi vada. All of these are made in an even dingier kitchen, which is even more dimly lit. Four people work in that cramped space, dishing out plate after plate of the above mentioned items.

And well may Shree be rude, and well may he drive his regular patrons to distraction. But in the matter of leaving his clientèle with well satiated tummies, he is unsurpassed. They come to him year after year, and suffer his idiosyncrasies with delight. Indeed, they wait for the sarcasm to drip onto them - a trait that all Old Punekars share, for they love to receive sarcasm as much as they love to dispense it.

You'd be well advised to go there on a Saturday, for that is the day when the khichadi, the matar usal, the dahi vada and the dosa are all available. Play tennis, if you will, before you go there, for a whetted appetite is a handy companion.

Stuff yourselves to the gill, and then, as an Old Punekar would, go home and sleep.
Shree would approve.

Oh, I almost forgot. KheeKa stands for Khichadi Kakdi. MUST stands for Matar Usal Sev Takun - and forgive me if that is not clear - the essence is lost in the translation.

ST is another story altogether. KheeKa, you see, is a plateful of khichadi, and a plateful of kakdi. Most patrons could not finish both, and would hence ask for either half a khichadi and a full of the other, or the other way around. Until, that is, a patron who was also, it would seem, rather a whiz at marketing, suggested that Shree offer a plate that had only half of each.

His name happened to be Sanjay Tatke - and in his honour is the dish called ST. Ask for it the next time you go there.

Shree will still glare at you.
But there will be, you might find, a spark of benevolence in that glare.