Vannakkam is a Tamil saying meaning “welcome.” The people of this state, where I was born, have a belief that serving food to others is a service to mankind. Share our culture, family, traditions, and our journey around India in this book, and learn to cook the food we love most.
Our family has an astrologer we turn to for advice when we need to make important decisions. Astrology is an ancient science and we are fortunate to have a good astrologer. He helped me find my wife, Suba, and we’ve been married for twenty-five years. It seemed like an odd match, but he was right. My life hasn’t turned out the way some expected, but I couldn’t be happier. Perhaps some things are written in the stars, but we can’t always see it.
I grew up in a town called Tirunelveli, in the state of Tamil Nadu, near the southern tip of India. It sits on the western side of the Thamirabarani River, 435 miles southwest of the capital, Chennai. Everyone knew our place as House Number 108. I lived there with my grandmother Meenakshi, her two sons, my dad and uncle, and their wives, my mum and aunty, and my brother, who now lives in Australia, a sister and four cousins.
Patti, a term of respect for grandmother, is the biggest influence on my cooking. My grandmother is the salt, the prime ingredient that shaped my childhood. Patti had an amazing sense of smell, which is something I inherited from her. Smell is my greatest sense. It’s my driving force in the kitchen and a key part of taste. My chefs tell me I should have been a sniffer dog. Patti Meenakshi never cooked once her children married. She sat in the corner of the kitchen watching her daughters-in-law, telling them what to do, especially the order in which spices should be added, and then sniffing the air saying, “That’s burnt!” or “The aroma is lost!” She was a perfectionist.
When I started doing that to my mum, Gomathi, she responded, “You’re worse than my mother-in-law!”
We are vegetarians and Patti was very firm and strict about what made a good meal. It had to include four different vegetables, two types of lentils, two chutneys, pappadoms and pickles, and two rice dishes or chapatis, but all in small amounts. She preferred variety and quality to quantity. To this day, I like my meals the same way, with all the condiments, even when I get home from work at midnight and feel hungry. My wife thinks I’m a little crazy, but she understands why.
Patti would serve us when we came home from school for lunch and teach us about the right flavor combinations and how to balance a meal. She had mystery tasting and testing games, asking us if we could pick up hidden spices and ingredients. Meals were often shared with friends and neighbors and with Patti in charge it made them fun, loving, and also educational.
My grandmother is the salt, the prime ingredient that shaped my childhood.
It was a time of upheaval and bitter struggles to go against my upbringing.
By the time I was seven, I was very curious about flavor and taste, but Mum and Dad would say to me, “Control your tongue!” They meant you won’t be academic if you give importance to your tongue. Your brain will go numb from eating so much and you won’t concentrate on study. That’s a Brahmin philosophy. I was raised Hindu as a Brahmin, the priestly class. Brahmins are quite academic and intellectual. They’re not necessarily gourmets. They like clean tastes. I’ve changed a lot since then, but my food is still about clean, clear flavors.
Everyone expected me to become a doctor or engineer, but I’d sneak into the kitchen while pretending to study. I was eight when Patti taught me how to make rasam, a lentil soup that’s a staple in every Southern Indian meal. Many people think it’s simple, but there’s a lot of complexity and subtlety in that simplicity. Patti emphasized the Ayurvedic nature of food. The term comes from two Sanskrit words meaning longevity and knowledge. It’s a form of alternative medicine and there are six kinds of rasam, made according to the seasons and family needs. There are different rasams for varying ailments, from pepper rasam for colds and flu to lime or tamarind rasam for a healthy heart.
Patti would say, “Food is the essence of existence.” Our family keeps her recipes and habit of healthy criticism alive to this day.
I was sixteen and had just started an economics degree at Madras University when my family’s fortunes fell. Dad made and sold steel utensils, but the business collapsed and owed huge debts. I lasted less than a month at college. My father couldn’t support the family and we were under a lot of financial pressure when a distant friend suggested the Madras Catering College to me. I was passionate about cooking and jumped at the chance, but I struggled to convince my parents it was the right decision. I wanted to help repay Dad’s debts. A full scholarship for the three-year course helped, but it caused a lot of family tension because it wasn’t seen as the right career for a Brahmin. It was a time of upheaval and bitter struggles to go against my upbringing. One relative refused to eat at the same table with me for several months. Chefs were below him and by definition, unintelligent. I was devastated, but was about to become even more of a rebel.
My training began with a big shock on my very first day. Eating meat is a sin for Brahmins, who are even wary of onions and garlic, which are considered aphrodisiacs. I puked when I had my first mouthful of meat. I ran out of the classroom and kept vomiting. I couldn’t understand the flavor or texture. I tried to avoid it, but really I had no choice if I wanted to be a good cook. It took about four months before I was comfortable with it. I trained my palate and got used to the flavors by tasting sauces rather than the meat itself.
At the end of my first year, I got a summer job at the five-star Taj Mahal Palace Hotel in Bombay (now Mumbai). I was seventeen and the least experienced of all the interns, but had unlimited energy. Conscious of the money my family owed, I signed up for double and sometimes triple shifts, working eighteen consecutive days and staying with an aunt who lived 90 minutes’ train ride away. As luck would have it, they put me in the butchery section under a grumpy old chef. My first job was taking the skin off chicken drumsticks. By day two I was boning them out. The cuts and bandages on my fingers reminded me to focus on getting better. I learned on the job, handling cuts of meats I’d never seen before and becoming an expert. I worked in every section under Cyrus Todiwala, a Parsi chef who now runs London’s Café Spice Namasté. Between shifts, I’d work in room service to get more experience. But I had one big problem. I spoke Tamil, not Hindi, the language of Bombay. The others teased me and made up fake terms for the kitchen techniques I was learning, but I picked up enough to get by.
My fear of meat vanished and by the time I was back at college, I was bartering with my classmates to trim their meat in return for prep I didn’t enjoy, like chopping onions. I graduated in 1979, aged nineteen, and was offered jobs in nearly every five-star hotel in India. I went back to the Taj on a salary of 640 rupees (about $80 per month) and was fast-tracked, graduating in half the time. By then I also understood French and Chinese flavors, as well as loving Bombay’s street food, which we’d go out to eat in our time off. This was the boost I needed—the sour slap to wake up my spirit and sharpen my mind.
I’d send half my wage home to my family, but it still wasn’t enough to pay my dad’s debts, even when my pay doubled. My mother needed an operation and once again fate intervened. The Sheraton opened a new hotel in Basrah, Iraq, in 1981, and I went to work there. My salary jumped tenfold. The only downside was I was moving to a war zone. The Iran–Iraq war was entering its second year and we were 12 miles from the enemy border. We had front-row seats for the conflict’s regular shelling.
Home was caravan-style accommodation in the nearby staff village, but we had no life beyond the hotel—a colleague who ventured out for cigarettes came home with shrapnel in his leg—and its 15-inch-thick walls meant it doubled as a bomb shelter. When the bombardments intensified, we’d move into the hotel, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. The longest lockdown period was nearly two months. By 1984 the situation had deteriorated further and many senior executives had left. Produce was scarce. We’d go for months without eggs or butter. My father’s debts were now repaid, and I’d had enough. I returned to Bombay.
My next adventure came in the form of a newspaper article in the Times of India. The Tea Board of India and Air India had joined forces to open restaurants in London and Sydney to promote our nation, and they wanted chefs. London sounded ideal. I got the job, but they sent me to Australia in August 1985. I arrived in Sydney with two other chefs, on a one-way ticket, with a permanent resident’s visa. The only things I knew about my new home were that the cricket was great and that women sunbathed topless. The first thing I noticed was clear blue sky and vivid colors, but within six hours of arriving, we started our first shift at Mayur, in Sydney’s Martin Place. It was a three-level fine diner serving traditional Indian food and seated 100 people. It attracted celebrities including Elton John, Mick Jagger, and the King of Bahrain. Everyone loved watching us work the open tandoor, but the kitchen was much smaller than the hotels I was used to. Conditions were tough. We worked 96-hour weeks over six days for poor pay and had signed four-year contracts with a clause that said if we left, our parents had to pay a large penalty. We shared a single-bedroom city apartment with three mattresses on the floor. I knew nothing but hard work, and my goal at the time was to survive.
A year later, I wanted to settle down, so I told my father I wanted to find a traditional Indian girl to marry. Despite all my adventures, I’m proud of my culture, which is very valuable to me and very easy to lose. I’m keen to preserve it and pass it down to my children. My father put an ad in the paper asking for an “alliance.” It’s such a funny word, but looking back on my marriage to Suba, it now seems just right.
This was the boost I needed—the sour slap to wake up my spirit and sharpen my mind.
Suba is my spice girl and a must spice in all my endeavors.
I knew nothing about her, but our astrologer told my parents we were a good match. We seemed like opposites—I’m loud, energetic, and full of ambition, while Suba is shy, quiet, and calm—but the astrologer looked for compatibility in the long term and like the spices used in Indian cooking, the strength of one is mitigated and enhanced by the subtlety of the other.
Suba sent me a studio photo, but she looked too serious. The first thing that attracts me in a woman is her eyes. They speak a lot of things, but I couldn’t tell from this photo, so I asked for another one and she sent one of her with her young cousin. I could see her playfulness and smile. We exchanged letters, which took two weeks to arrive, and phone calls, but didn’t meet until ten days before our wedding. I couldn’t afford the time or money to fly to India for our engagement. Just three months passed between the “alliance” being formed and our marriage. The engagement photos arrived just as I was leaving for India. Our traditional wedding in Chennai, in July 1987, took two days, with thousands of people attending. It went on a bit too long for my liking, before our three-day honeymoon in a hill resort called Kodaikanal. Finally Suba and I had a chance to talk.
I came back to Australia for work, and my wife followed three months later with my mother. The astrologer sent my mother, saying she had to stay until Suba and I understood each other. Mum was the bridge. He told her, “You’ve got to control your son and be supportive to your daughter-in-law and shield her from this devil,” which is me. I call a spade a spade and I’m pretty blunt, whereas Suba is the opposite.
My father-in-law said, “My daughter’s a great cook,” but after we were married, I discovered she didn’t know how to cook. I asked him, “Why did you stick up for your daughter?” Of course Suba is a great cook now, although she’s still vegetarian.
Mum stayed for twelve months until our first son was born. I used to meet Suba in the park for a date between shifts, just to see her alone. Work was tough. A friend was making three times my wage elsewhere, so I knew I was underpaid. I was forced to go back into the kitchen just a few hours after our son, Abhinav (Abhi) was born in 1988. I carried that hurt for many years, but it taught me an important lesson in how not to treat people.
I was desperately unhappy and wanted to leave so I told my dad, who consulted the astrologer. He said I had a brighter future ahead, but now is not the time to leave, so I stuck on. As it happened, Mayur failed after two years and suddenly I was free. I was sick of Indian food and wanted to cook anything but curries. Suba was a tower of strength. She said I should not give up my talent.
I was cooking at Sorrentino Café in Sydney’s Circular Quay in late 1989 and became friends with the owner, Doug Moxon. We decided to open an Indian restaurant together. It took six months, but we found a place in North Strathfield, and in 1990, Abhi’s, named after my son, opened. Doug was a partner in the business for seven years and remains a good friend.
I wanted Abhi’s to be different. There were no samosas or pakoras on the menu. I wanted both authentic and contemporary flavors to showcase the regional beauty of Indian cuisine. Palak patta chaat, a street-food classic, using chickpea batter–coated spinach leaves with three chutneys and cumin-infused yogurt, was on the first menu and soon became a signature dish. Dosa, the lentil and rice pancakes from my southern birthplace, eaten with the hand, became an instant hit.
Our second son, Akilesh, was born in 1991 and during those years we struggled until Les Luxford reviewed us in the Sydney Morning Herald in April 1994. He said he’d found the best Indian food in Sydney. Suddenly, we were an “overnight success” and there were lines down the street. It was all hands on deck, and I called Suba in to help in the restaurant in the evenings.
I realized Suba’s true strength when a trusted staff member robbed us of a large amount of money. We were young, married four years, with two small children and fighting to make ends meet. I was shattered, absolutely devastated, and I cried. Suba said something I’ll remember for the rest of my life: “This person has robbed you only of money, let him not rob you of your mental strength.”
After that, I woke up and it really built my confidence. Suba is so sharp and strong. She’s behind all my success, the driving force and strength in all the decisions we make. Now she corrects me all the time and she’s my biggest critic. She wrote the twenty-first anniversary menu for Abhi’s. That’s how well she understands what we do. I am so proud of her. Suba is my spice girl and a must spice in all my endeavors.
We opened Aki’s on the newly restored Woolloomooloo finger wharf, the first in a row of hip waterside eateries, in November 2003. It was a very brave thing to do because Indian food is still not accepted at the fine-dining level in Australia. There are a lot of perceptions we need to correct about Indian food, and that’s what I’m trying to do there. We focus on seafood. The signature dish, crab iddiappam, is a fine example of this fusion of tradition, innovation, and great local produce. It seems to be working. In 2011, Aki’s was awarded a chef’s hat in the Sydney Morning Herald Good Food Guide.
My other passions are photography, wine, and travel. I love Australian wine, and I’m very proud of the wine lists at both restaurants. I’ve also been researching the history and regionality of Indian cooking. Every year, we visit our homeland to discover and better understand the flavors of India. It’s amazing how the same dish can change so dramatically in appearance, aroma, taste, and texture in just a few miles.
My boys are now grown and help out in the restaurants, too. To have such a happy worklife and family is the sweet balance I’ve been looking for. We are a very close family and we still have quite a strong relationship with our astrologer. He’s close to 80 now and still tells me do this, don’t do that… He even advised us when our children should be married. We trust him completely. After all, he was right about Suba and me.
To have such a happy worklife and family is the SWEET balance I’ve been looking for.
Kumar has kaivasnai, a Tamil word that means “hands that give flavor.” I don’t come from a big foodie family. We just ate what was given to us, which was very simple. My father’s only comment about food was if a dish needed less or more salt. It took me a while to understand that what Kumar says isn’t meant to hurt—and he offers criticism freely and frequently. Now I tell him, “Can you please tell me the truth?” I don’t want him to say something just to be nice. Even my mother asked Kumar for help to improve her cooking.
My father, Krishnamurthi, was an engineer for All India Radio and every few years, he’d be transferred, so I lived in a lot of different regions. I was born in Chennai, started school in Jodhpur, and finished it in Sangli. After a few years in Mumbai, I moved back to Chennai, graduated with a commerce degree, and took a job as an announcer at Chennai Railway Station. My father’s travels meant that I spoke four state languages—Hindi, Marwadi, Tamil, Marathi—as well as English. Kumar only spoke Tamil.
I found out about my marriage accidentally, overhearing a conversation. I discovered that our horoscopes were already matched and Kumar’s parents were coming to see me. Suddenly my life was taking a very different turn. Girls of my caste married doctors and lawyers, not chefs. I was twenty-one, so shy and confused, too, so I simply left everything to my parents. There was no compulsion from our parents that we had to get married. At any time we could say no, but I still felt the pressure. Our destiny was overpowering our emotions.
I was worried about how to settle in Australia, especially since I’d never left India; however, my age was an advantage and I believed I could adapt. When they sent me Kumar’s photo, I wondered how tall he would be. He had sunglasses on, so I wanted another photo. I did think he had a nice smile. I didn’t have any photographs of myself, so I went to a studio to have one taken and sent it to him, but he thought it looked too serious and wanted another one.
The next step was a phone call, but I’d never made an international call before. His parents had a phone at their house, so I’d go over there to talk to him. I was so nervous. Kumar is very talkative and straight away he started asking questions. I didn’t know whether to speak in English or in Tamil, and I don’t think I answered any of the first few questions. He asked me if I knew how to cook. I said yes. I thought he meant the basic, simple cooking I grew up with. I simply kept saying yes to anything. It was a nervous yes. There was a lot of pressure on me. I thought if I said yes, everything would be all right. The only confidence I had was that if I said yes, I’d be able to do it. But I also felt very stressed after that first call and wondered what the next one would be about.
My initial impression was Kumar was full of life and seemed so worldly. On the second call, he made a lot of suggestions, such as driving and photography courses. After a while we both began to look forward to our calls, then Kumar asked his younger brother to go see me. He turned out to be an absolute contrast to Kumar and told his elder brother, “She’s too good for you, you got more than you asked for.”
We had the traditional first meeting at my parents’ place, just ten days before our marriage. Kumar’s parents had warned me that he’s very fast, very loud, and very aggressive. My heart was pounding and my hands were shaking as I tried to pour coffees. Everyone was watching, and I was the center of attention. I was so shy I didn’t even look up to his face. After ten minutes Kumar said, “I want to have a word with her separately.” He asked if I’d done the things he asked me to do and once again I just kept saying yes, yes. I didn’t want to do anything to break things up and I was afraid.
Working with Kumar has brought us even closer together. We have a common goal in the success of our restaurants.
One thing I really like about Kumar is there’s an old-fashioned side to him. We share a faith in our parents and astrologer. My comfort was that the astrologer said our marriage would work. Yet here I was marrying a chef and I didn’t even know how to use a knife and fork! After the wedding, he took me to a five-star hotel for a meal, but I’d only ever eaten with my hands or a spoon.
I was shocked when I discovered he ate meat. It never occurred to me, but it’s inevitable if you’re a chef. I started to accept it and because he thoroughly understands and respects the background we come from, he’s fine with the fact that I remain vegetarian to this day.
Compromise and understanding are keys to a successful married life. Opposite poles attract—this really made sense to us.
Our honeymoon in Kodaikanal was the first time we were alone and that’s when our life together really started. The first thing he said was, “You know, I talk a lot.” I thought, what am I going to answer to this? It’s true, so I said, “I know, I listen a lot,” and Kumar replied, “That’s good enough!”
He’s very adventurous and we went rowing in a small canoe on the river. I knew nothing about water, or even swimming, and suddenly I got tired and wanted to give up. Kumar said, “No, this is how life is going to be. We’ve got to get across, so you’d better row,” and we did it together. That moment summed up how our life together would be.
I realized right from the day I got married that the drive for perfection was a key part of Kumar. He wants everything right and if he wants something done, he’ll get it done now, whereas I’m slow and steady.
When I came to Australia, I was shocked and wondered how I’d manage this person—his loud voice against my soft, shy nature, his fast movements against my slow reactions, his short temper against my cool nature; so I kept quiet and followed him. Adjusting was difficult initially, but then love started kicking in and we felt very comfortable with each other. Two months after arriving in Sydney, I had a job working in administration with the New South Wales Police. I stayed there for fifteen years and it gave me a chance to explore the city, its people and culture, and broaden my views on life.
When the restaurant review came out in 1994 Kumar said the restaurant was really busy and he wanted me to come and help him. I had no experience, but he didn’t listen. He threw me in the deep end as usual, and the first thing I did was carry prawns to a table. There’s a picture of God in the restaurant and at the end of service I went and prayed, asking, “What am I doing?” But then people were happy and smiling, so why would I think it was a sin? At the end of the day, I told Kumar I really enjoyed it. He brought my strength and confidence out of me. I didn’t know how to do it. Kumar did. Working with Kumar has brought us even closer together. We have a common goal in the success of our restaurants.
We travel to India on a regular basis for inspiration. Kumar loves rediscovering bygone recipes from master cooks and visiting housewives who stick to the old traditional style of cooking. He then weaves it into the food at Abhi’s and Aki’s.
Kumar asked me to design the twenty-first anniversary menu for Abhi’s. Can you imagine it, when I’m still a vegetarian? It was such a success. This is how he brings out my strengths. I have become an integral part of his life, his business, and everything around him. Kumar and I are now so dependent on each other, and our children have seen the success of our lives and how we balance each other. We have a wonderful, close family and we are so proud of our children. It’s amazing to see what we’ve achieved from an arranged marriage. Even today, when we go to see our astrologer he recalls how we met and says, “See, I told you.”
