The closest equivalent to the Indian “thali” in the West is a “platter,” although that bland word sucks the juice out of the delectable thali. A thali is a multi-course meal served on a single plate, and you can eat it in any order. Every thali has salad, rice, Indian bread, at least two main dishes, greens, and dessert. Each dish comes in a small steel bowl, and all the bowls are placed on a large plate with just enough space to eat your rice and bread. The plate’s size depends on the number of dishes, and there are king-sized thalis with up to fifty dishes. In India, you can get unlimited refills for most dishes. As a connoisseur of thalis, I have tried them in many Indian restaurants in the US, but they are not wallet-friendly or good enough to indulge in regularly. There are no refills in the US, either.
So, during my recent India trip, I wanted to try as many different thalis as possible. In case you are wondering what “different” means, there are as many varieties of thalis as there are states in India. Even the states have their own thalis, usually vegetarian and non-vegetarian. I was particularly looking forward to the thali of my home state, Kerala, the “fish curry meals.” It’s common to see the sign “meals ready” in front of restaurants across Kerala; it means that the day’s lunch thali is ready.
Frankly, I did not get a chance to eat a proper fish curry thali in Kerala because I was served the equivalent in most of the homes I visited, except that the dishes did not come in little bowls on a plate. The picture below shows my sister-in-law’s sumptuous lunch with dishes from a typical Kerala thali. The Kerala thali is unique because it only comes with rice and no Indian bread. The rice served with the thali differs according to the region’s cuisine. For example, parboiled rice perfectly matches Kerala’s coconut-based dishes, but it tastes terrible when paired with popular Indian dishes like chicken tikka masala or palak paneer. They go better with Basmati rice.
In the Kerala meal above, you can see a lentil and coconut dish (parippu) on the extreme left, the divine avail ( a medley of vegetables in a thick, coarsely ground coconut sauce seasoned with cumin, garlic, and fresh coconut oil) in the middle, a yogurt-cucumber dish (pachadi)to cool the stomach on the back right, my favorite prawn fry, fried fish, and fired chicken, and fish curry (not pictured). Kerala has a communist history, which explains why most dishes are regular dishes cooked by commoners every day, except that not all are made daily. Dessert is usually semolina porridge (payasam) with plenty of fried cashews and raisins. As we ate, my cousin recalled how, in my childhood, my mother always had a tiny bowl of fried prawns waiting for me with my supper after I got back from school. Small prawns, the more delicious kind, were expensive and difficult to clean, so she made just enough to satisfy my craving; it was out of bounds for others. Thank you, mom.
Despite having my fill of homemade Kerala dishes, I still craved a thali experience, and my dreams were answered when, on my way to meet a friend for lunch, I saw a local hotel ad that the “world’s best thali” was back. Nothing is more off-putting than these self-proclamations, but the pictures looked delectable, and I figured it might at least be the best thali in the small town of Kollam. My friend, a resident of Kollam, was even more skeptical about the world’s best moniker but indulged me. The dining room was packed with guests from a conference, and the staff was ill-equipped to handle the crowd. After the longest wait, the thali finally arrived; we were a little put off by the presence of bread, in this case, the Kerala parotta (similar to the thousand-layer bread served in some Thai restaurants). You will also see the dish of parboiled rice (they got that one right).
Nani Restaurant’s self-proclaimed “World’s best thali”
A Kerala fish curry thali with bread was proof they didn’t know what they were doing; imagine adding pita bread to your burger and fries. The dishes were tasty, including avial, fish curry, thoran (a vegetable dish with grated coconut), and two types of payasam for dessert. But the quintessential experience of a thali: multiple refills of the dishes you like were missing since the servers were too busy even to refill our water glasses. As I write this piece, I realize the world’s best thali was forgettable; I don’t remember anything about it except the out-of-place parotta.
(Status Restaurant’s sumptuous Gujarati thali)
But my next thali experience was at Mumbai’s Status restaurant. I wondered aloud how a restaurant with a Western name would serve an authentic thali, but my friend assured me I wouldn’t be disappointed. Indeed, we seemed to have entered Thali Central; the place was swarming with people despite the Thali’s hefty price tag. What stood out was the enthusiasm of the servers; they were hovering around the guests, cajoling them to eat more as if they had cooked the meal themselves. Tipping is uncommon in India, but every server was giving his table the best dining experience. A delectable vegetarian Gujarati thali arrived with all the typical dishes: lentils, spinach, the yogurt and chickpea flour-based kadhi, all served piping hot. But the highlight was starting the meal with dessert, in this case, a yogurt dish called shrikhand, which I used to hate for its sweet and sour taste but found to be delicious now. Dessert was to be eaten with the fried and puffed Indian bread, puris. It was a match made in heaven.
The server reappeared with a wide array of breads: phulkas (oil-free bread), rotis, and paratha (a thick, flat bread), and refused to take no for an answer when we said we couldn’t eat more bread. Soon after, the different rice varieties appeared, and by the end, we could barely move. It’s always commendable when a restaurant serving large quantities of food makes it taste like it was cooked to order. We noticed that the table next to us was served mango syrup, the famous “aam ras” with their thali. Upon asking, we were told they had already given us a different dessert and we would have to order it separately. Since we didn’t want to miss it, we ordered a large dish of fresh mango syrup which we finished off in minutes despite being full to the gills. The incident showed us the paradoxical stance of the smiling servers: no complimentary small dish of aam ras. Hospitality was strict business within the rules.
(Saayba Restaurant’s famous fish thali)
My next memorable thali was a fish thali in Mumbai. The popular Saayba restaurant had an interesting feature: no running water. Since you usually eat a thali with your hands, washing them before the meal is essential, but the server assured us that finger bowls would be provided before and after the meal. The restaurant lived up to its reputation with the delectable fried fish, the prawns in gravy, and the special cocum (a tropical pink Indian fruit) dish. But the pleasant surprise was the anchovy curry; I realized I should have asked for it in Kerala; everyone served me prawns and not my next favorite anchovies. Lest you think I am referring to the dry and salty anchovies we get in the US, these are fresh anchovies, the tastiest fish ever.
It was interesting to see the contrast between how fish is prepared in different parts of India. In my state, Kerala, the fish is fried after marinating in spices or cooked in gravy. But in Mumbai, fish is always batter-fried. Kerala prides itself on its fish curries, but I had a reality check when my cousin’s husband, who is a Bengali (another state that prides itself on its fish curries), remarked that he finds it challenging to eat Kerala fish curries because the fish is not fried first and tastes raw like rare steak (He served me the most delicious pomfret fry).
I ate many smaller thalis as part of my regular meals, and the simple fare was often more delicious. But I also noticed that the average and upwardly mobile Indian is least interested in a thali and prefers fancier dishes like chop suey or chili chicken. In food courts, the Kerala thali counter is usually the easiest to order from, while there are long lines in front of the fried chicken counters (and KFC). But it was strangely heartwarming to see a simple-looking family: a mother in a hijab and three young kids tucking into a whole fried chicken and fries; a sign of evolving tastes.
I noticed this evolving taste phenomenon in the temple town of Udupi, whose vegetarian meals are the gold standard for thalis. Many restaurants across India proudly advertise that they serve Udupi thali meals. But finding a Udupi meal in Udupi proved challenging; the signs everywhere read of fancy dishes like fried rice with paneer and mushrooms. The story ended happily, and we eventually found a restaurant serving a Udupi thali. But we had to coax the server to bring us the simple meal; he wanted us to eat the fancier and more expensive stuff.
Indian politician, prolific author, and former UN diplomat Shashi Tharoor has his unique take on the thali.
“If America is a melting pot, then to me, India is a thali, a selection of sumptuous dishes in different bowls. Each tastes different and does not necessarily mix with the next, but they belong together on the same plate, and they complement each other in making the meal a satisfying repast.” (Bookless in Baghdad: Reflections on Writing and Writers)
I would add that a thali is a layperson’s symphony; you don’t have to wear a suit or hold your applause until the end, and you can sway to your own music.
