At 7:00 AM, the cafe belonged to the early birds. Taxi drivers, just finishing their night shifts, slumped into the plastic chairs. They didn't look at the menu. They just grunted, "Podil" or "Set dosa." Arun’s wife, Meera, who ran the kitchen with an iron fist, would have the batter ready. The dosas came out lace-thin and the color of old gold, with three kinds of chutney: coconut the color of cream, tomato that sang with spice, and a mint one so green it seemed to glow.

He didn't bring her the menu. Instead, he went to the kitchen and spoke to Meera in rapid Tamil. Ten minutes later, he returned with a stainless steel plate. On it: a mound of steaming curd rice with a bright red pickle on the side, a small banana, and a glass of neer moru (spiced buttermilk).

Arun approached her. "Ma'am, first time?"

She nodded. "I am from Chennai. My son... he just moved here for work. I came to visit. But he is in a meeting until 8 PM. I didn't know where to go."