...and in the forest is a tea stall.....

 If you drive through the little town of Kutta in  South Coorg and cross the border into Kerala, the lovely wildlife sanctuary of Wayanad awaits you, with its easy winding roads and sweet smells of summer or the light drums of the early monsoon rain on your windshield.  The air is light and carries anticipation…a forest always does…..  This is a land of tribes and rich ecological ancestry, about all of which I am only just beginning to learn.  But, today, that can wait.

A few kilometres down the road and you turn up at a point where a right would lead you to the fetching village of Tirunelli in the southern fold of the Brahmagiris, its ancient temple standing on top of a small hill.  But, for a while, that can wait too.

At that fork in the road, park your car and head across to the tiny tea stall – the only shop  of any kind there, in the middle of deciduous forest – and find a seat which, if you have timed it all poorly and are there on a weekend, is about as easy as melting rock.  There is a large vessel on the firewood stove and the smoky fragrance mingles with a rich flavour of tea, as regular glasses of it - black tea or kattan chaya – fly off the aluminium tray.  But, for a moment, just a moment, that can wait too. 

You are here  for something else: this little tea shop is in a league of its own, for it is the home of the finest Unni appam on the planet (about this assertion, be warned that no prisoners will be taken, in the event of disagreement). 

The Unni appam is somewhat like a large odd-looking dark chocolate mushroom without the stem (which is, admittedly, a useless description and about as helpful as online remedies for toothache). Soft and crunchy on the outside, the inside has banana, jaggery, ghee and a few sprinklings of coconut-oil flavoured Heaven.  For any further details, check with Google chacha, of course, but to know why this little tea shop is the finest in the Honours List, order a couple of them, with kattan chaya, which is an excellent accompaniment (these two are ‘sympatric’ is what these insane wildlifers will tell you).  Each Unni appam costs – hold your wallet and breath – a ridiculously modest six rupees.

You are served in an instant, and will now spend the next quarter of an hour in a delightful silence (money-back guarantee.  Even the discerning Mallus are silenced, which is saying much), punctuated with rhythmic munching and the occasional “hmmm…hmmmm” of contentment.  And, when you are done with this, take your wallet out carefully and put it into another pocket, because you will order two more now.  Trust me, these things matter.

Some years ago, while in a Kerala bus, I told the conductor “Unni appam stop” with trepidation, for these are formidable adversaries of humanity.  He stared at me and said, “Forty rupees” and his smile line moved by a fraction of a millimetre. The bus, driven by an uncertified maniac, screeched to a halt in front of the stall and, by the time I got down with my bag, the conductor had hopped down, bought four Unni appams and re-boarded at the front to share them with the maniac.  

You never cross a temple without stopping, it is said.