U Valli weaves her way past a gaggle of women auctioneers at the Kasimedu wharf. It is almost 9am and tensions run high as the last of the day’s catch is up for grabs. But the 60-year-old has her eye on sellers by the water’s edge. “I always buy small fish. Paarai (bluefin trevally) is perfect for kozhambu,” she says, stopping at a stall to chat with B Kumari, the owner. She knows everyone here since she sells fish occasionally from her husband’s boat. Kumari has what Valli is looking for: silver-grey mosal paarai. She buys the lot for ₹350, and says: “Let’s head home.”
She walks towards a waiting cycle-rickshaw at the entrance of the market. “A lot has changed,” says Valli, pointing to the new retail market that came up during the pandemic. Having spent most of her life on the wharf, she has seen it evolve from a quiet strip of land by the sea to the thriving market it is today. “I grew up here,” she says, adding: “It was here that I met my husband,” and points to some shacks at a distance. “I would come there to collect water with my mother.” Valli and Udhayakumar have been married for 35 years now. “In our younger years, when he went to the sea regularly, I would pack him rice kanji and a thick curry called sunda kozhambu,” she recalls, seating herself in the rickshaw.
It trundles into a narrow by-lane, coming to a halt at Kasi Garden Second Street. Valli invites us inside saying, “I plan to cook Kasimedu meen kozhambu today and will also show you how to make thithippu, our specialty.” Valli can make fish curry even in her sleep; the recipe is hardwired into her brain. “I need to have fish in some form at least once every day,” she says. “If there’s no fish at home, I simply roast a slice of dry fish on fire and have it with sambar or rasam rice.”
Fish curry, in the fishing community, is a simple affair. There is nothing to grind or powder: “I can whip it up in 15 minutes,” Valli says, extracting a wide-mouthed aluminum pan. Into it, she pours three cups of tamarind water, adds one chopped onion, two chopped tomatoes, five whole green chillies, two cloves of crushed garlic, a teaspoon each of pepper powder and turmeric, salt, and a generous dose of chilli powder that can be adjusted according to taste. “Just give this a nice mix, and let it simmer after seasoning with mustard seeds and a handful of chopped onions, garlic and a sprig of curry leaves,” she explains. Valli’s tip for that perfect curry is to introduce the fish only once 80% of the curry is done. “This will ensure the fish isn’t broken,” she adds.
As the curry simmers, Valli sets out to prepare the more elaborate thithippu, that is specific to fisher families. “For this, I make a fine paste out of two tomatoes, one onion, a handful of coconut slivers, two cloves of garlic, a teaspoon of pepper powder, and a tablespoon of chilli powder,” she says. This concoction is simmered after being seasoned with mustard seeds, chopped onions, garlic and curry leaves. “But for thithippu, I add the fish right at the beginning and let the curry thicken.” The same recipe, without coconut, is the sunda kozhambu that is packed for fishermen heading out to sea. “They can eat it for two or three days since it will not go bad,” she says.
Like most seasoned cooks, Valli does not have written-down measurements for her recipes. “I just go by the hand,” she says, settling down on the floor in front of the kitchen as the curries bubble on the stove. She has also soaked rice to be cooked. Valli learned to cook from a neighbour. “My mother was away most of the time growing up, and it was my neighbours who raised me,” she recalls. In this part of the city, the old-world practice of sharing food with neighbours still exists. With women getting back home close to noon or even later on Sundays after work at the seaside, neighbours pitch in by sharing curries. Which is why here, fish curry is always cooked in large quantities.
The rice is done and Valli serves us a plateful, along with fish curry and a side of the thick thithippu. The latter, with the fish done perfectly, is sweetish and tangy, true to its name. The fish curry is a delicious fiery concoction. Valli is dismayed that we have eaten only little. She rushes to the kitchen and comes back with another bowl with two more slices. In Kasimedu, you don’t stop with just one slice of fish.
