A shot of whisky with a plate of masala vada

Chennai is one of the world’s worst cities to try and have a drink at the end of a long, tiring day. But Madras, incidentally, was not a bad place at all. The erstwhile India headquarters of the East India Company was littered with the kind of watering holes that pucca sahibs liked lounging in after a long day of exploiting the natives.

Somewhere in the mists of history, someone came up with this rule that a bar needs to have a permit to serve alcoholic drinks. Well, OK, you might think. Prior to 1991, we were a country of permits, hermits and, mostly, Amits, so what’s the big deal? The big deal is that it wasn’t just enough to get a permit. You needed to own a hotel with a minimum of 22 rooms to be eligible to apply for a permit.

This abominable rule still applies in 2012, so the end result is that Chennai really has no pubs to speak of except the ones in hotels, and even those still believe we are in the 1900s and insist on full formal clothing, leather shoes and Cuticura powdered wigs. Yes, in the Chennai heat.

But all is not lost. There are still these precious corners of past glory scattered around the city and the dedicated pub-hopper will find them. These are not the Bangalore- and Bombay-style pubs which do an Anu Malik on Irish and American bars. These are authentically Indian. From the 1970s. Imagine yourself in bell-bottoms sauntering into the wonderful permit room at the Hotel Maris on Cathedral Road, Chennai.

You are in what seems like a cabaret-type environment, except without women in glittering clothes. You almost expect to see a villainous-looking character dressed in a while silk suit (with white shoes) and extra-large shades holding court in his favourite corner. And launching macabre plans to besmirch the honour of some chap’s poor sister.

You sit down and the waiter walks over. He doesn’t ask you what you want to drink. He first fills your table up with all manner of fried snacks. Masala vadas, mixtures (namkeen), gobi manchurian and yes, fried idli. And then he proceeds to ask you for your choice of drink. Don’t expect the finest from the Highlands of Scotland, but the drinks are distinctly secondary to the overall ambience. Even the TVs are blaring classic Ilayaraja from that era.

Places such as these have a kind of personality that slick foreign-copy bars do not. Sure, I can get the best Belgian beer in Delhi and Bombay, but the masala vada I gobble with my Kalyani Black Label has this nostalgic 1970s Indian kitschy film feel that I find irresistible.

You finish your drink and ask for the bill, but before that arrives, the waiter places a steaming hot and aromatic cup of the best rasam in the galaxy in front of you. Drink it, and no one at home will know you have imbibed alcohol, he assures. Declare this bar a national heritage already!

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