Growing up in Bangalore during the late 70s and 80s, I never quite imagined that one day the neighbourhood chilli bajji vendor would be gone without notice, or my favourite Bangalore restaurants would be demolished to make space for shopping arcades or worse, high-rise apartments.
The reliability of these food spots in Bangalore was what kept us going. Watching a movie in Sampige theatre was never complete, for example, without getting a neer dosa treat at New Krishna Bhavan, or a square of delicious badam barfi at Janatha. A trip to the market was never quite the same without the churmuri ‘round the corner from HMT hospital. While going to visit grandparents and relatives in South Bangalore meant a breakfast fix at Prakash, snacks from VB Bakery, and condiments from Subbammana Angadi. A long drive to MG Road often meant that we were in for a cold treat at Lakeview.
There were no photos or journals about what we ate; the dishes were not styled, plated, or named for effect. The Bangalore I grew up in, especially its older neighbourhoods, had a category of eateries that had great repeat value and pure satisfaction.
These foods were part of the city’s background music. They came wrapped in old paper, measured by handfuls, served across counters that had possibly seen better maintenance. We didn’t call them classic or iconic. Only much later did it become clear that what they carried was the sheer joy of familiarity, and continuity.
At Bhagyalakshmi Stores, the gulkand with white butter is still served the way it always was. They haven’t reinvented it or added new garnishes or flavours, except for the jaggery variety for those who don’t prefer sugar. The roses come from Ajmer and Hoskote, which are cleaned and washed thoroughly. Butter comes in from Oothukuli and Nagamangala. Eating this feels sacred, like participating in a long-standing agreement between us and Thiruvengadam, who set up the business 75 years ago.
Subbamma’s Shop, where the inimitable hurigaalu mixture tastes the same, takes me back to afternoons spent at my Ajji’s, where we’d all gather during a family celebration, munch on snacks and sweets endlessly, and be given stern warnings that our stomachs would turn for the worse. Made with roasted chana, which is cheap, nutritious and portable, it’s like an Indian version of a trail mix.
VB Bakery’s got its hot favourites lined up for several decades, but what I used to love were the breadsticks that we’d bring home and dunk into Mom’s tomato soup, which was divine. Another family secret is to use their soppina bread to make Masala Toast at home: a thick-cut slice toasted in a landslide of butter, then topped with a ladleful of spicy carrot masala, and eaten like no one’s watching.
Here are more of the less photographed, rarely written about favourites that hold Bangalore’s old food memories:
Amrith Ice Cream in Malleswaram serves hand-churned ice cream, but it’s not for everyone. The ice creams are creamy (fig and honey, butterscotch are some bestsellers) but not bolstered by additives or emulsifiers, which make them melt quickly. They also have an underrated Gulab Jamun Mix which is excellent.
There are many other hole-in-the-wall food spots that are well known in hyper-local circles, and one should give them a shot too. To me, what makes these food hotspots special is that they weren’t designed to be performative or represent the evolving culinary culture of the city. They simply wanted to offer good food, at regular meal times, or satisfy in-between hunger pangs. They were shaped by both the people who made the food and relished it, and remained in business because they stuck to what they started with. Take the coconut chutney at Veena Stores in Malleswaram, for instance, served with pillow-soft idlis and crisp-skinned vadas. It has remained consistent and sought-after for a reason. There’s something to be said of things from our childhood that endure without making a fuss, waiting for us to grow old enough to notice them again.
