Drinking Kaapi in Kerala
In the popular imagination, filter coffee is the emblem of coffee consumption in South India. The truth is, there is a kaleidoscope of coffee traditions in the region.
Kerala, where I’m from, enjoys kaapi in many ways that are still largely unfamiliar to others. “Kattan edukatte?” Can I get you a kattan? is the first thing visitors to my father’s ancestral home in Kanjirappally are asked. As for many in Kerala’s Central Travancore region, kattan kaapi is both the beverage of choice, and a way of life in Kanjirappally, a small town dotted with rubber plantations. Literally speaking, ‘kattan’ refers to tea or coffee served black. Kattan kaapi, however, doesn’t translate perfectly to ‘black coffee’ as it is understood in many parts of the world. It is, for instance, the antithesis of Turkish coffee, richly concentrated in caffeine.
Kattan Kaapi from Central Travancore
Kattan kaapi is a heavily diluted brew made with powdered coffee from local beans, sometimes blended with chicory. Traditionally, it is sweetened with karipetty (unrefined palm sugar). Spices such as cumin and fenugreek seeds are often added for an extra layer of flavour. Being heavily diluted, kattan kaapi is typically amber colored, much lighter on the senses than other types of black coffee.
Making kattan is a morning ritual in Kanjirappally. I always woke up to the sight of a kattan-filled kalam, a deep aluminum pot. Dented and charcoal bottomed, it was a geriatric in the kitchen cupboard. A steel mug was left on the lid to scoop and pour kattan. It was as though the kattan had magically materialized overnight. If there was any wizardry involved, it had to do with my grandmother. She succeeded in waking up at a twilight hour every day to brew kattan for her large and thirsty brood.
Kattan kaapi was not reserved for adults. It appealed to us children because it was sweetened with a generous hand, subduing the natural bitterness of coffee. No one batted an eyelid when we cheekily helped ourselves to seconds and thirds. Back in the day, dome shaped karipetty, moulded in coconut shells, was the most commonly used sweetener. Karipetty gave way to sharkara (jaggery) which has now been replaced by plain old sugar. I mourn this trend. The caramel flavor of jaggery adds something special to a glass of kattan.
An All-Day Kaapi Affair
Kattan is not served in measured quantities or at certain times of day as coffee and tea usually are. We’d drink it piping hot, soaking up the mellow sounds of the morning — feet shuffling in the kitchen, newspaper rustling in the living room. We’d continue to drink glasses of kattan as the day wore on, sometimes with a piece of rusk as a crunchy accompaniment, reprieve from everyday hustle and bustle. Kattan fits in just as well at lunchtime or at dinner, served alongside a hearty meal of kappa puzhukku (mashed tapioca) and a fish or meat curry, a light counterpoint to a heavy meal. It was never served in mugs or cups, which were reserved for the occasional milky tea and coffee. We drank it, aptly, in the same small glasses used for water.
At its core, kattan is a workhorse of a drink, each glass offering a small burst of energy. It was never a special occasion drink or a beverage for the gourmand. It used to be the farmer’s Gatorade, likely born out of limited access to milk. It is now a drink for all times and seasons in some parts of Kerala, even though dairy is within easy reach, and paal kaapi (milky coffee) is no longer a thing of luxury. In the Kanjirappally home, we drank kattan even as cows mooed in their shed by the house.
Kerala’s Relationship with Coffee
Kerala is one of the largest producers of coffee in India, second only to Karnataka. While coffee is largely grown plantation-style, particularly in the higher altitude Wayanad region of northeast Kerala, it is not uncommon for families to grow a coffee plant or two in their backyard, producing clusters of deep red coffee cherries. Coffee beans are the seeds of these cherries. In my father’s home, the cherries were dried on gunny bags in the unrelenting Kerala sun. The beans were then hulled and powdered into coffee that ultimately manifested in the form of countless glasses of kattan.
Ironically, even though Kerala produces far more coffee than tea, as in the rest of India, tea is the popular choice. This reflects a national pattern. India exports 70% of its coffee whereas it consumes 70% of its tea, leaving only 30% for export. A variety of factors — cultural, historical, and economic - might explain these intriguing numbers.
Chai vs. Coffee in Kerala
Chai, or chaya in Malayalam, is embedded deep in Indian culture, the legacy of two centuries of British colonial rule, driven by the Englishman’s legendary love for tea. The British were the first to establish commercial coffee cultivation in Kerala. Tea benefited from an aggressive marketing push to boost domestic consumption around the 1930s, partly a response to the Great Depression which led to large surpluses caused by a crash in tea prices abroad.
Tea is also far more affordable than coffee. Next to water, tea is both the most inexpensive and the most widely consumed drink in the world.
Today, chayakadas (‘tea stores’) are everywhere in Kerala, offering space for gathering and gossip, both in the quietness of villages, and in the hullabaloo of cities. Coffee, on the other hand, is generally consumed in urban rather than rural areas. With international coffee chains expanding in urban India, this divide is growing.
For me, this leaves behind a mystery — how did coffee come to be an intrinsic part of everyday life in distant pockets of Kerala like Kanjirappally? I suspect it is because climactic conditions allowed locals to grow coffee in their backyards. Why would you choose mediocre store-bought tea when you have the gift of an obliging coffee plant at home?
Chukku Kaapi for Clearing Your Senses
Even in parts of Kerala that don’t consume coffee daily, chukku kaapi is considered a reliable antidote to colds and coughs. It is the Malayali analogue to North Indian haldi doodh, now marketed as ‘golden milk’ around the world. Chukku is dry ginger, but there’s more to chukku kaapi than ginger. Resolutely spicy, it is made with coffee powder, ginger, jaggery and assorted spices such as black pepper, coriander seeds, cumin seeds, fenugreek seeds, and holy basil leaves.
Unlike comforting haldi doodh, chukku kaapi is assertive. It shakes clogged sinuses awake, leaving sparks of heat at the back of the throat. I’m always left wanting more because the heat of the spices is balanced by the sweetness of jaggery and the warmth of ginger.
Each of the spices that go into a cup of chukku kaapi plays a unique role in Ayurveda. It is believed that coriander seeds, cumin and fenugreek aid digestion. Black pepper and ginger soothe congestion and have expectorant properties. Holy basil is believed to have medicinal properties. Jaggery is rich in iron.
Kava from the Mappila Community
The Muslims of Kerala, referred to as Moplahs or Mappilas (a corruption of mahapilla or mappillai, meaning bridegroom or a person held in high esteem), consume black coffee in the form of kava. Often served after a heavy meal to aid digestion, kava is made with coffee (or tea), jaggery, and spices such as dried ginger, cinnamon, cardamom, pepper, and cloves. The eminent food historian, K.T. Achaya, notes that Mappilas are the descendants of Arab traders who married local Kerala women. Traditional Mappila cuisine reflects this amalgamated heritage. The word kava is similar to the Arabic word qahwa, originally a poetic term for wine, which became the word for coffee in the Arab world towards the end of the 13th century. The Arabs were among the first to adopt coffee after it was discovered in Ethiopia. Some recipes for kava call for an intriguing finishing touch, highlighted as a defining feature of the drink. Before the kava is served, it is garnished with a sizzling shower of sliced pearl onions fried in ghee, adding a savoury note to the drink along with a touch of salt. In her book, Coffee, Israeli-American food writer Claudia Roden notes that the use of salt to bring out the finer flavours of coffee is common in some parts of Africa, including Morocco and Ethiopia. Ethiopians might also add a dollop of butter to their coffee. Given the Arab connection, the genesis of Malabari kava might lie in those ancient traditions.
Coffee’s first mention in print is traced to the 10th century. Considering this long history, the practice of drinking coffee with milk is fairly recent. A Dutch ambassador to China, inspired by milky tea, introduced the idea around the 17th century. Roden notes that for the purist, the only way to drink coffee is black. Kerala’s renditions of black coffee would likely disappoint a connoisseur. The four distinguishing attributes of coffee beans - aroma, acidity, body, and flavor - are not vividly discernible in kattan, chukku kaapi, or kava, given the ratio of water to coffee. And while spices enhance the complexity of flavors, they mask nuances in the flavor of coffee beans.
Unlike cappuccinos, espressos, or for that matter, filter coffee, the drinks I describe here don’t call for any special equipment. There’s no precise formula, no scope for foamy art. These recipes are rooted in the home. They come with no pretensions. You’d be hard pressed to find them on the menus of restaurants or cafes. They are an oasis of simplicity in the increasingly rarified world of coffee.
There is a special joy in introducing others to the hidden nooks of one’s traditional cuisine. Part of me wants nothing more than for the charms of a good kattan, the tough love of a chukku kaapi, and the comfort of a kava to become familiar beyond Kerala. Another part of me is glad that they have yet to be turned into specialty beverages, colonised by international coffee giants, or commodified in the manner of chai tea latte or golden milk. In a memorable scene in Ustad Hotel, a Malayalam movie centred around the richness of Kerala’s Malabari cuisine, the protagonist excitedly asks his grandfather to reveal the mystery ingredient in the delightful sulaimani black tea he has just been served. Laying a hand on his shoulder, the old man smiles, “Every sulaimani must have a little bit of mohabbat. When you drink it, it should feel like the world has come to a still.” My hope is we don’t lose that sprinkling of romance in Kerala’s coffee traditions.
Simi George is an enthusiastic home cook and baker based in San Francisco. She has previously written for The Hindu and Scroll.in and blogs at http://inveterateglutton.blogspot.com/
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