Malabari Macchi - Described as “coastal aromatic fish,” this dish appears to be a curry-ish preparation, although various sources alternately describe it as a fry, a banana leaf stuffer and a stew. Versatile, and once again I stress the word appears, since unfortunately this is another one for the “did not eat column.” “Macchi” is a word for fish (the North Indian equivalent to the local “meen"), which leaves open the possibility that “Malabar Fish” could actually be an imprecise umbrella term referring to several different preparations popular in this large coastal region.
Manchow Soup - Another Chinese fusion item, and in my personal experience, the only one to hew closer to actual Chinese food than the sweetened-up fast-food variant. Somewhat akin to Hot and Sour soup, and thanks to the Indian appreciation for genuine heat, this one lands far closer to an authentic Sichuan version than most American attempts. Manchow in this case refers to the Manchu people (not an intentional pun, unfortunately), although I think the name of the soup points more to their dynastic heritage than anything else, especially considering the ever-prevalent Indian connection between royalty and fancy cuisine, something I imagine traces back to the influence of the Mughals.
Marak - A Yemeni/Israeli soup, also seen in Kochi, and another reminder of the influences being constantly swapped across the Arabian sea.
Masala Calamari - An item that I could easily foresee making waves back in the US, at least assuming Americans can get used to the idea of squid served without its characteristic Italian breading. In fact, most versions seem to serve the squid cooked in a thick sauce, although the one I was served was completely different, having been dry fried after being dusted in flour, egg, and a little bit of sauce, leaving the rings the the reddish-orange color of buffalo wings.
Masala Pappad - Roasted pappad dusted with spices and covered in onions. A common meal starter.
Mattar Rice (aka Kerala Rice): Thick and super fluffy, perfect for absorbing flavor from various curries without being overwhelmed by their liquidity. This is important, considering the local tradition of eating solely with the right hand. Back home, I’ve spotted one version of this in a nearby Kerala-focused market, but nothing close to the diverse varieties, cast in descending gradations of darkening redness, on view at one grocery store in Munnar, where the rice was being sold, as is often the case in India, directly from large burlap sacks. Meanwhile, some health benefits.
Meen Vattichathu - Not eaten, but apparently this is the “Red-hot Kerala Fish Curry” mentioned in Arundhati Roy’s novel The God of Small Things. The name means “fish reduced in gravy." The tang comes from gambooge (aka garcinia gummi-guta) a local cousin of kokum (aka garcinia indica), albeit not one that I spotted or consumed at any point. Supposedly popular at thattukada vendors, although I’m not entirely clear I spotted any of these specific street sellers either, even during my time in Kochi.
Moosambi - This is the local term for limetta, a fruit that’s popularly consumed in drink form, specifically the fresh lime soda that stands as one of the trademark beverages of India. The perfect antidote to the often sweltering Kerala heat.
Murukku - A fried rice snack, the name of which means "twisted" in Tamil.
Nadan Chicken Curry - Another “Malabar-style” favorite, utilizing exotics (primarily star anise, ginger, and cardamom) which speak to its spice coast origin. I’ve spent a lot of time struggling to figure out what “nadan,” means exactly; it appeared as a heading on so many menus intending to demarcate the local cuisine from a larger national one, but I still can’t tell if it has any specific meaning or just serves to designate “rustic” or “country” cooking. Whatever the case, this is a dish of great complexity and import, one I later ate again at the American home of the friend whose wedding I was here to attend, this time prepared by his mother. Her version was even more delicious, serving as the anchor of a meal also marked by an excellent lima bean curry and a sumptuous sambar.
Naranga Muttai - Slice-shaped hard candies (their name derived from the Portuguese word for orange?), which were omnipresent all over Kerala. I’ve also since seen the same slices at American Chinese supermarkets, however, so who knows what’s going on here.
Navratan Korma - A Pan-Indian standby, here served with local vegetables, including snake gourd, cassava and coconut. The name means “Nine Jewels,” and while I initially assumed this referred to the bright vegetables standing out against the pale color of the cream-based curry, it’s actually a historical nod to royal courts, which kept around a set number of luminaries regularly referred to as the “nine jewels.” The name may still be a pun as well, since the vegetables in question do have a certain gem-like character.
Nimbu Pani - Fresh lime soda, aka shikanji. Ubiquitous in hot weather. Often uses lemons in other parts of India, although limes seem to be the dominant fruit here.
Olan - Black eyed peas in a white gourd and coconut broth. One of many toothsome mushes that make up the sadya feast.
Pachadi - There seems to be a bit of linguistic/regional confusion between Kichadi - the raita-esque yogurt/pickle mashup referenced in the previous India post - and Pachadi, which refers to the same dish in Tamil Nadu but not in Kerala. Here it’s generally a sweet pickle instead of a sour one, although I witnessed a wide variety of different variants, many cast in a purplish hue by the inclusion of beets.
Pakkavada - aka “Ribbon Pakora/Pakoda”. Similar to the fried wonton strips popular in Chinese-American restaurants. These are made with a mixture of rice and chickpea flour, the latter helping to explain their addictive quality, and are apparently commonly served with tea.
Pavakka Mezhukupuratti - aka Bitter Gourd Fry. This gourd, also known as bitter melon (locally as karela, a different cultivar from the smoother Chinese variant) pops up intermittently in Keralan cooking, and while I can't totally jive with its all-out astringency, I can appreciate the subtlety of the dishes' attempts to subdue it. Mezhukuparatti designates a local stir-fry style, which in this case meant more great fried onions, along with grated coconut for tempering.
Payasam - A sweet rice pudding porridge, sometimes known as Kheer or Firni in other parts of India. Even in this area alone, it comes in a wide variety of different preparations.
Pazham Pori - Banana fritters. Seen two ways: in slices, cut similar to thick maduro plantains, and served whole-fried.
Peanut Masala - There’s a Pan-Indian (specifically Northern?) version of this snack, also known as “Raja Special,” which seems a bit more complex than the version I enjoyed in Kerala, which was basically just roasted peanuts dusted with spices. A nice walking snack, spotted frequently for sale in the Western Ghats.
Pepper Fish - Another White Dammar favorite, another succulent stir-fry redolent of Sichuan cuisine. Hot and crispy, laden with whole peppers, curry leaves and onions.
Peralan - Not a lot of pork is eaten in Kerala, but this (Portuguese-influenced) preparation seems to favor it. As a product of Kerala’s Christian community, this dish can also be prepared with beef, mutton or chicken.
Poha - As is the case with many interesting British dishes, the rice, egg and fish hash known as kedgeree has an Indian origin point, an adaptation of the breakfast staple Khichdi, a melange of (traditionally leftover) rice and vegetables which also inspired the famous Egyptian street food Koshari, sometimes referred to as that country’s national dish. Khichdi is a basic enough preparation to express itself in wide variety of regional variants that may themselves be related to it only by coincidence, with Southern variants including the lentil and spice explosion Bisi Bele Bath, and the Pan-Southern Pongal (coincidentally its own entry on this list, located exactly one spot alphabetically below this one, until I decided to combine them). Before I stray too far afield, however, let’s get back to the fact that I’m talking about Poha, yet another member of this extended family of fried-rice leftover parties. Poha is less a dish than its own branch of the family tree, referring to the flattened grains of rice known generally as “Aval,” a spin on the Malayali word for rice. Poha studded with curry leaves, fried onion and boiled potatoes (formally "Batata Poha") was a fixture of the morning breakfast buffet at the first hotel I lodged at (a much deserved shout-out to Sagara Beach Resort, and its wonderful manager Suhas). Crispy on top, rich and moist on the bottom, it's sort of a savory spin on Rice Krispies with a much more pliant texture. I liked it so much I bought an entire bag of grains to take home, where I found I couldn’t quite recapture the alchemy carried off by my Indian hosts. Many other variants exist, as well, of course.
Pollichathu - A cooking method by which the subject of the preparation, usually either chicken or fish, is steamed inside of a banana leaf, rendering it down to a near-mush of spiced, juicy meat. The version I had (made with freshly caught fish) gained additional flavor from the whole charred limes placed alongside the cooked packet. You also get a healthy amount of vegetal flavor from the leaf itself, a bit of transference that reminded me of pre-Columbian Mexican specialties like Mixiotes. This being Southern India, I did spot a few notices for vegetarian versions of this dish, although I’ve had a much harder time finding any proof of this preparation online.