This Tamil restaurant in Chandigarh refuses to sweeten its sambar
Nine out of 10 of his customers are North Indians. Gunasekaran P still refuses to sweeten the sambar
At four in the morning, when Chandigarh’s grid of sectors still has a scheme of empty roundabouts, the lights come on in the kitchen in Sector 46. Someone is at the market turning over drumsticks and pumpkins, suspecting a man who has been cheated before. At seven, the first idlis are from the steamer.
“When we came here, hotels used to open at 11 am,” says Gunasekaran P, 43, founder of Karthik, a South Indian restaurant. “We started at seven. Now many others open early.”
More than 90% of the people who eat at its 10 special outlets across Chandigarh and Ludhiana are North Indians. This issue tells you the story of Karthik Mess – which became Karthik South Indian Restaurant; because unlike most south indian restaurants in the north this one refuses to sweeten their sambar.
Last day of school
He was 12 when he stopped being a schoolboy. The year was 1994 and he was in Class VI in Mallankinar, a village in Virudhunagar district, where the rain was rumored and the only prospects were agriculture and the match industry. The drought settled and the family decided that Delhi would take him.
His math teacher argued with his parents that the boy was doing well. The argument was lost. The clothes the teacher bought for him came to Delhi.
He arrived in Lajpat Nagar to one of the hundreds of South Indian hotels run by men from his neighborhood. He started as a dishwasher and was not allowed to cook for seven years.
“The masters must be pleased with you. They choose the ones they want to teach.” Gunasekaran’s associates told him. That’s how he looked. Then one day the master didn’t show up. When the hotel was desperate, the dishwasher walked up to the stove and cooked as if he had been doing it for years, which he had in his head.
He retired from the hotel in 2004. At that time his salary was ₹300.
Why Chandigarh?
The idea for Chandigarh came from a customer-turned-friend – the city had few South Indian hotels, a steady demand for cuisine and a decades-old Tamil population.
When the Air Force’s 3-base repair depot shifted to Chandigarh instead of Tamil Nadu, says SP Rajasekaran, general secretary, Chandigarh Tamil Sangam, around 3,000 to 5,000 south Indians came to the city for jobs in the Union Territory department, some of whom were Class IV PWD employees. The community now has an estimated 1.5 million people.
“Karthik’s restaurant has become an identity for Tamils in Chandigarh,” says Rajasekaran. “Every Tamil who migrates here gets not only food but also a connection with the Sangam.
Gunasekaran went to the Karthikeyan Temple in Sector 31 and was directed to a rented space in Sector 46. On 27 October 2005, a roadside restaurant was opened there selling idli, dosa and vada. The second didn’t come until 2012. His two younger brothers eventually joined him after studying hotel management.
The sambar argument
“It was very difficult for the first six or seven years,” says Gunasekaran. “Customers would say this is not the taste they have in other South Indian hotels. It’s either too sweet or too sour.” . They said spicy bahut hai.
Gunasekaran has adjusted, but only so far. No garlic. No onions. Less chili than a Tamil household would consume. Sometimes pumpkin, more for subtlety than sweetness. Tamil Nadu still tastes the result. “Now, if we make a mistake, it’s the customers who point it out,” he said.
There is another insistence: eat with your hands. Our employees tell customers who come here: “Only if you eat with your hands will the taste be preserved.” It was unknown to many North Indian customers. They ate the sambar with spoons. At Karthik Mess, customers who once came with spoons now put them down and eat with their hands.
His brother Surendran P has been mixing masalas for two decades and grinding them in-house. “We mix by hand. We don’t buy from outside and we don’t store.” The cooks are mostly Tamils from Gunasekaran’s hometown and the servers are hired locally.
Almost everything else travels from Tamil Nadu – rice, appalam and banana leaves from Madurai; coconut from Pollachi; oil pressed from Virudhunagar wood; filter coffee from Chennai. “Not every rice in Tamil Nadu suits this water,” says Gunasekaran.
He rarely sits still. Each establishment processes at least 500 accounts a day, keeping it between kitchens, suppliers, employees and customers.
Rajendar Prasad, a former union government employee, and his wife Rajini have been going here for 20 years. “It’s light food. Even kids who don’t touch vegetables will eat it in sambar. Punjabi food is heavier.”
Students from IIT Ropar and Panjab University make an appearance, as do PGI doctors and Air Force personnel. Every Wednesday annadhaanam is served in the temple.
Twenty years after opening his first roadside restaurant, most of Gunasekaran’s customers are still not Tamil. The boy who wasn’t allowed to cook now decides what the town eats for breakfast.
Published – 31 Aug 2026 15:47 IST