Chennai’s going
gaga Gangnam style
Until
a few years ago rickshaw drivers refused to go to Velachery. Today, it is
Chennai’s most stylish destination and a magnet for the nouveau rich
desperately seeking sushi
It could be
the beginning of World War Three — Gangnam style. Searchlights comb the night
sky as yet another international hotel brand, the Westin, opens its doors at
Velachery, Chennai’s hottest new style destination. Fog machines swirl clouds
of smoke. Sound-effects gallop across the neighbourhood as strobe lights pant
in short bursts of gunfire. A horse rears up from its battered tonga and
neighs.
Bond girls in black minis stand outside the foyer to greet guests. It’s rumored that they have been imported from the former Russian satrapies. They are meant to make the large contingent of guests from Japan and Korea feel at home. They smile and mouth the international lip-synch of welcome, “Hi”, as the security staff run their metal detectors over the bodies of the visitors. A girl in a Japanese kimono welcomes her countrymen inside the foyer. A pianist, also from a Far Eastern country, thumps a grand piano that plays songs from the Sinatra era, Strangers in the Night. The laser lights swirl in blue patterns all over our faces.
We look like we have escaped from the planet Andorra. We are all strangers in that blue light. The local Dravidian faces take on a deep blue tinge. The Far Eastern men and women look a lovely shade of green. They have come with their families. They dip into the counters serving slivers of raw meats and fish like pond herons looking for worms. They are the reason why Velachery has suddenly grown up. It’s on the threshold of Chennai’s future. The future is IT and this is where the Old Chennai meets the New in the mega malls and hotels that are transforming the patterns of everyday consumption. The older hotel chains in the tonier parts of the city are being flattened out like the crates of canned beer that the new elite prefers to drink.
There was a time when even the local auto-drivers would refuse to venture to Velachery. The sleepy South Chennai suburb was known mostly for its broad but pot-holed avenues. Now, you can gain entry into one of its diamond-edged glass-and-granite 5-Star establishments only if you own a chauffeurdriven Audi, not the small one, but the World War-style tank, and crash your way past the earth movers and cranes that will eventually create an elevated corridor to the southern suburb. The security guards at the hotel entrance do an awkward “Vanakkam” Southern style, before checking for guns and explosives. In the old days, they used to run their electronic wands under the lungis of the auto-drivers. It was customary to strap the explosives, or bottles of country-made liquor to their thighs. No longer, obviously.
The name Velachery indicates the place where the Vedas used to be recited. In more traditional times, the only way a place might be inaugurated would be to invite at least sixty-odd priests and have them chant auspicious mantras in tandem. The formal opening would include a politician in a shiny white polyester shirt and lower garment variously called a dhoti, a veshti, or a mundu that would flap delicately as he strode forward to the applause of the crowd. He would be expected to light a gleaming new brass lamp, or Kuthuvillakku, on whose long stem a thick rope of jasmines would be twisted. The candle to light it would be offered by a rising young starlet from Chennai’s celebrated film district, while musicians would screech and caterwaul their good wishes with the same deafening effect as modern-day canned versions.
Not so far away at the Park Hyatt, the punters are already in full gear. Young women teeter out of their limousines on Jimmy Choos in the skimpiest of little black frocks. There’s no place for a Kancheepuram sari or a silk veshti here. The rave destination is The Flying Elephant, a seven-tiered restaurant that resembles the interior of a luxury cruise liner. It’s got seating areas arranged on curving decks and balconies looking down on the bar at the bottom row, well-lit glass caves in which the white toga-ed chefs create multicuisine specialties. Today, the chefs prepare to flip their bamboo mats and roll their seaweed to make their sushi.
“We’ve got Indonesian, Malaysian, Vietnamese and Turkish cuisines, besides Italian and Indian,” explain the waiters. They are dressed like red-hot chili peppers in bright red and green, with slickly gelled hair that stands up in quiffs. The young women are in black and have been wired for instant communication with the German manager, Wolfgang Illing, who is therefore everywhere. At a signal from him, the music changes into a familiar Korean-sounding nasal rant: “Let’s dance, Gangnam style”, and all the young men and women stop serving their guests and start dancing and riding the imaginary horses. It’s actually appropriate. Velachery is next to Chennai’s popular racecourse. People have been coming down here to ride their horses in the early morning along the racetracks.
At the ITC Grand Chola, across the traffic light, the atmosphere is more sedate, though they too are about to open a “Pan Asian” restaurant. For the moment, it is the solemn splendour of the Royal Vega. Tall and turbaned young waiters sail through the room that resembles a Durbar Hall, holding aloft heavy metal trays like acrobats. Serviettes are ringed in bejeweled bands with a ruby and emerald ‘Sarpech’ motif that are discretely removed before the guests decide to slip them into their bags. The young men bend their knees and kneel down to offer warm towel rolls, or even just a platter of roasted papads. It’s all a little too servile for comfort, but the nouveau Chennai clientele loves it. What next? Foot massages with the saag-panneer, personal paan makers to pop the betel nuts into the mouth, or do we just have to wait for the next edition of the Gangnam dance routine to ‘Stay Inspired” as the ads tell us.
Bond girls in black minis stand outside the foyer to greet guests. It’s rumored that they have been imported from the former Russian satrapies. They are meant to make the large contingent of guests from Japan and Korea feel at home. They smile and mouth the international lip-synch of welcome, “Hi”, as the security staff run their metal detectors over the bodies of the visitors. A girl in a Japanese kimono welcomes her countrymen inside the foyer. A pianist, also from a Far Eastern country, thumps a grand piano that plays songs from the Sinatra era, Strangers in the Night. The laser lights swirl in blue patterns all over our faces.
We look like we have escaped from the planet Andorra. We are all strangers in that blue light. The local Dravidian faces take on a deep blue tinge. The Far Eastern men and women look a lovely shade of green. They have come with their families. They dip into the counters serving slivers of raw meats and fish like pond herons looking for worms. They are the reason why Velachery has suddenly grown up. It’s on the threshold of Chennai’s future. The future is IT and this is where the Old Chennai meets the New in the mega malls and hotels that are transforming the patterns of everyday consumption. The older hotel chains in the tonier parts of the city are being flattened out like the crates of canned beer that the new elite prefers to drink.
There was a time when even the local auto-drivers would refuse to venture to Velachery. The sleepy South Chennai suburb was known mostly for its broad but pot-holed avenues. Now, you can gain entry into one of its diamond-edged glass-and-granite 5-Star establishments only if you own a chauffeurdriven Audi, not the small one, but the World War-style tank, and crash your way past the earth movers and cranes that will eventually create an elevated corridor to the southern suburb. The security guards at the hotel entrance do an awkward “Vanakkam” Southern style, before checking for guns and explosives. In the old days, they used to run their electronic wands under the lungis of the auto-drivers. It was customary to strap the explosives, or bottles of country-made liquor to their thighs. No longer, obviously.
The name Velachery indicates the place where the Vedas used to be recited. In more traditional times, the only way a place might be inaugurated would be to invite at least sixty-odd priests and have them chant auspicious mantras in tandem. The formal opening would include a politician in a shiny white polyester shirt and lower garment variously called a dhoti, a veshti, or a mundu that would flap delicately as he strode forward to the applause of the crowd. He would be expected to light a gleaming new brass lamp, or Kuthuvillakku, on whose long stem a thick rope of jasmines would be twisted. The candle to light it would be offered by a rising young starlet from Chennai’s celebrated film district, while musicians would screech and caterwaul their good wishes with the same deafening effect as modern-day canned versions.
Not so far away at the Park Hyatt, the punters are already in full gear. Young women teeter out of their limousines on Jimmy Choos in the skimpiest of little black frocks. There’s no place for a Kancheepuram sari or a silk veshti here. The rave destination is The Flying Elephant, a seven-tiered restaurant that resembles the interior of a luxury cruise liner. It’s got seating areas arranged on curving decks and balconies looking down on the bar at the bottom row, well-lit glass caves in which the white toga-ed chefs create multicuisine specialties. Today, the chefs prepare to flip their bamboo mats and roll their seaweed to make their sushi.
“We’ve got Indonesian, Malaysian, Vietnamese and Turkish cuisines, besides Italian and Indian,” explain the waiters. They are dressed like red-hot chili peppers in bright red and green, with slickly gelled hair that stands up in quiffs. The young women are in black and have been wired for instant communication with the German manager, Wolfgang Illing, who is therefore everywhere. At a signal from him, the music changes into a familiar Korean-sounding nasal rant: “Let’s dance, Gangnam style”, and all the young men and women stop serving their guests and start dancing and riding the imaginary horses. It’s actually appropriate. Velachery is next to Chennai’s popular racecourse. People have been coming down here to ride their horses in the early morning along the racetracks.
At the ITC Grand Chola, across the traffic light, the atmosphere is more sedate, though they too are about to open a “Pan Asian” restaurant. For the moment, it is the solemn splendour of the Royal Vega. Tall and turbaned young waiters sail through the room that resembles a Durbar Hall, holding aloft heavy metal trays like acrobats. Serviettes are ringed in bejeweled bands with a ruby and emerald ‘Sarpech’ motif that are discretely removed before the guests decide to slip them into their bags. The young men bend their knees and kneel down to offer warm towel rolls, or even just a platter of roasted papads. It’s all a little too servile for comfort, but the nouveau Chennai clientele loves it. What next? Foot massages with the saag-panneer, personal paan makers to pop the betel nuts into the mouth, or do we just have to wait for the next edition of the Gangnam dance routine to ‘Stay Inspired” as the ads tell us.
GEETA
DOCTOR TCR130504
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