The kebab khandan fights back

What’s in a name? Crores of rupees, actually. Especially if the name instantly unleashes hunger pangs.
Which is why Indian eateries — that for decades have followed an imitate-and-let-imitate philosophy — are suddenly becoming possessive about nomenclature and inheritance. At the moment, two prominent restaurant chains —Tunday Kebabi and Lucknow Wale Tunday Kebabi — are clashing skewers over the use of the name “Tunday Kebab”.Both claim that they alone are the true heirs of Lucknow’s mouthwatering legacy. And, in the process, have bewildered the ranks of dedicated foodies who will traverse a dozen smelly gullies and brave hour-long traffic jams to find “the most authentic khandvi” or “original falooda kulfi”.
The original tunday kebabs — or so the story goes — were the outcome of a royal competition. The Nawab of Lucknow was addicted to kebabs, but when he lost his teeth he invited rival chefs to create the softest, juiciest kebabs. The winner was Haji Murad Ali, a gifted chef who had only one hand — and so, in that age of political incorrectness, was dubbed Tunda. His secret recipe involved 160 ingredients, including sandalwood.
Over a century later, the owners of the two flourishing Tunday Kebab chains are squabbling over who is more closely related to Haji Murad Ali. Whether either of them possesses the original recipe, whether it has survived at all, and whether anybody today bothers with 160 ingredients, remains a mystery. But the name “Tunday Kebab” conjures up images of royal repasts — and both restaurateurs are determined to “own” it.
Many reputed eateries in India have a similar tale to tell. The Bera Samosa people, for example, run eight restaurants in Ahmedabad — all born out of dadaji’s crunchy kheema samosas. And the Das Khaman crowd runs a flourishing business in Gujarat, all thanks to Das Kaka and the matchless khaman that he sold from a handcart a hundred years ago. The original recipes are, of course, closely guarded secrets. But that doesn’t stop imposters from setting up shop, cloning signboards and replicating menus.
As a result, the not-so-savvy customer is quite likely to stray into Nazim’s or Nazima’s for a kathi roll, instead of the famous Nizam’s. Or bite into a stringy, stodgy faux Frankie that is nothing like the original Mumbai super-hit. The first Frankies were rolled by Amarjit Tibb, who was inspired by the wraps he sampled in Beirut in the 1960’s. He and his wife came up with a zingy masala, succulent filling and soft naan — and a name inspired by West Indian cricketer Frank Worrell. The wonderful roll clicked — and soon snackeries all over the city began to serve Frankie-lookalikes. But there was little that the original company could do, other than educate the consumer.
“Patent laws in India are extremely loose so people know they can imitate a recipe or product and palm it off as their own,” says Anuvrat Pabrai, the master ice-cream maker behind the gourmet Pabrai’s Fresh and Naturelle Ice Creams. “There are very few effective and quick legal remedies available.”
This is why many Indian companies ignore blatant trademark infringement. But times and attitudes are clearly changing. The Rs 50-crore Tunday Kebab lawsuit is one example. Another is the matter of the Calicut Paragon Restaurant that has gone to court claiming that no other restaurant in the UAE can use the word Calicut.
Then there is the case of the Thalappakatti Biryani. This redolent biryani was first marketed in1957 by Nagasamy Naidu, who owned a paan shop in Dindigul. He used his wife’s recipe—involving seeraga samba rice, grass-fed goats and a secret masala — to establish a tiny eatery. “My grandfather used to wear a turban and sit at the cash counter,” says D Nagasamy, who today heads the burgeoning biryani empire. “In Tamil, thalappakatti means ‘one who wears a turban’ and the biryani became famous as Thalappakatti biryani. Later our restaurant was renamed Dindigul Thalappakatti Restaurant.”
In 2006, D Nagasamy heard that a new restaurant had opened called Chennai Rawther Thalappakattu. “At that point we had not yet expanded to Chennai,” says Nagasamy, whose family approached the courts. The owners of Chennai Rawther Thalappakattu protested that their ancestor was the Chief of the Horse Regiment in the Palace of Sivaganga and always wore a turban. So they, too, had every right to the term Thalappakattu. But the courts disagreed.
“We won that case and today we have 16 branches in Chennai, alone,” says Nagasamy, adding that their masalas remain a closely guarded secret and are made by a handful of old-timers in Dindigul. “But even now, other restaurants claim to serve Dindigul Thalappakatti Biryani. Many consumers do get confused and we keep protesting. But how many small restaurants are we to take on?”
For some organizations, though, no battle is too insignificant or troublesome. Recently, Starbucks descended like a ton of House Blend on a Bangkok vendor who was selling coffee from a handcart. The vendor had adopted the name “Starbung” and an over-familiar green and white logo. Eventually, the two parties settled and the stall was renamed “Bung’s Tears”.
In India, though, not everybody feels the need to use a bulldozer to swat a pesky fly. The Jaipur Lassiwala certainly doesn’t. The famous Lassiwala on MI Road is as much a local landmark as the Jantar Mantar — except that the Jantar Mantar is easier to identify. Lassiwala is ringed by pretenders with identical signboards and clay kullads. All very confusing, as two Forbes reporters realized during a visit a couple of years ago. “Two of the Lassiwalas say ‘Since 1944’ on their banners. Both have the unique clay cups. And both have signs inside their booths saying they’re ‘the original.’ So which was it?” they wondered.
There was only one difference between the real and the copycat. “In front of one Lassiwala was a group of five or so Indian customers.” The reporters followed the crowd, found the original Lassiwala and realized that he was unfazed by the counterfeits. “Everyone still knows to come here,” Sittaram Khoda told them calmly.
Pabrai concurs. “The original always remains the original,” he says. “After we launched our nolen gurer ice cream, so many companies have tried to replicate it but they have not approached it with the same intensity and have not achieved the same flavor and consistency. Somehow, the original always retains the edge.”
Minwalla is a Mumbai-based freelance writer