In our family, nobody called him by name. He was just Mamayya - uncle - and when you visited his house, you left with a jar. Chicken pickle, packed while you were still saying no-no-it's-too-much.
His rule was simple: the piece matters more than the masala. Anyone can make oil taste spicy. The work is in the marination, the slow fry in gingelly oil, the patience to let a sealed jar sit until the spice has gone all the way in.
Cousins carried his jars to hostels in Hyderabad, then to flats in Bangalore, then in checked luggage to places much further. The jars kept travelling and the requests kept coming back. At some point "make extra for us" became "you should sell this" - and here we are.
We cook his recipes in small batches, after you order, exactly the way he refused to hurry them. If a jar reaches you and it doesn't taste like someone's uncle made it - tell us. That's the standard.
- Mee Mamayya