I was at Third Wave Coffee, sipping my Rs 250 black coffee — though, thanks to reward points for ‘good behaviour’ (ie, drinking mediocre coffee without complaining), it was discounted to Rs 190. Right then, a friend who now lives in Dubai texts, ‘I’m in Hyderabad, let’s catch up’.
When this happens with my current friends, the texts usually go like: Where should we meet? Broadway is too loud, Heart Cup is too far, and 10 Downing Street is not in London. But our texts simply went: I’ll be at Sarvi Café, Khairtabad, in 40 minutes.
That’s where I hung out with my friends before cafés based on the idea of Central Perk opened up. An Irani café is basically Central Perk, populated only by Joeys and Chandlers. You won’t find Rachel, Monica, Phoebe, or Ross — especially Ross.
Here’s how hanging out at Sarvi goes:
First, there’s no ‘regular’ table. It’s not a TV studio. If a table is occupied, you casually request the already seated Seinfeld and Costanza to move a little. The café is less of a melting pot of food and more of a crossover of characters.
The cleanliness? Definitely not Airbus-level spotless, but cleaner than a local bus — let’s call it Aero Express bus-level clean.
The chai and Osmania biscuits are fresher than oxygen post-photosynthesis.
But the puffs and rolls? Decoration pieces only. Once, I tried a puff and it tasted exactly like a plastic chair I once ate at Bowl O’ China.
The only reason I am comparing an Irani café to a sitcom café is because both last precisely 22 minutes. My friend and I took 11 minutes each to summarise the last 10 years of our lives because we knew Barney and Marshall from ‘How I Met Your Mother’ were waiting for us to leave.
The best part about chatting at an Irani café is that when your friend repeats the same story for the hundredth time, you quietly tune into Sheldon and Leonard’s drama at the next table, all while maintaining your ‘good listener’ face. And they’re probably doing the same — so don’t share your password at Irani cafés.
If you’re a regular, your Gunther-like waiter sees your face and immediately brings the exact chai-biscuit combo you’ve ordered for years — no shouting misspelled names as if you’re a criminal waiting for the judge to call you in.
There are no walls, doors, or even a sign. The café is a rectangular cuboid with walls only on two sides, making it feel indoor and outdoor at the same time.
This makes it perfect to smoke and sip chai simultaneously — a luxury unavailable at your fancy chain cafés. Plus, they’re cash-only because the theme of the café is nostalgia; it was nice to take out that Rs 100 note which was lying in my pocket since lockdown.
Also, post-IKEA Hyderabad is under the assumption that any business is successful only if it’s big, which is why Café Niloufer’s latest branch isn’t a café but a mall. And Karachi Bakery, though not big in size, is spread out like traffic signals — every area has one.
Will I go back to regularly hanging out at Sarvi Café? Probably not — there are no charging points to keep my laptop alive. So, ironically, I’m finishing this article at Third Wave, sipping my overpriced coffee, appreciating Sarvi for exactly what it is: a café made purely for nostalgia.
Sandesh
@msgfromsandesh
(This comedian is here to tell funny stories about Hyderabad)
(The writer’s views are his own)