Calories disappear. Memories don’t. Food isn’t eaten here—it is dissected, celebrated, criticized and occasionally put on trial.
What the hell is kombucha? I keep seeing it everywhere now. Fermented, probiotic, good for the gut, good for this, good for that. We had kanji. Nobody called it anything fancy. Red or black carrots sat in water with spices, fermented in the sun, and the first sip could go straight up the nose and…
Nirula’s Delhi: Every city has a flavour that becomes part of its identity. Kolkata has puchkas and Park Street. Mumbai has vada pav and Irani cafés. For those of us who grew up in Delhi in the seventies and eighties, that flavour was unmistakably Nirula’s. This was long before burgers became “gourmet”, pizzas started carrying…
There are very few things that can claim to have influenced Indian civilisation as profoundly as the humble paan. It has been a digestive, an aphrodisiac, a social lubricant, a post-prandial ritual, a status symbol, a conversation starter, a cinematic icon and, unfortunately, one of the country’s most accomplished muralists. My earliest memory of paan…
There was a time when an airport lounge spoke in whispers. Not literally, of course. Nobody walked around hushing fellow passengers. But there was an unspoken understanding that once you crossed those frosted glass doors, the airport remained outside. Boarding announcements became distant, conversations softened, chairs invited you to sink into them, newspapers still mattered…
Some foods belong to a city. Some belong to a community. Maggi belongs to everyone. It may well be the closest thing India has to a culinary equalizer. Think about it. A billionaire’s son and a hostel student have both eaten Maggi straight from the saucepan. The IIT topper. The engineering backbencher. The investment banker…
Poor Khichdi. No other dish in India has suffered such a spectacular branding failure. The moment someone announces, “We’re having Khichdi tonight,” the room falls silent. Children assume they are being punished. Teenagers instinctively reach for food delivery apps. Adults nod politely, as though accepting an unavoidable medical procedure. Nobody has ever exclaimed, “Fantastic! Khichdi!”…
I have a theory. Never judge a city by its skyline. Judge it by its breakfast buffet. Long before museums open, stock markets ring their bells or politicians begin lying for the day, a city quietly reveals its personality over breakfast. Architects build skylines. Governments build roads. Hotel managers, quite unintentionally, reveal the soul of…
Before avocado toast, sourdough and artisanal breakfasts took over Instagram, North India had already perfected the art of comfort. The humble parantha wasn’t just breakfast. It was an emotion, a family tradition and, perhaps, the greatest flatbread ever created.
There are only two kinds of people in this world. Those who eat mangoes. And those who know how to eat mangoes. The difference is enormous. The modern world has reduced the mango to a fruit. It isn’t. It is a season. It is a ritual. It is an annual festival that quietly arrives every…
I have always believed some cities are destinations. Others are moods. Kolkata is a mood. Every generation discovers Kolkata through a different storyteller. Mine discovered it through Amar Prem. Even today, when someone mentions Kolkata, I don’t think of Victoria Memorial or Park Street. I see Rajesh Khanna in a dhoti, his head resting in…
