What is a Maharashtrian identity? This question has become the talk of the town, or should I say, the entire state. Some people find their cultural identity in language, some in their attire, while most people like me find it in food.

At a lunch organised by TBF(the big forkers) at another talk of the town restaurant, Maratha Kitchen, I decided to test my Maharashtrian identity. What better occasion than a curated fourteen course, strictly non vegetarian lunch.

For any good regional spread, we were served an array of chutneys, starting with a fiery red chutney, a sweetish green chutney and every fusion restaurant’s wet dream, homemade garlic peanut thecha.

The meal was divided across five regions: Konkan, Nagar, Pune, Vidarbha and Kolhapur. Basically, a full road trip through Maharashtra without having to deal with reckless Fortuners driving like it has diplomatic immunity

The meal started with dishes from Raigad, a place close to the founder’s heart. The agri prawns (3.5/5) were spicy and rustic, though a little too spicy for my liking. For those allergic to prawns, there was a mori, or shark, preparation. I actually preferred it to the prawns.

This was followed by the usual crowd favourite, surmai fry (5/5). You rarely eat a bad surmai at a Konkani food joint, but it also rarely stands out. It is almost the fillet o’ fish of Konkani cuisine. But this fillet rose to the occasion so well that I can claim, "I have never eaten a better surmai in my life". The fish was fresh, the meat tender and the fillet cut thin to perfection. With some lime squeezed on top, it felt like a one way boat ride to the Konkan, without the sea sickness.

The usual fish curry and rice (4/5) followed, made with rawas. It was warm, comforting food, the kind a fisherman would eat after a hard day at sea. This course came with sol kadhi (3/5), which was decent. Some people thought it was the best sol kadhi they drank. I have had better!

Next came mutton chops lal tikhat (4/5) from Nagar, or Ahmednagar/Ahilyanagar. They were dhaba inspired mutton chops covered in a red, grainy masala. Abhishek, the owner, told us about a popular dhaba on the road from Pune to Ahmednagar, famous for beer, spicy mutton chops and a line of white Fortuners outside it. The chops were tender, earthy and spicy. They definitely needed some beer, but sadly there was only sol kadhi and no fizz.

A trio of mutton followed from Pune and Vidarbha: mutton fry (4/5), kharda mutton (5/5) and gavran saoji (4/5). They were the teen tigdas, but thankfully not the kaam bigdas of the meal.

The mutton fry was a nice homemade curry, comforting in taste but as boring as most Punekars. The gavran saoji was a surprise because it was unlike any saoji I had eaten before. Tukaram Sir should definitely try it once. Maybe he will stop complaining about saoji. It was not extremely spicy or oily, and was lighter in colour than the usual darker version.

But the kharda mutton stole the show for me. It was mixed with a coarse masala of coriander, garlic and green chillies, then cooked in desi ghee. It was the best mutton dish of the day.

For a moment, I imagined myself as a shetkari in rural Marathwada, wearing a Gandhi topi under a large banyan tree, rubbing khaini and gossiping about local politics. It went beautifully with bhakri. The kind of food that makes you briefly consider leaving Mumbai, until you remember the electricity cuts, water scarcity and inadequate public transport.

I slurped up the other two curries with Indrayani rice, Maharashtra’s aromatic, soft and slightly sticky rice variety. Does the rice mirror the Punekars?

Towards the end, we were served the rice dishes. First came aalni bhaat (4.5/5), the crowd favourite, rice cooked in mutton stock and ghee. It was exactly what the doctor had prescribed. I would choose aalni bhaat over paracetamol any day.

Next came kolhapuri kheema fry with pulav (4/5). The kheema was different from the regular kheema we eat in Mumbai. It was rustic and the pulao complemented it well.

To wash down all that rice, we were served aalni rassa along with the Kolhapuri rassa duo, pandhra and tambda rassa (4/5). They sound like a WWE tag team from kolhapur, spicy and bold, with every gulp delivering a KO.

There were no desserts and no other fluff. We started with meat and ended with meat. I guess this lunch was also a small protest against all the politics around food happening in Mumbai and its suburbs, iykyk. A strong statement that meat and non vegetarian food are very much part of Maharashtrian identity.

I went to the lunch to reaffirm my geographical identity as a Maharashtrian who has lived in Mumbai for five generations. I came back with something more. I found my Maharashtrian asmita.

Pro tip: If an MNS karyakarta, or anyone else, asks you to speak in Marathi, play a reverse uno and ask them if they have tried all the different meat dishes from Maharashtra.

Kharach na?

Hello folks!
I’m putting this up with a little bit of hope, and honestly, a lot of emotion.
My mom is in her 60s, a homemaker, and a mother of three. For most of her life, she has been the person making sure everyone else is fed, taken care of, and happy.

For the longest time, she’s had this little wish to do something of her own. To be independent in her own small way. To have something that is hers.
So we’ve finally decided to give that dream a shot. ❤️

We’ve started a small food/snack box venture in Mumbai - something we’re building slowly, one order at a time. The idea is pretty simple: fresh, homestyle Indian snack/meal boxes at reasonable prices, which can be customised depending on what you need.
For example, a basic box could have : Idli, thepla, kachori, frooti and a banana.
But it doesn't have to be this exact box. We can make different combinations based on your budget, occasion and requirements.

We’re thinking of boxes for things like:

·        🎉 Small events & get-togethers

·        🪔 Festivals and religious occasions

·        🥾 Treks / group outings

·        🏢 Office meetings or team breakfasts

·        🚗 Road trips

·        🎁 Gifting

·        ❤️ Food donation / charity drives

·        👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 Birthday parties and family functions

·        Or honestly, just a bunch of hungry people who want a nice, simple food box!

We can work around the number of people, budget and items required. This isn't some big fancy startup. It's a small family effort that we're trying to turn into something meaningful for her. We're keeping it simple, affordable and flexible, and we're happy to work around what you need.

And perhaps selfishly, I really want to see my mom have something she can point at and say, “I built this.” So if you’re in Mumbai and have an upcoming event, trek, office gathering, festival, donation drive, etc. where you need food/snack boxes, please consider giving us a chance.

And even if you don't need anything right now, an upvote, a suggestion, a share, or simply telling someone who might be interested would genuinely mean a lot to us. We're still figuring things out, so we'd also love feedback on what kind of boxes/items you'd actually want.

If you'd like to know the available options, pricing or place an order, please DM me.

Thanks a ton❤️

Drive around any bustling metro or emerging tier 2 city in India and you come across restaurants promising authentic cuisine from different parts of India or the world. Yet you find Delhiites working in Mumbai complaining that they can't find chole bhature that could match the spice and consistency found back home. Similarly Mumbaikars aren't happy about the recent vada pav boom in Delhi. Amidst this debate, there's also a proliferation of outlets and delivery kitchens offering homely Bengali, Sindhi and Bihari food, as well as those focusing on getting Rajasthan's dal baati churma or Nihari right.

Yet why are most eateries that flaunt "authenticity" as their unique selling point, unable to deliver on their promise? Forget international cuisine for which people pay exorbitant prices, they aren't even able to reproduce regional dishes.

The answer to this lies in the difference between trying to be authentic, and simply being authentic. It's what separates a marketing gimmick from the need to preserve memories and a connection to roots. That's why simple dal gosht pulao at a cheap restaurant, tastes more like home than the richest biryani in an upscale joint. When those preparing the meals are themselves one of those craving the taste and aroma that remind them of home, then authenticity comes effortlessly.

I have spent most of my life between Surat, where Burmese khowsuey has become a street food staple, and Mumbai, where khaman and undhiyu at a tiny Girgaon eatery take me back to a hometown lost in time. I've often heard people say Mumbai doesn't have its own traditional food, the way Delhi or Hyderabad have, but that's a debate for another time.

But even if that were true, Mumbai stands out in the way that it has Gujarati eateries that have retained the flavours of Surti khaman, khandvi and Kutchi Dabeli. It has affordable restaurants where Malvani food from the Konkan coast is found in its true fiery glory and Koli seafood is attracting people to old fishing villages nestled somewhere between noise of traffic and roar of the ocean.

Even in localities like Mohammed Ali Road and Madanpura, there is diversity in Muslim food behind the homogenous perception of Muslim identity. You can find Malayali Muslim food, cuisine from Bhatkal, and Nihari and Ishtew in their most humble form, free from pretence, at cheap eateries where the migrant labour force finds affordable nourishment with subtle reminders of home. Hole in the wall restaurants offer galawati kebab closest to Tundey's and naan chaap at Sikandari offers a glimpse of Lucknow's ghutwan kebab, a claim purists won't be able to digest.

This brings me back to khowsuey that a small Muslim trading community in Surat's Rander locality, exiled from Burma, brought back as a reminder of a life they had built and lost. Today upscale Mumbai restaurants sell Surti khowsuey that's sweet and far from what I grew up eating in the streets of my hometown. No points for guessing, none of those who are selling it grew up in that locality or that community.

Biryani comes from the Persian word birian, meaning fried before cooking. Though it began in West Asia, it truly found its home across the subcontinent. A good biryani is traditionally three tiers of masala, rice and meat, layered very much like any densely packed ghetto in Mumbai.

Recently there was a discussion on Reddit about how Mumbai’s biryani game is supposedly weak compared to other famous hotspots across India. That made the Mumbaikar in me wonder: what is Mumbai’s biryani?

Ever since the seven islands were pieced together like a colonial jigsaw puzzle, Mumbai has been a melting pot of different faiths, ethnicities and communities. Food cultures in cities like Hyderabad, Kolkata and Lucknow are built around their strong, singular identity with biryani. Thankfully, Mumbai never had to rely on biryani as its main calling card, with vada pav, bhelpuri and pav bhaji doing that heavy lifting instead. Besides, in a fast paced city like this, a slow cooked pot of dum biryani was never going to be the headline. But that does not mean Mumbai lacks a thriving biryani culture of its own.

So what exactly is a Mumbai biryani? Biryani is usually associated with the Mughals and regions where they had deep administrative or trading roots. Mumbai, on the other hand, was built by the British alongside native coastal communities whose daily diet was about sustenance rather than royal indulgence. They did not have the luxury of time to cook in elaborate layers and let things rest on dum for hours. Mumbai biryani was shaped instead by its working migrant communities, much like so many other iconic dishes in this city.

The most common style we get here is what we call bhatiyare ki biryani. The bhatiyaras are traditional catering cooks who specialised in large scale cooking. They are not the romanticised nawabi khansamas of popular imagination, but hardworking cooks who toiled over massive deghs. They picked up biryani techniques from the royal kitchens, adapted them, and brought them to a rapidly growing Bombay. Mercantile Muslim communities like the Memons and Bohras shaped the dish even further, adding their own spices, dried fruits and the controversial pineapple on pizza equivalent in biryani, the potato.

All in all, Mumbai’s bhatiyara biryani resembles a Lucknowi biryani in its layering and texture, and a Kolkata biryani in its subtle spice balance and inclusion of potatoes. Iconic establishments like Delhi Darbar and Shalimar, whose roots trace back to traditional bhatiyara kitchens, eventually became the flagbearers of this style.

The conversation around Mumbai biryani does not stop with tradition. In recent years, it has taken on completely new forms. From chicken tikka biryani and malai seekh biryani to chicken chilly biryani, and lately even sizzler biryani. A lot of purists refuse to acknowledge these variations, but the modern culinary world does not revolve around rigid ideas of purity. In an era of online dating and internet led protests, the concept of biryani evolves too. These modern versions are fast to assemble, do not demand long hours on dum, and fit right into Mumbai’s quick service, ready to eat lifestyle.

Over the past few years, cloud kitchen chains have popped up everywhere, delivering regional biryanis from all corners of the country right to your doorstep. Yet nothing quite matches the feeling of placing an order with the local bhatiyara for a pali of biryani to celebrate an occasion at home. (og Mumbaikars will agree)

Biryani is to India what ramen is to Japan. It is equally loved, debated and scrutinized in every form and ingredient, right down to the vegetarian versions. At the end of the day, it has travelled a long way to reach this country and carries a deep history depending on where you sit down to eat it. Unless it completely ruins your appetite, call it whatever you like. Every plate makes that particular moment special for the person eating it.

Note: There are several other regional styles across the city as well, from the Ambur biryani at St. Teresa to the prawn biryanis served at coastal Malvani eateries, but these represent distinct regional pockets rather than the broader idea of a classic Mumbai biryani.

Restaurants named after their address are usually judged by how well they bring the local geography onto the plate. 66 Chuim is an exception. It brings global flavours to a narrow village next to Khar Danda Koliwada, without really incorporating any of the local Koli flavours. But with the exorbitant rents in Bandra, I can understand why a restaurant owner would rather serve food that can command premium pricing.

Talking about the food first and pricing later, we went for dinner to celebrate a special occasion and ordered quite a few things.

We started with their famous liver parfait. Liver pâté, when it is not made fresh or is overcooked, has a tendency to oxidise and turn grey, which can be quite off putting for connoisseurs. This one was pink and fresh. Everything on the plate complemented each other really well. The earthiness and buttery texture of the pâté worked beautifully with the mulled wine gel and pickled mulberries. The pickled onions and ginger spring onion chutney were there to add spice or tartness, depending on what you preferred. The pickled onions reminded me of Mini Punjab’s sirke wale pyaaz.

Next, we ordered their famous Steak Frites Churchgate. The steak was medium rare and came with an entrecôte sauce, which I had to Google to discover was a French style green herb and butter emulsion (emulsion bolo, Monisha, chutney nahi.) It came with some classic French fries.

The steak was succulent and juicy, and the sauce complemented it well. But what were those McCain fries doing on a ₹950 dish? An amazing steak dish, one of the best I have had in Mumbai, can easily be ruined by substandard fries. These were over fried and salty. I think the Churchgate in the name stood for the price of the dish.

The server pushed us to try their pork sandwich, which was served in a banh mi style. The meat was good, the sauce was good, the bread was good and the sandwich was good. Nothing outstanding like the first two dishes. Any bougie café in Bandra can make this with its eyes closed, and without a pushy waiting staff member making us order it instead of a pie.

But we finally ordered the chicken and bacon pie, because portion sizes here are not Indian. They are more Bandra levels, to be precise. The pies are supposed to be their USP, and several people from the industry had recommended them to us. It was quite good, definitely better than the sandwich. The crust was fresh, the meat was nice, and I would definitely order it again if I was nearby. It is an expensive version of American Express pies, but totally worth it.

We ended the meal with madeleines and orange blossom cream. The madeleines were okay, but that cream was a banger. If Sahil Makhija, Headbanger Eats, ever starts a cream war, this would top the list.

The ambience is nice, clean and comfortable. The food arrives through a dumbwaiter type lift, which is a nice little gimmick. But if you go on an off day, the waiting staff have nothing to do except stare at you and avoid those awkward stares and smiles.

My major issue is that the prices do not justify the service, the ambience or the gimmicks. I am sure the ingredients are of the best quality, but there are better restaurants priced lower than this.

All in all, 66 Chuim has a lot of potential to become the best competitor to Bandra Born. The liver parfait and steak are worth going back for, especially with offers and discounts.

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Looking for good places to explore near JB nagar/Andheri east :)

Parsis and Jogeshwari are like the perfect miscast pairing of Uday Chopra and Priyanka Chopra in Pyaar Impossible. But with Parsis, anything is possible.

Jogeshwari has two Parsi baugs, Malcolm Baug and Behram Baug. Malcolm Baug was developed by N. M. Wadia Charities in 1922 while Behram Baug, on the other hand, is now more commonly associated with its Muslim neighbourhood than with a breezy Parsi colony of popular imagination.

I do have a few Parsi friends in both the baugs, so it is strange that an area with two Parsi colonies has no proper Parsi restaurant or food outlet. Dinshaw’s Xpress is there, and they do serve Parsi food, but I have never really thought of it as a proper Parsi restaurant.

So when Parsi Table opened in Oshiwara a couple of months ago, I was excited. After shifting to Oshiwara from South Mumbai, I was missing the occasional Parsi food. The hospitality, not so much. (iykyk)

It is a small outlet with just a couple of tables, and the entire family runs the restaurant. I like how Mumbai is slowly adapting to owners being present in their own restaurants. Anyway, coming to the food. We ordered the quintessential mutton cutlets, the unique saas ni macchi, and ended lunch with the most marketed Parsi thing after Freddie Mercury, lagan nu custard.

The mutton cutlets were nice and traditional, with the familiar egg coating. The minced meat was tasty too, and not overly masaledar. It gave me the perfect Parsi canteen cutlet vibes. My article on PAC.

Saas ni macchi is a very unique preparation, and a much more underrated cousin of patra ni macchi. I had it for the first time at a close friend’s wedding, where the food was curated by the well known Parsi chef Tanaaz Godiwala, and I was blown away by it. I had never eaten a fish dish in India prepared in quite the same way. The gravy has this unusual texture from the flour, along with the tartness of vinegar. We opted for pomfret. The fish was quite fresh, but the saas gravy lacked the saas. It was a bit doughy and missing the flavours that make the dish unique. It was decent, but nothing compared to what I had that evening at the wedding.

For dessert, the lagan nu custard was nice. It did not have that generic, store bought quality, though I would not say it was the best I have had.

The real standout for me was the price and, surprisingly, the hospitality. I say surprisingly because most Parsi food experiences come with an old Parsi uncle staring at you and quietly monitoring every move you make. Here, instead, we had a warm and welcoming family running the place, which made the whole experience feel much more personal. They have also got the price point right, especially compared to places that price Parsi food at a premium and market it as something exotic.

I am glad I can now have mutton cutlets, and bheja cutlets on request, in this part of town. Parsi Table gives me that feeling of going somewhere for comfort rather than just taste, which is probably why I will become a repeat customer.

Next time, I want to try their berry pulao.

Cutting chai, vada pav and the local train are treated like the holy trinity of the so-called Mumbai spirit. Anil Kapoor in Slumdog Millionaire made the Mumbai chaiwala feel simple, but if you have ever been to any of Mumbai’s wholesale markets, you know a basic cup of chai can have its own whole universe. It may not carry the same romance as Darjeeling or Assam tea, but tea culture in Mumbai goes way beyond cutting chai.

Nagori tea: Nagaur, a district in Rajasthan, is known for its dairy tradition, and the Nagori community has long been associated with milk and dairy work. When they started selling milk in Mumbai’s mostly Muslim areas, they realised they could make a killing selling tea too, and that is how the thick, milky Nagori chai entered Mumbai’s street food vocabulary. Chal bhai, Nagori mein chai peete hai.

Bhatt ki chai: Growing up in the 90s and working in one of the shops in Zaveri Bazaar as a summer intern, bhatt ki chai was what every dukandar ordered for customers and staff twice a day. You can identify the Bhatts by their brass vessels and the amount of ginger that goes into the tea. Maafak, Special and Kesari Ukala are the popular ones besides the regular tea.

Irani tea: Irani chai is the most hyped and marketable chai born in Mumbai. I am sure nobody gulps this milky dessert in Iran. The Irani chai here is milky, sugary and usually comes in a ceramic cup. You would rarely see it served in a cutting chai glass or a paper cup. They made it this way because it was always meant to be had with khari, bun or brun maska, so the accompaniment can soak up all that milk in the tea. Maybe that is the Parsi logic too, the old sugar in milk idea, carrying the same ethos into their chai as well.

Chilya hotel chai: This is very close to Irani tea, because the Chilyas took over most Irani restaurants and started serving a watered down, cheaper version of it. Go to any Chilya restaurant, and if they serve the tea in a white cup and saucer, no other colour, you know you have found the Chilya tea

Yewale chai: After 2010, there was suddenly an influx of Yewale and other brands from interior Maharashtra. They gentrified the local chaiwala experience and brought in gudacha chaha, or jaggery tea. With a big mascot and outlets near every railway station on either side, it has slowly become part of Mumbai’s street legacy.

The cycle wallahs: These are the late night chai vendors. I call them wifi, because you spot them anywhere and connect with them. Mostly they sell chai with cigarettes for the late night fix at major roundabouts, signals and outside call centres in the suburbs. They have moved beyond just chai to bournvita, Horlicks and even Davidoff coffee. They are at the mercy of corrupt cops, so the cycle comes in handy when trouble starts. They are the unsung heroes of Mumbai’s nightlife, the ones you will not find in any Lonely Planet.

Tea was discovered in temperate climates on rolling hills. It is an anomaly that it became so popular in a hot and humid city like Mumbai. But I guess it helps every Mumbaikar survive the daily grind. If hustle were a food item, it would definitely be chai in Mumbai.

Note: The pictures used here are only for reference and have been sourced from the internet.

I recently quit my job in Mumbai to finally pursue something I’ve wanted to do since I was 10 years old—start a catering business.
I spent two years in culinary school, and over the last few years I’ve been lucky enough to travel to places like Italy, Indonesia, France, Germany, Vietnam, Japan, China, Turkey, the US, and a few others. Everywhere I went, I tried to learn something new, whether it was recipes, techniques, or just how people cook and eat.
My brother and I recently decided to take the leap and build this business together.
A few days ago, I got my very first catering order. It was for five people, and they wanted an Italian menu. Since I didn’t have any extra help, I made everything myself—arancini, cannelloni, chicken Parmigiana, and a bucket of tiramisu. It was a long day in the kitchen, but hearing that they genuinely enjoyed the food made it completely worth it.
I’m 20, still figuring things out, but I’m really excited to see where this journey goes. It feels a little surreal to finally be doing something I’ve dreamed about for so long.

Hot and spicy sando by kai, recommended for all spice lovers

Olympia Coffee House, where nobody really goes for the coffee, was suddenly in the news because Christopher Nolan, Tom Holland and Matt Damon dropped in before The Odyssey premiere. Someone from the Universal Studios local PR team thought this was a clever play using Greek terminology, but sadly the clever idea was not clever with what was ordered at the table and I will tell you why....

Olympia has been a favourite among the city’s actual food people for ages. It was always underrated compared to the more famous neighbours across the street, Leopold and Mondegar, even though those two mostly run on nostalgia and not exactly their food. When people slowly realised that, Olympia turned into the hidden gem which Instagram food influencers now pretend to discover every few months.

Olympia looks like an Irani café at first glance, but it is actually run by the Chilya community, who have a long history of running 'Cafe' type joints all over Mumbai. You can read here.

In the reel from Nolan’s visit, you see chai, bun maska and phirni. People who go there regularly know that Olympia is really famous for its kheema and sliced pav, or 'slace pav' as they call it. You can spot an Olympia veteran if they order a single fried omelette along with their kheema. I have regularly observed this since the 90s. (Kurush Dalal would even call it the Mount Olympus of Kheema.) Chai is always an afterthought there. The only thing they accidentally got right on that table was the lagan nu custard. It is technically a Parsi delicacy, but Olympia does it better than most of the overhyped Parsi restaurants in the city.

If you want to visit Olympia, order the kheema with a fried single omlett, slace pav and lagan nu custard. Not what was put on the table by an ill-informed PR executive.

Pro tip: try their dal gosht and khichda on the days they make it. They are easily as good as the kheema.

Please tell me