As the decades passed by, the capital shifted (Delhi’s Sultans were notorious for creating new cities, often with each successive ruler building his own fortified city as a means of demonstrating his sovereignty). The population of Siri thinned, and the hauz gradually silted up. Fortunately for the hauz, in the 1350s, Delhi came under the rule of the Sultan Firozshah Tughlaq, a man renowned today as a major constructor and conservator – he built many monuments, and repaired a large number (including the Qutb Minar), during his reign. Firozshah Tughlaq took a great deal of interest in Alauddin Khalji’s old hauz, and gave it a new lease of life by having it excavated anew, adding channels, and desilting the tank. The tank was now named the ‘Hauz Khas’, the ‘royal tank’.

Firozshah Tughlaq’s fascination with Hauz Khas did not end at that. He built a sprawling madrasa complex around the tank – an institution of higher education that attracted scholars from as far as Baghdad. And he built his own tomb as part of the complex.

Today, the Hauz Khas complex is protected by the Archaeological Survey of India, and is one of Delhi’s most important historical sites. It makes for a very rewarding walk (and free, too! – no entry fee is charged). Plus, the stretch leading into the Hauz Khas historical area, known as Hauz Khas Village, is one of Delhi’s poshest places to shop, dine, groove, and be seen.

This is a very small and restricted area, and the only people allowed to drive into the village are those who actually live in the village. All visitors must park in the car park outside, and then walk in. Thankfully, Hauz Khas Village is a small area, so you don’t need to walk more than about a couple of hundred metres to get to any place within the village. Do note, though, that this means that there’s a lot of vertical expansion, with many of the shops and restaurants here being built two or three (or even more) storeys above ground – and invariably without lifts. Be ready to climb stairs.

Hauz Khas has some fancy designer shops that sell clothing, jewellery, and accessories; there are also art galleries (the Delhi Art Gallery has a particularly fine collection), furniture and lifestyle stores, and a couple of delightful old shops that specialise in old paintings and posters – from 19th century etchings of India to old movie posters and lobby cards, both of Indian cinema and Hollywood.

Then, of course, there are the eateries of Hauz Khas Village. The village has no dearth of places to eat, and just about every popular cuisine in Delhi – Italian, French, fusion,
South Indian, Punjabi and North Indian, Oriental, and Mediterranean – is represented here. There are cafés, bistros, takeaway places – even a
tea room. None are really budget places, but many are fairly affordable. Try and go early (about 12.30 or 1 for lunch, around 8 for dinner) if you want to avoid the fashionable crowds that descend on the area for late meals.

Fortunately, a friend (with whom we had a lunch date) knew about this – and had even eaten here earlier in the week, and had liked Masha enough to want to go back and try it for the second time in one week. So, led by him, we walked down the main lane, and when we saw the ornate lettering ‘Masha’ – all dull matte turquoise, the reigning colour of the restaurant – we turned right and went through a narrow alley, and up a couple of flights of turquoise-coloured stairs, into the restaurant.

Masha, despite the fact that the furniture is painted pale gold (a dull pale gold, but still), is rather stylish in an exotic sort of way. The counters have ornate, arabesque-like back-lit patterns; the floor is a pale turquoise mosaic, with the same gold pattern inlaid here and there. The ceiling is patterned, and the sofas against one wall are an elegant pale gold-on-cream pattern. At the far end, there’s a balcony, where the chairs are of polished dark wood, the tables of wrought iron – and the view a great one, across the large pool and surrounding woodlands of Hauz Khas. Since the weather was cool (and there are electric fans on the balcony), my husband, our friend, and I chose to sit on the balcony.

The Masha menu is, oddly, in stark contrast to the general elegance of the restaurant. It’s badly misspelled, terribly designed (with free clip art of anything to do with food – a turkey, a Quaker, a French chef, a tipsy-looking cartoon prawn, etc – decorating each page), and terribly tattered. Each menu was dog-eared, ripped in places, and with the laminate peeling off – very weird. The food on offer, though, sounded interesting, and mostly did limit itself to Turkish cuisine. There were the doners and kofte, the pastas and pilafs and even the pide, with grills and casseroles too. Since there were three of us, we decided to order a starter, followed by three separate main courses, so that we could get share them. We also ordered a fresh lemonade each, said a polite no to the sheesha being offered, and sat back to enjoy the view.

Our starter – esme – arrived after about ten minutes. This was a delicious creamy yoghurt-based sauce, flavoured with puréed tomatoes, bell peppers and garlic, topped with chopped walnuts, and served with a heap of pita wedges and sticks of pickled radishes. What we loved here was that the robust flavours of the tomatoes and peppers and garlic had been beautifully toned down, yet allowed to shine through in a very addictive way. So addictive, that when a waiter brought along an extra basket of pita bread, we used up some of that extra pita to mop up whatever was left of the sauce.

For a main course, I’d ordered a coban kavurma, described as a ‘Turkish chicken casserole’. The predominant flavour here was tomato, and the chicken was a tad overcooked. Not very good, though the pilaf that came with it, along with a little bowl of creamy yoghurt dip, and a salad of fresh bell peppers, cucumbers and parsley, was nice. My husband had ordered a chicken kepsa – recommended by the waiter as a special – and this seemed to be more or less a repeat of what I’d ordered. Similar tomatoey sauce, chicken breast, salad, yoghurt dip, and pilaf, though with the addition of pine nuts. Again, not bad, but nothing to really remember.

What we did love was what our friend had ordered: a ‘Masha special non-vegetarian pide’. This was like a rectangular thin crust pizza, brushed very lightly with tomato sauce and covered generously with a topping that included Turkish sausage, sumac-spiced chicken, spinach, Turkish cheese (somewhat like feta) and mozzarella. We couldn’t figure out how authentic – or not – that was, but it tasted great.

Masha, unfortunately, offers only four desserts (one is baklava, another a Turkish rice pudding called sutlac; the others are more American-style desserts). And, our luck being what it was on this particular day, the only dessert available was blueberry cheesecake: not what we wanted at all. So we ended up skipping dessert.

Our bill at Masha came to Rs 1,700, inclusive of taxes and service charges. The food, while not superlative, did have some great elements; the place was pretty; and the view was fabulous. On the whole, I’d say that was good value for money.

Café 2 2 Tango sits on the first floor; there’s no lift, but at least we didn’t have to climb an endless staircase. Inside, it’s small: I counted only 20 covers. The décor’s eclectic: gold arabesque patterns on rose pink walls; a mix of furniture styles, potted bamboo, rows of glass bottles on shelves. The music is a Youtube playlist—the laptop on which it was playing was on a sideboard, right opposite me.

Without knowing it, we happened to visit Café 2 2 Tango on the very first day it opened for lunch. So, even though we arrived just before 1 PM—lunchtime, even by Delhi’s laidback weekend standards—there was only a somewhat confused busboy around, who had to be asked a couple of times if the restaurant was open. Fortunately, a more competent waiter arrived within a minute, seated us, and gave us the menu.

I like menus that don’t consist of reams of pages, listing so many dishes that you have a tough time deciding what you want. That was where Café 2 2 Tango scored: it has just two pages, in which are listed the tapas, steaks, grills, even some dishes with definitely Oriental tones to them—which are on offer. We were tempted to try a pork belly slider from the tapas section (or a shrimp with garlic butter), but finally figured we might not be able to do justice to a starter, a main, and a dessert—and we did want dessert! So I ordered a ‘baconator’ beef burger, and my husband, after some dilly-dallying over some pressure-cooked lamb shanks, decided he’d have the baconator as well. Along with that, we ordered a fresh lemonade each.

The lemonade arrived soon after—and was a disappointment. We’d asked for lemonade with both salt and sugar in it, and (as happens in a lot of eateries in India), they mixed the lemonade andbrought us some additional seasoning, in case we wanted more of it—except that here, the sugar was literally that: coarse grain granulated sugar, not syrup. Since there actually wasn’t enough sugar in the lemonade, the sugar we added took an eternity to dissolve. What’s more, my husband discovered a hair in his drink and had to ask for a replacement.

The baconator burger was where Café 2 2 Tango redeemed itself somewhat. I’m not a burger fan (I’m too fastidious to like it when things drop out all over my plate and hands!), but this sounded too good to miss. And it tasted fantastic, too: a juicy, tender beef patty; a rasher of bacon; mayo; a few shreds of cabbage; lots of lovely caramelised onions, sautéed mushrooms, and what tasted like barbecue sauce, served between two wonderfully soft burger buns. On the side was a serving of potato-parmesan wedges, tossed in grated parmesan. Both my husband and I agreed that the burger was delicious, even though the base bun had gone a little soggy. My other crib was that for a burger that called itself a ‘baconator’, this one didn’t have too much bacon—or at least not enough to be a dominant flavour. It was swamped by the barbecue sauce and the onions.

The menu only has two desserts, one being a New York cheesecake with a peanut butter sauce (the other was something with chocolate). We were so full, we decided to split one, and didn’t regret it. The cheesecake was delicious; nice and fluffy, not too sweet, and with a sprinkle of nuts on top. The only element I didn’t like was the peanut sauce, which (while it tasted just fine), was too thick to qualify as a sauce—maybe it had been lying in a fridge too long.

The chef turned up while we were midway through our meal and spent some time chatting with us. He told us that he hopes to establish Café 2 2 Tango as the home to Delhi’s ‘best burgers’ (there is, by the way, a ‘decadent foie gras burger’ on the menu—it sounded delicious, but at Rs 1,200, was not quite in our budget just then). He also told us that the restaurant keeps changing its menu every now and then. The winter menu, replete with steak, and a hot chocolate trolley, is what we’re looking forward to, next!

Worth visiting? I’d say yes, despite the subpar lemonade and the soggy burger bun. At least the flavours are great, and I liked the sound of a lot of the items on the menu. I’d certainly like to try more.

We paid Rs 1,760 for our meal, taxes and service charges included. Good value for money. Incidentally, they’re currently running a promo which includes free cappuccino with every meal. We didn’t want any—we were too full by then—so we instead were given a plate with two moulded chocolates. Dark, a little too sweet, and with a rather intense flavour of mint—the latter an artificial flavour that always makes me gag. I wish I’d been warned about that mint before I popped the chocolate into my mouth.

You’ll find ‘Udupi style restaurants’ ranging from takeaways to fine dining all across Delhi. Naivedyam, in Hauz Khas Village, happens to be not just one of Hauz Khas Village’s oldest restaurants, but also one of the best places in Delhi to eat Udupi food.

As you enter Hauz Khas Village, take the first lane that curves off on your right. Go along this for a few metres, and you’ll come to Naivedyam—you can’t miss it. There are banana trees outside, and a small statue of the sacred Nandi bull, lovingly decorated with fresh flowers, and with a stick of incense burning in front.

Inside, it’s all very ‘typical’ South Indian: dark wooden ceilings, murals of religious themes on the walls (the one closest to us was of the deity Krishna, as a child, feasting off butter), brass ornaments on the pillars, and an idol at the cashier’s desk. Obviously an idol much revered, since during the course of our meal, we saw a waiter stop by it to dust off ashes from a burnt-down incense stick, and light a fresh one.

The menu at Naivedyam is pretty standard Udupi style: dosas, idlis, vadas, utthappams, different types of rice, and two special thalis or set meals, which include various vegetable dishes, rice, papads, lentils, chutneys, etc. After some thought, I ordered a bisi bel bhath, while my husband settled for a Mysore dosa. As beverages, we ordered fresh coconut water. (Naivedyam does not serve alcohol; it does have a large range of soft drinks, though, ranging from coconut water to lemonade, aerated drinks, milk shakes and some rather fancy ice cream sodas).

We’d just about settled back after placing our order when a complimentary amuse-bouche arrived: two little glasses of tomato rasam, each with a deep-fried papad on the side. Rasams are usually made of the water drained off when lentils have been cooked; this is spiced up with something tart (lime juice, tamarind, or cooked tomatoes are popular choices), and with a tempering of mustard seeds, curry leaves, etc. The Naivedyam rasam was good, but just a trifle too acidic for our liking.

The main course, however, made up for that. The Mysore dosa (my husband’s meal) was a large, crisp ‘pancake’ made from a rice batter, folded over a mixture of gently spiced boiled potatoes—the masala dosa familiar to all lovers of South Indian food; the ‘Mysore’ element of the dosa is in the garlic and red chilly paste that’s smeared onto the inside of the dosa before the potato filling is piled onto it. My husband liked it a lot, and was glad that the chilly-garlic paste was only enough to add a nice flavour to the dosa, not make it unbearably spicy.

My meal—the bisi bele bhath—is something I first had years ago at a very good Udupi joint, and have since tried in various restaurants, but with never the enjoyment of that first bisi bele bhath. Until now, at Naivedyam. Bisi bele bhath is comfort food at its best: rice cooked till very soft, along with lentils, vegetables, and some mild spices. Naivedyam did it beautifully: it was packed with flavour, not too tart or spicy, and with a sprinkle of fried crisps (made of a rice flour batter? I couldn’t tell) on top, to add texture. On the side came the ubiquitous papad; more crunch there. Both meals—my husband’s and mine—were served with complimentary sides of coconut chutney and the tart, soupy lentil-veggie-and-spice dish known as sambhaar. (This was where Naivedyam won again over most other Udupi restaurants we’ve sampled in Delhi: the sambhaar was not the watery, very sour, very spicy stuff that passes for sambhaar. Outside of home, this was one of the best sambhaars we’d tasted in Delhi). Extra sambhaar and coconut chutney were also placed on our table. There were also two other types of chutneys—one, a coconut chutney with fresh tomato pulp added; and the other a coconut chutney with green coriander, curry leaves, and green chillies ground into it. Both were good.

The coconut water we’d asked for needed a reminder to our waiter, but it was served up within a couple of minutes after that. This was really rather picturesque: it was served straight out of the coconut, which was placed in a little basket of its own. Cute!

For dessert, we dithered between the ice creams and the handful of traditional South Indian sweets on offer (including holige and Mysore pak), and finally settled on the rice pudding known as payasam. This is served warm (almost hot), and was really rather richer than we’d bargained for. The rice is cooked with milk and palm sugar (known in India as ‘jaggery’), and with raisins, cashewnuts, and bits of fresh coconut fried in ghee. I liked it, but my husband put his spoon down after eating only about half the portion; he said it was too heavy and cloying.

Our bill came to about Rs 450 (excluding a tip, but with taxes included). That makes Naivedyam the cheapest eating place we’ve been to in Hauz Khas Village. Considering the food is very good, and the ambience a relaxed, somewhat old-fashioned traditional Udupi place, it’s excellent value for money if you want good veggie food.

Anyway, to begin with: the place. This one lies behind Naivedyam (both restaurants share the same address; to get to Zo, keep walking down the narrow alley past Naivedyam). Keep a sharp eye on your left, because the only sign Zo has (at present, at least) is a small blackboard on which the name of the restaurant has been scrawled in white chalk. We’d have missed it, if we hadn’t been paying very close attention.

The temporary, makeshift nature of the sign is at odds with the interior of the restaurant, which is fussy and pretentious in the extreme. The floor’s cobbled stones, with what looked like bits of rounded white marble, each the size of an orange, laid in cement: it’s so uneven that when my husband pulled back his chair to seat himself, the chair nearly fell back. There are grand murals (some actually quite pretty), stone sculptures, a glittery chandelier—someone here has obviously spent a lot on the décor.

We were more interested in Zo’s menu, which turned out to be quite brief. Each section—soups, appetisers, pastas, main courses, etc—feature only about eight or ten dishes, with an almost equal balance of vegetarian and non-vegetarian food. Italian seems to be the reigning favourite, with the rest of the Mediterranean reflected in only a couple of dishes scattered here and there. We decided to begin with a starter—a funghi imbotitti fritti—and a main course each: a seafood risotto for me, and a dajaajah tagine for my husband. With that, we ordered a fresh lemonade each.

With our drinks came a basket of hot rolls (hot, but not terribly interesting when it came to flavour) and a minuscule blob of butter, which was really too little to do justice to the amount of bread they’d given us. About five minutes later, the funghi imbotitti fritti arrived: five large button mushrooms, filled with a mixture of grated cheese and herbs, breaded and deep-fried. Along with that was a tomato salsa, which my husband—even without tasting—pronounced as ‘part proprietary sauce’. I had to agree once I tasted it: this was definitely a Thai sweet-hot red chilli sauce, with some chopped tomatoes and some indefinable herb (parsley?) added. Nice, as were the mushrooms, but not spectacular.

The main course was served up soon after we’d finished the starter. My husband’s chicken tagine came with a portion of couscous. The tagine itself had a lot of thick, cumin-scented tomato sauce with carrots and pieces of chicken, and a helping of cooked red cabbage on the side. I had a taste and liked it (as did my husband), but we both agreed that there was just too much sauce in the dish—it swamped everything else.

My risotto was like no risotto I’ve seen before: the seafood angle of it seemed to be confined to a heap of calamari and prawns, cooked in a creamy tomato sauce, that had been heaped on top of the creamy white risotto. The dominant flavour in the risotto was of cracked pepper. I like black pepper, so I liked this, but I am inclined to think most people would find the pepper too overpowering. The seafood sauce on top was good, not extremely tomatoey, and with the seafood juicy and succulent. On the side was a nondescript slice of toasted baguette.

We’d probably have had dessert at Zo, if they’d had anything interesting to offer. The menu, unfortunately, has a terribly boring (and brief) list of desserts: tiramisu, chocolate fondant, blueberry cheesecake… the usual suspects in a Delhi restaurant that couldn’t be bothered with anything different. We therefore skipped dessert, and asked for the bill, which was Rs 1,580, including taxes and service charges.

Zo looks quite fancy, and if you’re not looking for a very exciting menu, you’d probably find this quite satisfying. We, however, decided that this isn’t good enough to go back to—the ambience is nice and we had no complaints with the service, but we like to be a bit more adventurous when it comes to menus. And the food, for the amount we paid for it, wasn’t mind-blowing.

To get to Diva Piccola, walk straight down the main village road until you’re almost at the gate leading into the historical monuments around Hauz Khas. Keep an eye on your left, above street level. You can’t miss the bright orange ‘Diva Piccola’ sign: the restaurant, with its plate glass windows lined with pot plants, overlooks the street. Just after you’ve passed below the windows, there’s a narrow corridor to the left; head in here, and you’ll come to the staircase that goes up to the restaurant. Like most (all?) other restaurants in Hauz Khas, there’s no lift here. Fortunately, though, since Diva’s one the first floor, it’s not much of a climb for most people.

Inside, Diva Piccola is ‘piccola’ (small): there are only about 35 or so covers. But the décor is unfussy and uncluttered, with a few tasteful (quirky? Fish wearing chef’s hats?) illustrations on beige-patterned walls, dark rope-and-wood chairs, and table runners of thick brown paper. It’s classy, but in a comfortable, unpretentious way.

We were seated, and handed menus almost as soon as we arrived. Diva has a decent wine list, and a selection of drinks, both soft as well as alcoholic, but we settled for a fresh lemonade each. The menu has a tempting range of antipasti, pasta, pizzas, secondi (main courses) and dolce—all of which we wanted to taste—but, since prior experience has led us to realise that we really can’t manage three-course meals, we decided on a main course and a dessert each. My husband ordered a grilled tenderloin with parmesan and rocket, while I ordered a pork piccata with ham and cheese. We were offered a choice of mashed potatoes or spinach with our dishes; I asked for the spinach, my husband the potatoes (he was, shortly after, informed that mashed potatoes weren’t available, but sliced sautéed ones were, so that was changed).

While our food was being prepared, a pretty red-weave basket of good soft focaccia was placed on our table, so we finished that off with generous sprinkles of the extra virgin olive oil at the table.

The food, when it arrived, ended up being good and a little disappointing too. My husband’s tenderloin—medium-rare, as he’d requested—was cooked well, but served with only the minimum mentioned: two long strips of parmesan, a heap of fresh rocket leaves (with balsamic vinegar drizzled over), and a helping of sautéed potatoes. The beef had a very little jus, and though it tasted good, could have probably been better with a little extra jus on the side.

In the case of the pork piccata, the meat itself wasn’t very good: it was thin, like a piccata should be, but sinewy and tough in places. Either a bad cut, or not trimmed adequately. It was, however, covered over with lots of deliciously melting cheese and chopped ham, which tasted fabulous. The large helping of spinach on the side was possibly the best European-style spinach dish I’ve had, sautéed with chopped onion, salt, pepper and toasted pine nuts. Simple, and delicious.

For dessert, my husband and I ended up choosing the same item: Campari and orange cake. Since we did want to taste a larger range of dishes, though, I ordered a panna cotta with berry sauce instead. The dessert took a long time coming—more than 10 minutes, which was really too long, considering both seemed to just have needed plating up, not cooking. My vanilla-flavoured panna cotta was velvety and creamy, the berry sauce a nicely tart and fresh counterfoil to the richness of the panna cotta. The Campari and orange cake was beautifully moist, and had a gorgeous citrusy flavour (a little low on Campari, but I didn’t mind that). It came with a swirl of citrus sauce, which I (from the spoonful I took as a sample) thought was great too. My husband, when he’d finished his dish, did say that he wished there’d been more sauce.

Our bill came to a total of Rs 2,244, inclusive of taxes and service charge. That is a little steep, but the food was, on the whole, good, as was the service (unobtrusive and polite—they apologised for the delay in the dessert, even though we hadn’t complained; a refreshing change from the usual Delhi restaurant). I’d certainly go back here.

Therefore, when a friend mentioned that an Italian had made Hauz Khas Village the location for a small motor-van gelati counter, we were intrigued. More so, when we discovered the name of this little mobile enterprise: Gelato Roma. A chance to savour true-blue gelati, the way it’s made in Rome, again? We hoped.

At first glance, the claims are impressive: "Original—the only gelato in Delhi made by Italians, just like in Italy!", "fresh", "natural", and "healthy". Quite a little crowd has gathered around the cart—Gelato Roma offers free tastes of it products, and there was a group here which wanted to taste everything. We finally made our way to the front, where the gelati are stored in stainless steel refrigerated containers. The flavours aren’t too many, and the most prominent ones are hazelnut, chocolate, Bailey’s, coffee, lemon, and banana. There are a few more too, but my husband and I had already decided: he wanted a Bailey’s, I wanted a banana gelati.

The helpings come in four sizes: baby (Rs 75), regular (Rs 100), large (Rs 150) and jumbo (Rs 200). You can ask for your gelato in a cone or a cup—we didn’t specify, so were given ours in plastic cups, with a little plastic spoon and a paper napkin. We paid up, and dug in.

One of the two assistants at the cart had told me that the banana gelato was actually a sorbet, so I was prepared for something non-creamy. I did, however, expect something a little more interesting than what I got: basically just ripe banana whizzed up and frozen. All right, but not something I’d pay Rs 100 for.

The Bailey’s gelato my husband had ordered was a gelato, all right, and with the correct texture: nice and creamy, yet light. But the flavour wasn’t too much like Bailey’s—if we’d not known what we’d ordered, neither of us would’ve guessed it was supposed to be a mix of chocolate, coffee, and whiskey. And the dried-up raisins scattered through the gelato were really not a good idea.

Perhaps we chose the wrong flavours (I’d seen on a food show on Italian cuisine that the flavours a good gelateria prides itself on are hazelnut and lemon). But then, shouldn’t a good gelateria also get the other flavours right?

So, no. We’re not going back to Gelato Roma. Honestly, if I wanted to have gelati in Delhi, I can think of other places that serve a wider range, have a better product, and are well worth the price you pay.

But all South Indians are not vegetarians (how could they be? All those miles of seafood-rich coastal waters?), and many of them are not strict Brahmins to whom meat would be taboo. There are Syrian Christians, who love their beef curry; or Moplah Muslims, who make delicious prawn biryanis – or even Hindu communities, like the Chettiyars who revel in delicious fried chicken and seafood curries. So, where does someone who wants good, authentic South Indian non-vegetarian food go in Delhi?

Finding Gunpowder can be a little difficult. We reached Hauz Khas Village, parked our car and walked into the market (fortunately, there’s only one entrance to the market), taking the first right turn, and then following the curve of the market to the left. Asking around a bit, we ended up walking along the fence that separates this section of the market from the Hauz Khas Monuments Complex beyond. Eventually, we did reach the tiny sign (with a curlicued squarish emblem and the restaurant’s name), pointing upwards. There’s a flight of stairs here… up, up and up. On the third floor (the fourth, if you’re American) is Gunpowder.

The restaurant isn’t big: it spreads over two sections, a covered terrace and an inside, air-conditioned room. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen tables in all, clean and stylish, but not going out of the way to project an air of genteel fine dining. The napkins are paper, and the crockery is plain white, though good quality. Where this place excels is in its food.

It took us a while to be seated, because Gunpowder is terribly popular and was all booked up (we didn’t have a reservation). But they eventually agreed to seat us at a table reserved for somebody who wasn’t going to arrive for another hour. Smart red glasses were put out for us and filled with water, the menus handed over. We couldn’t decide immediately what we wanted – everything sounded delicious. There are seafood curries, mutton and pork curries and other dishes, plus an array of less common (at least in North India) South Indian vegetarian dishes – for example, a bottlegourd dish with lentils and curry leaves. Eventually, we decided on steamed rice, a pandhi curry (a hot and sour pork curry from the Coorg region) and a chicken korma. My husband Tarun had been keen on ordering a fish curry, but the pandhi curry sounded spicy enough to give us the spice kick he needed; the korma, the waiter assured us, was a gentle curry made with little spice.

The food came within about 15 minutes, our drinks (fresh lemonades) arriving much sooner. With that to wash down the fieriness of the spice, we were fine – but despite that, the pandhi curry had us asking for more water!

It was a delicious dish, though: small pieces of fatty pork, cooked in a very thick and spicy, hot-sour gravy that seemed to be composed largely of onions. The end result was more like a pickle than a curry, with very little gravy. The chicken korma, on the other hand, was a completely different dish: soothing, the chicken simmered in a gentle sauce of coconut milk, with mustard seeds, curry leaves and a few other mild spices. With the rice, it was a perfect meal.

Gunpowder offers only two desserts: semiyaan payasam (a vermicelli and milk pudding) and khubaani ka meetha (stewed dried apricots, served with a dollop of cream). I’d never had khubaani ka meetha before, so ordered it – and liked it a lot. Tarun, who was quite full by now, ordered one too, thinking it would come in a small bowl (he remembered having had the same dessert in Hyderabad a few years ago, where it had been served in a tiny bowl) – and ended up leaving part of it; the quarter plate full of stewed apricots, though with just a tablespoon of cream on top, proved too much for him.

Verdict? Fabulous. The food is delicious, the service is good, unobtrusive – and the view over the Hauz Khas lake is fantastic. The only problem is the location (too many stairs to climb, and no lift or escalator). Otherwise, it’s decently priced too (we paid Rs 1,299 for our meal, taxes and service charge included), and if you reserve a table, you should be fine.

So we decided to approach it the other way: since Elma’s opens at 10 AM, we decided we’d do a relaxed Sunday brunch here.

To get to Elma’s, you walk down the lane to Hauz Khas Village and take a sharp U-turn to the right after you’ve passed Kafe D’Or. Walk down the narrow lane here, keeping an eye out on your left; near the end of the lane is a small sign—lettering on a black background—Elma’s. A short flight of stairs leads up to the tea room. And it really is a room—a fairly small room, in fact, with only seven tables, of which three seat only two people each. Elma’s is tiny, no question about it. We didn’t do an exact count, but I’d guess fifteen people could fit here at one time. Or a couple more, if somebody was willing to sit at the piano.

But, small or whatever, this is a delightfully quaint little place, which immediately brought to mind all those lovely little descriptions I’ve read in 19th and early 20th century English novels of tea rooms: windows looking out on trees; a sideboard with racks full of pretty hand-painted crockery, drawers of cutlery, jars and cake stands, delicate coffee cups, and vases of fresh flowers. There’s a white piano against one wall; an umbrella stand with umbrellas; a suitcase-sized ancient radio against another, and tables in between.

Sunday mornings at Elma’s seem to be quiet, because even at 10.20, only one other table was occupied—and only a couple of staff members were present. Worst of all, the ‘bartender’, the person in charge of making the all-important tea—was running late. We were assured, however, that sandwiches were available. So we sat down and had a look through Elma’s menu.

Elma’s serves breakfast (you get different types of scrambled eggs, for example), a range of sandwiches, grilled toasties, and—the specialty, teas. There’s a large variety of unusual ‘boutique teas’, as well as the usual Darjeeling, Nilgiri, Assam, Earl Grey, and other common teas. And, if you’d rather not order à la carte, you can order a high tea (served only between 3 PM and 7 PM), which comes with a three-tier rack full of cakes, pastries and biscuits, along with a spread of finger sandwiches, and tea. Or, you can order (all through the day), a less substantial cream tea.

Since we’d had to wait for the bartender to arrive, we decided we’d order sandwiches to start with, and decided on tea later. My husband chose a spicy sausage sandwich with caramelised onions; I chose a honey glazed ham sandwich. These arrived within a few minutes, served up on pretty white plates with a white-on-white ‘embossed’ pattern of flowers and leaves. Very pretty! Both sandwiches came with their crusts neatly cut off, and each sandwich cut into four large fingers.

My honey glazed ham sandwich, with mayonnaise, mustard, and a little red cabbage, was delicious: a wonderful mix of flavours and textures, to which the little heap of coarse-grain mustard alongside provided just the right bit of spice. My husband liked his sandwich a lot too, but the bit I took from him was a little too strongly flavoured for my liking. The caramelised onion seemed to have been browned a little too much, and the herbs and spices could’ve been less liberally doled out. Still, my husband liked it, so this was probably just a matter of individual preferences.

The bartender arrived (as did some more staff members, including the sweet, shy young lady who acts as hostess and waitress). She let us know that we could order tea whenever we wanted, so—since our sandwiches were nearly finished—we ordered two cream teas. We were allowed to choose the tea we wanted, though the assorted eats with that were standard table d'hôte. "Since you’re ordering two cream teas, you can choose two different types of tea," she told us. So, out of the list of teas, I chose my favourite (Darjeeling), while my husband chose a Nilgiri green tea.

About five minutes after we’d finished our sandwiches, our waitress brought us our tea tray: two white china teapots, a milkpot, two floral-painted teacups with saucers, and a tea strainer. (The only things missing were the tea cosies, but I guess even Elma’s draws the line at how ‘original’ it can be)! Then she got us two dessert plates, loaded with goodies for us to eat while we had our tea. There were two large cheese straws each (very flaky and light, but neither of us really liked the taste too much); two French pastry hearts each (beautifully crisp, and with just the right amount of sugar to make it delicious) and two thin slices of a wonderful coffee cake. This was really a coffee cake rather than a cake to be eaten with coffee; the sponge had a good dose of coffee in it, and so did the thin, light icing on top.

Best of all—and this both my husband and I agreed on—were the four absolutely divine scones. Hot from the oven, studded with raisins, light on the inside and with a perfect little crust on the outside, the scones came with a small bowl of strawberry jam and another of clotted cream. Perfect!

Our bill at Elma’s came to a total of about Rs 1,400 (including VAT, but excluding any tips you may want to leave). It is a little on the expensive side, but well worth it. (Incidentally, my sister and her family, who’ve feasted on good cream teas in Devon, said Elma’s cream tea could match up to many of those). I am certainly going back—perhaps this time to attempt a high tea.

Note: Because Elma’s is so tiny, you might need to line up on busy days—especially about 11 AM onwards, throughout the day on weekends. Try to go there on a weekday, or early on a weekend—or be prepared to wait.

Note: I went back to Elma’s about two weeks after this review was first written, and, alas—some disappointments. While the hot bacon loaf (served with coarse grain mustard, and olive oil) and the spicy chorizo toasted sandwich—covered with chopped chorizo, cheese, etc—were very good, the scones were obviously last night’s leftovers. We knew they were, actually, because the waitress said there were only two scones available, and this just five minutes after Elma’s had opened for the day. The apple cinnamon cake was sadly dry, had raisins sunk to the bottom, and tasted very little of apple. Worse, it seemed to have been nuked, as a result of which the buttercream it had (I assume) been covered with, had separated into a rather unpleasant grease.

And, yes, despite the fact that Elma’s ‘officially’ opens (according to their menu) at 10 AM, both times we’ve visited so far—about 10:10 or 10:15—we’ve had to wait for them to open up.

So, armed with almost no idea of what to expect, we went off to Yeti with a friend of ours for lunch. The restaurant overlooks the main road of Hauz Khas Village; keep an eye out for the restaurant’s black signboard, which you’ll see on your left as you approach from the main entrance to the village. From the road, it’s two flights up (no elevators here). We arrived when the lunch hour at Yeti was just starting, so we had no problems getting a table that was close enough to the window for us to have lots of light but none of the heat from the sun (I hasten to add: the air-conditioning pretty good).

Inside, Yeti is a pleasant mix of smart (white ceiling with recessed zig-zag lighting; brick walls; and minimalistic dark wood furniture) and ethnic: painted masks; wooden screens carved in auspicious patterns; prayer flags; lanterns hanging from a beam. The waiters wear tunics reminiscent of Tibetan or Bhutanese robes, buttoning on one side of the chest, and with a high collar.

Deciding what to order was a bit of a pain, because everything sounded wonderfully exotic—and yet puzzling. What, for instance, are ‘goat’s lights’? (We never did find this one out) What is ‘buff’? (beef, said the waiter, though further research seems to reveal it’s buffalo meat) What do goat’s lungs taste like? Left to ourselves, my husband and I would’ve probably have been fairly adventurous—but our friend, like non-vegetarian, doesn’t eat pork or beef (let alone ‘buff’ or the other more intriguing items on the menu). And, everything at Yeti is portioned in such a way as to be shared, not a per-person plate.

The dishes extend from Nepali to Bhutanese to Tibetan ones, and there are also a number of dishes from the North-eastern states of India. There’s pork, unusual cuts of goat, and some ingredients one doesn’t encounter in most North Indian cooking. For the sake of convenience, they also offer Nepali thalis (set meals) that offer you a cross-section of Nepali food.

Anyway, we placed our order and sat back to enjoy our drinks (fresh lemonades for all of us, even though Yeti does offer a range of other drinks, including beer, and Tibetan butter-tea, traditionally ‘seasoned’ with yak butter). The waiter also brought us a small complimentary plate to whet our appetites: boiled chickpeas (the small, dark-skinned variety), tossed with chopped raw onion, tomato, green chillies, salt and red chilli powder. With this came two bowls of sauces: a fiery-looking one made from coarsely ground red chillies—which looked too hot for any of us to attempt a taste—and a milder-looking one which turned out to be pretty potent, too.

First up was the appetiser we’d ordered, mushrooms in black bean paste, served with tingmo. Tingmo turned out to be a Tibetan steamed bread, layered like a croissant but with the soft chewiness and moisture of a Chinese bao. The button mushrooms, cooked in a nice sweet-sour sauce with a good bit of black bean sauce, was great with torn-off bits of the tingmo.

Our main course consisted of steamed rice, served with two curry dishes: kokra ko ledo (a Nepali chicken curry) and chickpeas cooked with black sesame. Also, we’d ordered chicken shabalay, a fairly large half-moon of flour pastry filled with minced chicken and deep-fried, something like an outsized fried dimsum. This, hot out of the fryer, was good, crisp on the outside and with a nice juicy filling that was mild but delicious.

The kokra ko ledo was good home style chicken curry (‘home style’ in India mostly means that it doesn’t have loads of cream, butter, nuts, raisins and other ingredients the run-of-the-mill restaurants like to add). The curry had spice, but wasn’t hot—just good, wholesome comfort food. My favourite, however, was the fantastic chickpeas with black sesame. These were small, dark chickpeas cooked in a sauce that just about coated them, a dark blackish-green sauce that wasn’t spicy at all, and was simply delicious. I couldn’t figure out what it contained: cooked chopped onions were the only ingredient I could identify. There would, of course, have been black sesame (as a paste, possibly? I couldn’t see any seeds), and the green may have been coriander leaves pounded into a paste.

Yeti’s dessert menu is brief. Very brief: a fresh fruit platter, and Häagen-Dazs ice creams. We decided to pass that up, and our bill—all taxes and service charge included—came to Rs 2,149. Not bad, for three people. Privately, my husband and I decided we’d come back soon to sample some of the more offbeat food.

The Golconda Bowl is on the ground floor of the same building that houses Gunpowder: Gunpowder sits on the roof, The Golconda Bowl on the ground – and the approaches are from two opposite sides of the same building. Inside, The Golconda Bowl is all dark wood, dull red upholstery and massive (not to mention very stylish) black and white photographs of some of Hyderabad’s landmarks – the Charminar, Quli Qutb Khan’s Tomb, and so on. (The corridor leading in from the street has some more photos, which looked like bad reproductions. But some were interesting: for example, an early 20th century ceremonial procession, and a photo of the Hope Diamond – mined at Golconda).

The menu, thankfully, concentrates on good wholesome Hyderabadi food and does not try to jump onto the North Indian-Mughlai bandwagon. This is a menu replete with all that’s Hyderabadi: mirchi ka salan (fat green chillies cooked in a hot, peanut gravy); baghare baingan (fried aubergines in a spicy gravy), mutton and okra curry; biryanis, patthar kababs (‘patthar’ means ‘stone’ – these kababs are beaten very flat and cooked on a hot stone), and the like. After much pondering – and much see-sawing – we finally settled on two dishes: a kachche gosht ki biryani and a gosht haleem. With that we ordered two fresh lemonades.

A few words, now, about what these two dishes are. Kachche gosht ki biryani literally means a ‘biryani of raw meat’. No, it’s not raw when it’s served up, it’s just that the meat, when it’s layered with the rice and spices, is raw to begin with. As anybody who’s cooked rice and mutton knows, they have very different cooking times – especially in Indian cuisine, where rare is unknown. So, getting well-cooked meat without overcooking the rice to a pulp is quite a feat. The haleem is a typically Hyderabadi preparation of pounded meat cooked with coarse-ground wheat and spices.

The haleem and the biryani were served up within about 10 minutes. The biryani came in a large (very large) bowl, heaped with spiced rice, chunks of mutton, wedges of hard-boiled egg, and a generous helping of crisp-fried onions mixed all through. Not very spicy, but delicious – though the meat could have been more tender. Along with the biryani were served small portions of dahi ki chutney (a yoghurt chutney – whisked yoghurt, mixed with salt, finely chopped onions, and a little fresh coriander) and mirchi ka salan. The mirchi ka salan would probably be a welcome addition to someone who really liked a lot of heat in their biryani (because the biryani, while it has the fragrance of cardamom, cloves and similar mild spices, isn’t chilli hot). We, however, weren’t terribly enamoured by the salan: it seemed to lack substance. One fat chilli floating about in a bowlful of a thin, spicy gravy? No.

What completely made the meal for us was the haleem. It was mind-blowingly good: meat and wheat pounded to a velvety smoothness, with just enough spice to make it delectable without being at all hot, and with more of those gorgeous fried onions on top. With a squeeze of lime (wedges served alongside), it was sheer heaven. (Note, though, that it’s available only on the weekend, starting Friday night).

For dessert, though they do offer well-known Hyderabadi favourites like double ka meetha (fried bread, soaked in syrup and served with heavily thickened milk) and khubaani ka meetha (a puree of stewed dried apricots, served with cream), our waiter recommended the thandi sabz kheer: a milk pudding in which the milk is cooked along with grated bottle gourd. Though a vegetable, bottle gourd is one of those rather bland and dull veggies that are occasionally used in desserts such as these. The Golconda Bowl’s thandi sabz kheer (literally, ‘cold green kheer’) was creamy, very lightly sweetened and with a sprinkle of slivered almonds on top. Delicious!

Our bill came to just over Rs 1,500, inclusive of service charge. I liked the food a lot and would gladly go back here to try out some of the other stuff on their menu – and some of that fabulous haleem again. The only thing I didn’t like was the very dim lighting. Even on a sunny day, in broad daylight (and with the benefit of windows down one side), The Golconda Bowl was dark and gloomy. May we have some lights, please?

This weekend, therefore, we decided to have lunch at Tarami. The restaurant is tucked away towards the end of the main road o the village—in fact, the gateway leading into the historical monuments of Hauz Khas is right below Tarami. The restaurant is on the first floor, but there’s no lift here, so you have to climb up a couple of flights of stairs to get to Tarami. We were escorted upstairs by the waiter manning the hostess’s desk at the foot of the stairs.

Inside, Tarami is a good representation of Kashmir: the wooden screens that separate sections are very reminiscent of the ones you see in Srinagar’s houseboats and restaurants. On a large shelf (against a wall papered with a lovely subtle design of paisleys etc) are gleaming copper vessels of the sort used in Kashmir: a samovar, for instance, used to pour the cardamom-saffron-and-almond flavoured green tea known as kehwa. Some of the lampshades hanging from the ceiling are actually little woven basketwork kaangris: used, in Kashmir, to keep an earthenware pot full of hot coals, as a variation of a hot water bottle, which can be carried about under one’s clothing. The music is the Sufi-style singing of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan: not Kashmiri, but blending in well with the ambience of Tarami.

The menu, of course, was our main focus of interest. This has a fairly impressive range of Kashmiri dishes, including favourites like gushtaba (velvety meatballs cooked in a gravy of yoghurt and dried mint); rista (meatballs similar to gushtaba, but cooked in a spicy red gravy), tabakmaaz (crisp-fried lamp chops), and marchwangan korma (lamb cooked in a gravy of Kashmiri red chillies). There are also some dishes that are relatively little-known outside Kashmir, like garh muj (fish cooked with radish in a red gravy), Dogri khatta meat (from the Jammu region of the state, a lamb dish which includes a tart gravy of dry pomegranate seeds), and schuk wangan (eggplants in a tamarind gravy). Although Kashmiri cuisine is primarily known for its non-vegetarian dishes, Tarami offers plenty of options—such as duma loo, rajma (kidney beans), mushrooms, etc, cooked in traditional Kashmiri styles.

If you don’t want to bother with having to choose for yourself (or, if you’d like to sample more than just a couple of dishes), you can opt for the tarami itself—a set meal, which consists of four starters, four main courses, and a dessert. We toyed with the idea of a tarami, then figured we may not be able to finish it all—it sounded like a pretty massive meal—and chose to go à la carte instead. We ordered a tuji chicken to start with, followed by waza haaq, dhan phool and steamed rice. For drinks, we chose our usual: fresh lemonade.

The drinks were served up within a couple of minutes, and the waiter also brought us a selection of three traditional Kashmiri chutneys: one of grated white radish, mixed with yoghurt and chopped green chillies; another of chopped onions, powdered red Kashmiri chillies, and yoghurt, and a wonderful walnut chutney, made with ground walnuts and yoghurt. Shortly after, the starter, the tuji chicken, was also served up. This was basically a chicken tikka, boneless marinated chicken which had been cooked in a hot tandoor. Unlike the usual chicken tikka of North India, though, it had been marinated in a distinctly Kashmiri-flavoured mix of spices, in which fennel seeds predominated. Eaten drizzled with the chutneys (all three of which seemed to suit it perfectly), it was a great start to the meal.

Haaq is a generic name for greens in Kashmiri cuisine. Outside of Kashmir, it’s difficult to get the authentic Kashmiri haaq; other common North Indian greens, like spinach, fenugreek, or mustard greens, just don’t have the same flavour. To get them cooked the way the Kashmiris do—with a spicy gravy—is even more difficult. Tarami, we were pleased to see, managed to get the haaq just right: lots of chopped greens, cooked with a gravy of red chillies and other spices. Eaten with just plain steamed rice, it was a delight.

Along with the haaq, we’d also ordered a dish which neither of us was familiar with, but which sounded intriguing: dhan phool, lamb shanks cooked with saffron and dried cocks’ comb flowers. The cocks’ comb flowers impart a rich red colour to the dish, which, even though it looks really fiery, is actually quite mild. The lamb was very tender, and the bones packed full of delicious marrow—my husband decided to throw decorum to the winds and discreetly sucked some of the marrow out too! My only quibble was with the gravy, which was thin to the point of being watery. However, having lived in Kashmir for some years (and eaten lots of Kashmiri food), I do know that watery gravies are common and well-loved in Kashmir, so I guessed this was probably pretty authentic.

For afters, Tarami doesn’t offer very much (Kashmiri cuisine isn’t especially renowned for its sweets). It does offer the staple Kashmiri dessert, phirni, and there are some ice creams. We guessed that the ice cream would be out of a pack, and in any case, after a true-blue Kashmiri meal, it would be blasphemous to have anything but phirni. So phirni it was, a creamy, slightly grainy milk and rice pudding made by cooking ground rice long and slowly in milk, with sugar and saffron. It’s mildly sweet, and Tarami served it up in high style: along with the usual slivers of almonds scattered across the top, there were also threads of saffron, and a square of very fine silver leaf. Beautiful and delicious.

Our bill amounted to Rs 2,500. Considering we had a very enjoyable meal, this was good value for money. We, however, realised that we could actually have had a wider range of dishes, for less, if we’d ordered the tarami instead: a non-vegetarian tarami for two people costs just Rs 1,999. That’s what we’ll order the next time around.

Therefore, when someone mentioned a couple of days back that the owner of
Elma’s had opened a sandwich bar, I was really chuffed. When Saturday rolled around, I persuaded my husband that we should go have lunch at Edward’s.

If Elma’s is small, Edward’s is even smaller. It has only four two-seater tables, plus four bar stools against a counter that runs along a wall. The décor, unlike the quaintly pretty interiors of Elma’s, is no-nonsense, no-frills stuff. A French window looks out onto bushes and trees on one side; other than that, there’s no natural light. Bulbs hang from a white ceiling (with some gold-painted plaster work), and there are a few frames of neatly pinned colourful butterflies, above the counter where we sat.

One end of the space is occupied by shelves and a refrigeration containing an assortment of items for sale: jellies, jams, chutneys, organic grains, lentils, pasta, breads, even some pastries (we saw lintzertorte on sale). Inside the fridge, we noticed some unusual (and tempting) goodies: jars of Earl Grey jam, and jars of crackling in lard. The chilled display counter that acts as the service counter has an array of cold meats and cheeses.

The menu is chalked up on the blackboard above the service counter, and there’s a printed menu card too (which offers a more comprehensive description of each item). The menu is very brief. Firstly, there are only sandwiches; nothing else to eat or drink here, not even the ubiquitous ‘fresh lime soda’ that is a staple in all Indian restaurants. Secondly, the sandwiches are pretty limited: six non-vegetarian, and six vegetarian.

We saw some interesting options among the vegetarian sandwiches (one with mushrooms and truffle oil sounded especially mouth-watering), but hard-core carnivores that we are, we moved on to the non-vegetarian section. Here, a chorizo sandwich caught my husband’s eye, while I found myself torn between an ‘Earl of Sandwich’ (grilled chicken, mayo, black grapes and walnuts), a Black Brie Baguette (with brie, Black Forest ham, wine-poached pears and rocket) and a Le Pâté (chicken liver pâté, lettuce, and onion marmalade in a baguette).

Eventually, my husband chose the Black Brie Baguette, while I ordered the Le Pâté. Both of us were very thirsty too, and asked if there was anything we could drink. The lady in charge was sweet enough to say she’d get stuff brought down for us from Elma’s upstairs, so that’s what we did—we ordered two fresh lime sodas, and settled back to wait for our sandwiches. These arrived within ten minutes, each sandwich cut in two, served on a neat wooden board lined with greaseproof paper. Beside each sandwich were two small bowls, one with tomato ketchup and the other with a wonderful whole-grain mustard. There was also a thick strip of pickled gherkin on the side.

My husband and I shared both sandwiches. The Black Brie Baguette was very good, though the combination of brie (there was a lot of it!) and ham got a little heavy after a while—we ended up using a hefty dose of mustard to cut the richness of it a bit. The chicken liver pâté sandwich, on the other hand, was simply faultless. Both my husband and I love chicken liver pâté, and this was the best I’ve tasted in a long, long time. Smooth, luscious, and in a very generous quantity. The onion marmalade was gorgeously caramelised, the lettuce crisp, and the entire sandwich utterly divine.

Our bill was Rs 980 for the two sandwiches, and a further Rs 280 for the two fresh lime sodas we’d got from Elma’s. Not exactly cheap, no; but very well worth it. We will certainly be back.

One of the ladies who run the place came around after we’d eaten to ask how our meal was, and when we told her how much we liked the chicken liver pâté sandwich, she said that they sell the pâté in jars too, as part of the deli—unfortunately, they didn’t have any right then, but we’re hoping to pick up some the next time we visit!

Note that Edward’s doesn’t (at least at present) accept credit cards; all payments have to be made in cash. We hadn’t known this, so didn’t have enough cash to pay. They were accommodating enough to tell us that we could pay by credit card at Elma’s—and sent a waiter upstairs to Elma’s with us, to get that done.