Today, while Landour still retains much of its original old-fashioned charm, Mussoorie has suffered the ravages of generations of Indian tourists. Most of the best-maintained and loveliest colonial buildings, like Woodstock School, Wynberg-Allen School, the Indian Administrative Services (IAS) Academy building and Kapurthala House (one of the residences of the ex-royal family of the former princely state of Kapurthala), are privately owned and therefore out of bounds for casual visitors.

Sightseeing: Some of the best-maintained buildings that you can visit in Mussoorie and Landour are the churches, including Mussoorie’s oldest, Christ Church; St Paul’s; and the Methodist Church. The Mall, Mussoorie’s main artery (and busiest area), is often crowded and even dirty, but if you scout around, you’ll see some lovely old buildings here—look out for the wonderful old Library, the State Bank Building, and the Clark’s Hotel building, all of them important landmarks in Mussoorie’s past.

Sadly, some of the more popular sights in Mussoorie—like Gun Hill, and (slightly outside town) Kempty Falls, are overridden by people who want everything to be an amusement park and have no time for either history or natural beauty. One very historic sight, Park Estate—the home and laboratory of Sir George Everest, the Surveyor-General after whom the mountain is named—lies about 6 km from Mussoorie. While the area itself is scenic, the building is in a frightful state.

Getting around: When talking of transportation, there are two important considerations to keep in mind in Mussoorie and Landour.
Firstly, the heights. The two contiguous towns sprawl across the hillsides, with roads and paths climbing steeply up and down. If you’re not very fit or have problems with mobility, this can be a real obstacle.
Secondly, the fact that no commercial motorised vehicles are allowed on the Mall, and that the Mall is even closed to private motorised vehicles between 5 PM and 11 PM everyday (the rest of the day, private cars can travel on the Mall after paying a fee of Rs 100).

Although motorised vehicles are scarce on the Mall, horses (almost wholly as a tourist attraction) are available for rides, as are rickshaws. For trips further afield, you can hire a taxi from the cab ranks at the two ends of the Mall: one is just below Library Chowk (also known as Gandhi Chowk) at the western end of the Mall, while the other is next to Picture Palace, near the eastern end of the Mall.

Even if you have your own vehicle, it’s better not to attempt to use it to visit Landour: trips to Landour landmarks like Chaar Dukaan, St Paul’s and Sisters Bazaar necessitate going through the very narrow and precipitously steep alleys of Landour Bazaar. For Landour, hire a cab, or walk, if you’re ready for the steep climb.

The Kasmanda Palace has an interesting history: although it is now owned by the former royal family of the once-princely state of Kasmanda (in Orissa), it was originally built, in 1836, by Captain Rennie Tailour of the Bengal Engineers. Then part of the Christ Church next door, the building served as a sanatorium for British officers. Later, it was converted into a school; and, still later, bought by the royal family of Kasmanda.

Kasmanda Palace sits about 200 mt above the Mall, and the climb to it is pretty steep. (There’s no cause for worry there, though; a small car of theirs is always available to ferry guests up and down between the Mall and the hotel). The building is pretty: deep maroon turrets and sloping roofs, stark white walls, deodar and chinar trees, lawns, gardens full of marigolds, narcissi, freesias and lots of other flowers. There’s a badminton court, a small play area for children; a terrace where breakfasts and teatimes are especially good, what with the great view it offers; and a secluded and quiet ‘English tea garden’.

Inside, Kasmanda Palace (which is basically a large mansion) is all wooden-beamed high ceilings, polished wood floors and lovely large windows commanding a wonderful view over the hills around and the Doon Valley below. We were initially shown to a room looking out onto the mountainside, but were given a free upgrade to a valley-facing room when we asked for a room with a better view.

The corridors and halls are decorated with hunting trophies (mostly antlers) and well-preserved old photographs of the royal family of Kasmanda. Some of the most interesting are the many photos of the late 19th century-early 20th century ruler, Raja Bahadur Dr Suraj Baksh Singh, and his family, all of them dressed in all their finery, with the ladies wearing some exceptionally ornate jewellery.

Our room was large, with furniture that, while clean and polished, had a charmingly old-fashioned look to it: there were pretty floral-design ceramic tiles inlaid in the backs of the carved wooden chairs; the wardrobe had a bolt that I last saw in furniture made in the 50s or so; and the beds were the high, heavy ones that used to be popular around the same time, about half a century ago. The beds, incidentally, proved a little uncomfortable. Instead of this being a double bed (which was what we’d asked for), it was actually two single beds pulled together, each with its own mattress, but covered with a common double bedsheet. All very well, except that the beds weren’t quite at the same level—mine was about an inch higher than my husband’s, and turning in my sleep, I rolled over onto him a couple of times.

Our room had a TV (21") and a tray with tea and coffee fixings. In the bathroom (like the bedroom, clean and tastefully decorated but not especially fancy), there were soaps and little bottles of shampoo, moisturiser and talcum powder.

Kasmanda Palace has a restaurant named Magnolia, which serves a mix of fairly good Indian food and not-great Western fare. Kasmanda Palace also offers laundry facilities and can make arrangements for tours and adventure activities (like paragliding and bungee jumping), though you’ll need to let them know beforehand.

We stayed at Kasmanda Palace for three nights, and paid about Rs 18,225 for that, inclusive of breakfast and one other meal daily. It was a quiet, relaxing place to be in, and I’d happily go back there if I were to come to Mussoorie again. (Incidentally, a Hindi film was being shot at Kasmanda on our last day here. Despite that, and the usual hassle it involves for even those not concerned, we were pleasantly surprised that the staff of Kasmanda tried their best to make sure that other guests, like us, weren’t inconvenienced by the shoot).

Inside, Magnolia has the wooden-beamed ceiling that is characteristic of the rest of this early 19th century building. The tables have bright crimson tablecloths and white runners and napkins; the furniture’s all very functional but neat, and the walls are decorated with interesting old black-and-white photographs of the royal family of Kasmanda.

Part of the restaurant space is taken up by a buffet table crowded with gleaming cloches, but these, we discovered, were currently empty: buffets are set up for meals only when the hotel is full. The rest of the time, as happened when we were visiting, guests can choose from the menu. Since we were on a meal plan that included one meal a day, we were told to choose one daal, one chicken dish (mutton and fish were also listed on the menu, but weren’t available), one vegetable dish, rice, rotis, salad, a soup, and a dessert.

The Magnolia menu basically consists of north Indian (including a couple of local dishes from this region) food, popular foods like upma and poha, from other Indian cuisines; some Oriental dishes (a Thai chicken curry, for instance) and some Western dishes, such as sandwiches and roasts. For dinner on the first day, we decided to go the Indian way, with pahadi chicken (chicken cooked in a mild, very homey sort of tomato-based gravy), a deliciously buttery daal makhani, til-mil beans (green beans lightly sautéed with dried red chillies and lots of sesame seeds—unusual, mild, and very addictive), a ‘green salad’ (sliced undressed onions, tomatoes, cucumber and carrot), rotis and parathas.

This meal was (besides the rather indifferent desserts—chocolate excess, and chocolate crunch pudding) very satisfying, so the next day, at dinner we decided to try the continental food on Magnolia’s menu. This proved to be a disaster: the roast chicken my husband ordered was overcooked and stringy, and smothered in a rather floury mushroom sauce—which hadn’t even been mentioned on the menu. I ordered a grilled chicken with lemon zest, and this turned out to be equally overcooked—and the lemon zest (actually, slices of lime) had been charred. On both plates, the sautéed vegetables on the side were overdone, and the insipid mash had the consistency of a bad risotto: all lumpy and gooey. The German potato salad we ordered as a side had been drowned in mayo, and besides the boiled potato, had chopped tomatoes and green bell peppers, both of which we hadn’t really been expecting in a German potato salad.

The third evening, we went back to Indian food (this time, with a vegetable dish of potatoes cooked with fresh green fenugreek leaves; and a chicken do pyaaza, cooked with lots of onions)—and we agreed that Magnolia’s Indian food is far, far better than its Western fare.

Incidentally, the Indian dessert we ordered—rice kheer—was oversweet, with the rice not completely cooked. And it was boiling hot. Dessert here is probably best avoided.

Breakfasts at Magnolia were a chancy affair. While the batata poha (puffed rice cooked with boiled potatoes, peas and peanuts) I had was delicious and comforting, my husband’s masala omelette had very little sign of the masala (chopped onions, tomatoes and green chillies); the toast was cold, and the jam an overly sweet, tasteless branded one in which you’d be hard-pressed to be able to identify the fruit.

The lesson? Stick to the Indian food at Magnolia. It’s by far the best—even their pakoras (which we had with tea on the first day) are great: the fluffiest, crispest, and most delicious pakoras I’ve ever had outside of a domestic kitchen.

I was therefore very intrigued when, walking along the Mall, we chanced upon an eatery named Chick Chocolate. My husband, who hadn’t heard of the musician, was equally puzzled when I told him. Puzzled enough to suggest that we check it out. It was late afternoon, and I was craving a cup of coffee anyway, so we stepped in.

Chick Chocolate has a large open front onto the road outside. You step in, and it’s all rather cluttered. Everywhere, there are signs—blackboards with chalk letters, printed boards, even scribblings on thick paper—advertising Chick Chocolate’s menu. Sandwiches, pasta, pizzas, cakes, pies, desserts, shakes, smoothies, coffee, tea, hot dogs: these are the main items on the menu. There’s a display counter (with trays of Chick Chocolate’s own moulded chocolates), practical but unfussy tables and chairs, little bits of uncoordinated bric-a-brac (a painting of a chef, for example) here and there. On the walls are framed posters, mostly from 60s’ and 70s’ Hollywood: Brando in Julius Caesar, Marilyn, the poster of Ben Hur. No sign of any Hindi film memorabilia, though, which I’d have expected if this was, indeed, named after the Chic Chocolate.

We had a look at the menu (no menu cards here; all the items are listed on the board behind the counter). I picked an apple pie with a cup of mocha, while my husband settled for a lemon and ginger tea, and waffles with blueberries. We placed the order at the counter and were told that our order would be called out when it was ready; we could then pick it up.

Next to the table we chose were a series of posters, on all of which had been stuck paper napkins, post-its, and other scraps of paper on which satisfied patrons had written messages in praise of Chick Chocolate. ‘The best coffee in India’ said Andy (from Mexico), after having specified that he’d travelled all over India. ‘Some Americans’ said Chick Chocolate served the best pasta they’d ever had in India. We, sitting in the shadow of such exuberant praise, began to get impatient for our food to arrive.

The beverages and pie were ready within about five minutes; the waffles took a couple of minutes more. And, sadly, except for the lemon and ginger tea that my husband had ordered, nothing merited a rave review. My mocha was far too milky, with insufficient coffee and almost non-existent chocolate. The waffles, while they had a very generous topping of blueberries (canned? Frozen and thawed? We couldn’t tell), were not crisp enough on the outside, and were just a little soggy on the inside. A not-hot-enough waffle iron?

Worst of all was the apple pie and ice cream. On its own, the apple pie may not have been too bad; the problem was, I couldn’t tell—because it had been completely drowned in too much vanilla ice cream (three scoops on a not-very-large wedge of pie). Much of the ice cream had melted and soaked right through the pie, leaving the pastry soggy. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the ice cream had been topped off with lots of chocolate sauce, which dominated the relatively mild flavour of the pie. In essence, my pie tasted of chocolate. And this, when I hadn’t even been asked if I wanted chocolate sauce with my pie!

Our bill amount was Rs 540, pretty steep for something that wasn’t too good. I wouldn’t go back here, not even for the quaint name of the place.

Post-script: After our Mussoorie vacation was over, I happened to be doing a little research on the musician, Chic Chocolate. When we’d visited Chick Chocolate, my husband had asked the elderly owner-manager if he’d named the restaurant after the musician. The man had said that he didn’t know, because the restaurant had been opened by his father in 1940. He didn’t know why his father had named the place Chick Chocolate; until we’d told him, he hadn’t even known about Chic Chocolate.

The interesting bit? My research revealed a telling fact: that Chic Chocolate, before he arrived in Bombay in the early 1940s, had done a very successful set of concerts, in Rangoon—and Mussoorie.

I can well imagine that a jazz-loving restaurateur would decide to name his new eatery after a musician who’d performed in town.

Kalsang is hard to miss: the façade is a bright red. We arrived at the restaurant after a walk down from Picture Palace—at the eastern end of the Mall—and discovered that the restaurant was full to the brim. A waiter, seeing us looking about dejectedly at the crowded tables, indicated that there was room upstairs. The staircase up is a narrow iron one. We made our way up, and found ourselves in a rather cramped little space, into which about half a dozen tables—all seating between four to six each—were shoved together. Two sides consisted of large windows looking out onto the street below; the other two were red-painted walls, with huge spread-out Chinese fans nailed to them. On the far wall—where the waiters picked up orders—was a ‘Free Tibet’ flag, and a portrait of the Dalai Lama. The waiters, in bright red satin tunics, looked interestingly dashing, but not especially professional.

While the menu at Kalsang does include Chinese and Thai food, don’t get your hopes up: these are the sort of dishes that are tailored to appeal to the average Indian palate, which tends to restrict itself to ‘Indian Chinese’ dishes like paneer or
vegetable Manchurian, honey chilli potatoes, sweet-and-sour chicken, and the like. There’s tom yam and som tam and some well-known Thai curries, but for us, at least, the most attractive part of the menu was the Tibetan section. This includes a range of Tibetan dishes, from the hearty, delicious soups known as thukpas and thenthuks, to momos (steamed or fried dumplings which are very popular even back home in Delhi), stir-fries, fried pastries, and so on.

Though the thukpas, especially the mixed meat one, sounded extremely tempting, both my husband and I weren’t feeling terribly hungry, so we decided to share two starters: a pork shaptak and a chicken shabhalay. With that, we ordered a fresh lemonade each.

The lemonade was brought within a couple of minutes, and proved to be an unusual take on the ‘fresh lime soda, sweet-and-salted’ that we’d ordered. This one was salted, not with normal table salt, but with rock salt, which gave it a really interesting flavour we hadn’t been expecting. Shortly after, the pork shaptak was served up: thinly sliced pork, stir-fried with a spicy red sauce, diced green bell peppers, and lots of diced onions. Not bad, but it was nothing out of the ordinary.

We were midway through the shaptak when the chicken shabhalay was served up, and this was really delicious. It consisted of a circular disc of pastry, about 3" across, that had been filled with a mixture of lightly spiced minced chicken, garlic and onions, and then deep-fried to a crisp golden. The red chilli sauce served on the side was fiery, but had little flavour besides that, so we ended up having the shabhalay on its own—and loved every bit of the three pieces that came on the plate.

Our meal cost us about Rs 500, including the lemonade. Although the ambience is nothing to write home about (Kalsang is pretty no-frills), the service is adequate, and we had no complaints about the food. For Mussoorie, where options for non-Indian food are relatively limited, that’s good enough.

Emily’s is the restaurant at the Rokeby Hotel in Landour, slightly above Chaar Dukaan. The interesting bit about Rokeby (which was built in 1840 by a Captain G N Cauthy) is its literary connections. First of all, there’s the fact that Rokeby was named after Walter Scott’s poem
Rokeby. (Mussoorie and Landour between them have a number of old houses that were named after places mentioned in Scott’s work—he was apparently a popular writer in this part of the world). Secondly, there’s the fact that Rokeby’s best-known owner was the inspiration for a literary work. 1878 onwards, Rokeby was leased to Frederick ‘Pahari’ Wilson, an adventurer who was the inspiration for Kipling’s famous The Man Who Would Be King.

For us, Rokeby Hotel’s main draw was its restaurant, Emily’s, which we’d seen given very good reviews on various websites. Even friends on a Facebook foodie group said it was good—so we landed up one day for lunch.

Emily’s sits on the first floor of the hotel. The stairs leading up are wide, wooden, and warped. The restaurant itself looks like an afterthought; it’s obvious that this was some sort of verandah—like a wrap-around porch—which has now been enclosed. The décor is cheery and quaint, with lovely yellow-painted and blue-painted sideboards, charming old bric-a-brac, and even a small square balcony where you can sit and have a leisurely meal away from the bustle of the restaurant.

Our first taste of just how busy Emily’s is was when a waiter, rushing about, told us that they didn’t have any tables. At least 20 minutes, we were told. And no, the empty tables we could see were all reserved. We hung around in the tiny circular foyer (rather reminiscent of a turret) for about that long, and then—because one table finally did get free—were ushered in.

The staff at Emily’s were apparently not being able to cope with the crowd, and while the waiter handed us a pair of menus as soon as we were seated, he vanished immediately after, and we sat about for the next ten minutes or so, waiting for him to take our orders. We overheard the people at the next table reminding a passing waiter that it had been 45 minutes since they’d ordered their food, so could they get in, please?

Our waiter eventually did come by, and we ordered our food—but it took about half an hour (including three reminders!) for our meals to arrive. This, when it was food for just two people. My husband had ordered a shepherd’s pie: while this didn’t look too great (the mashed potato on top was too blond—we prefer it nicely golden), it tasted good, with the meat underneath well-seasoned and delicious. What did surprise me was the fact that in Emily’s, they obviously don’t believe in the dictum of two veg (or even one veg) when it comes to a pie as a main course: my husband only got a soup plate in which the pie had been baked. That was it.

Still, his food was far better than mine. I’d ordered a dish of almond-crusted fish, with mash and sautéed vegetables. What I got was an overdone fillet of fish, sprinkled (not crusted, mind you) with thickly chopped almonds—not blanched, by the way—over all of which a generous quantity of gloopy tomato sauce had been poured. Even if I liked tomato sauce (I don’t, and wouldn’t have ordered the fish if the menu had indicated it came with this), I probably wouldn’t have liked it. Both the vegetables and the fish had the appearance and texture of something that had been cooked at least 15 minutes earlier and had been sitting on a hot plate waiting for the shepherd’s pie to be done.

Going by how mediocre my main course had been, I hadn’t been holding out much hope for anything good in the way of dessert. However, we were both feeling like having something sweet, so my husband chose a New York chocolate cake, while I ordered a sticky toffee pudding. These were served up much sooner—in about five minutes or so. The chocolate cake was nothing to write home about: it was drowned in thick chocolate sauce, so much of it that one could barely taste the cake. My sticky toffee pudding was, on the other hand, simply divine. It was moist, warm, packed with flavour, and served with a deliciously buttery, caramel sauce. And all of it not too sweet either (a problem I’ve encountered with more than one toffee pudding): this had a lovely hint of that burnt caramel flavour that marks a great toffee pudding.

We paid Rs 1,322 for our meal (inclusive of taxes) plus a tip. Fair enough, considering we had a main course, a pudding, and a glass of lemonade each—but I do wish the fish had been better. Emily’s serves, besides the Western food, also all the popular north Indian dishes: butter chicken, tandoori chicken, etc—I have a suspicion they may be somewhat better cooked than what we’d ordered.