We were enchanted by Kaira from the moment we entered the large gravelled yard in which the restaurant stands. There are trees all around, and bright yellow orchids flowered on a wooden post near the entrance. Inside, the long rectangular space of the restaurant had lots of windows looking out. There were more plants - potted, this time - some paintings of traditional Keralan subjects (a woman playing a musical instrument, for example), placemats printed with an explanation of Kathakali, and a general air of quietly tasteful tranquillity - aided by the fact that we were the only guests in the place.

Kaira has two separate menus for lunch and dinner, with the dinner menu being far more extensive than the lunch one. The lunch menu, in fact, is basically centred around the concept of 'fixed meals'. This came as a bit of a blow for my husband and I, who had already noticed a delicious-sounding duck roast and had set our hearts on it. When we asked our shy, sweet little waitress for that, she regretfully announced that that was part of the dinner menu, not the lunch one. "But I can ask the chef," she said. "It just might be available."

It was, but there was only one portion available. So we ordered that, and a 'fish curry fixed meal', both of which we decided to share. For drinks, we opted for fresh watermelon juice. The juice arrived first - chilled, sweet, and so refreshing that my husband was left wondering why we, back home in Delhi, never ever manage to get such lovely watermelon juice when we go to a Delhi restaurant.

The food was served after about ten minutes of our ordering it. The duck roast was not quite one would expect from a 'roast', but this is, after all, the Kerala version - and it comes as a curry, a dark, thick and spicy gravy that coats the duck, and provides plenty of sauce to go with the kalappam (a spongy pancake made of a rice flour batter fermented traditionally with coconut toddy, but sometimes with coconut milk). Kaira's duck roast tasted good, but the duck was too scrawny and bony for my liking - or perhaps that was just my bad luck; my husband didn't find fault with the pieces that came to his share.

The fish curry meal was a platter of goodies: steamed rice, a spicy sambaar, full of lentils and vegetables; a soupy and tart rasam (which had been tempered with asafoetida, which gave it a wonderfully different taste from any other rasam I've tasted before; and a variety of other dishes, each in a little bowl of its own. There was a dish of finely chopped green beans, cooked with grated coconut; something that tasted like pumpkin, cooked in a creamy sauce with moong beans; a lovely (and very prettily pink!) chutney of coconut, yoghurt and beet root; a raita made primarily of whisked yoghurt, salt, and grated ginger; juicy drumsticks (the vegetarian kind - they are the pods of a tree) with grated coconut; spicy mixed pickle; and papads. There was, of course, the fish curry itself - good and fresh, and with not too much spice.

Our main meal over (and we had some trouble finishing it - there was just too much to eat), the dessert was brought: vermicelli payasam, something we'd had a couple of times during our trip, in different restaurants, and never liked much. Kaira proved themselves here too: their payasam was smooth, creamy, not over sweet, and not boiling hot, as too many restaurants are apt to serve it. This was the only version of this dish that we ended up really enjoying during this trip.

We came out of Kaira very sated and happy; barring the boniness and slightly chewy texture of the duck I'd had, this had been a great meal - and we spent only Rs 500 on it, including all taxes and a tip.

Tucked away in a relatively quiet corner of Fort Cochin, far from the bustling area around the Chinese fishing nets, Oceanos is a small, neat little restaurant on Elphinstone Road. Stepping in from the road, we were immediately enchanted by the sweetly homey feel of this place: cane chairs, pedestal fans whirring, white tablecloths, no-nonsense furniture—and a small shrine, complete with burning candles, lamps, a terracotta temple bell, a crucifix, and a colourful statue of the Madonna. Along the window sills are placed well-thumbed copies of cookbooks, from Malayalam ones to books by Rick Stein on sea food.

The Oceanos menu—brought to us by the sole waiter on duty (who also seemed to be the manager)—was a mix of cuisines. While there were Portuguese dishes like peri-peri chicken and Goan ones like vindalho, there were also a number of local dishes from Kerala, especially dishes indigenous to the Syrian Christian community. Oceanos’s main theme, however, is seafood, and there’s a lot of it on the menu.

After some thought, we decided to begin by sharing two appetisers: aubergine salad with peanut sauce, and prawns in green sauce. We decided to ask the waiter for a seafood recommendation—a Kerala dish, and not too spicy—for our main course, so he suggested a curry made with karimeen (green chromide, also known as pearlspot; it is the ‘state fish’ of Kerala). We also ordered a fresh lime soda each to drink with our meal.

Our drinks were served up within a couple of minutes—and instead of coming ready-mixed, came as ingredients: tiny milk jugs of lime juice and sugar syrup, a little bowl of salt, and a bottle of soda water each. I don’t like having to mix my own fresh lime soda, but this had the advantage—since they gave us additional lime juice and syrup—of us actually getting two glassfuls each, since there’s enough soda per bottle for that.

Our waiter brought us the appetisers after about ten minutes. The aubergine salad, with slices of fresh tomatoes along the rim of the plate, looked less like a salad than a main dish: the aubergines had been diced and cooked with a satay-like peanut sauce. The flavour was good, though the red chillies in the sauce could probably have been reduced a bit. The prawns in green sauce couldn’t have been mistaken for anything else: the green was virulent enough to look as if it had been artificially coloured. We couldn’t, even after finishing off the dish, figure out what herbs had made the sauce green: coriander, perhaps, though we weren’t certain. The sauce was also very oily, ad left large green puddles in our plates.

While the starters had been good, what really endeared us to Oceanos was the superb karimeen curry: it had been cooked in what we’d read somewhere was the traditional way, in an earthenware dish lined with a banana leaf. The fish (which had been left whole) was very fresh and delicious, and had been cooked in a mild gravy of coconut milk, along with sliced potatoes and tomatoes (the latter added towards the end, so that they were still intact), and a generous dose of fragrant curry leaves.

Along with the fish curry, we had some Kerala rice (the name given to the thick-grained rice common in the area) and a flaky, rich Malabar parotta. Besides the food that we’d ordered, we were served some complimentary sides. One that seems to be an expected in Kerala was the plate of crisp, fluffy deep-fried papads; the other two were unusual. One was a ‘cauliflower pickle’, or so our waiter informed us, though it was not the very spicy ‘pickle’ that Indians generally consume. This was a much milder, gentler version that tasted more like a spiced cauliflower than a pickle. The other complimentary was a stunning ginger chutney that we fell in love with at first bite.

For desserts, Oceanos offers a selection of mostly Western desserts. Both of us wanted to try something different from the usual ice creams and cheesecakes, so we ordered a portion each of the honeyed figs with yoghurt pannacotta. The pannacotta was gloriously smooth and creamy, and drenched in the liquid in which the dried figs had been macerated. Along with that sweet sauce (dotted with caraway seeds and fig seeds) were lots of the now-rehydrated figs, sultanas, raisins, and orange peel. I adore fruit, whether it’s fresh or dried, and for me, this dessert was perfect—the fruit complemented the pannacotta perfectly. My husband thought there was too much of the sauce swimming around, making the dessert a little too sweet for his liking. But even he did give it a thumbs-up.

Our bill at Oceanos was Rs 1,170, inclusive of taxes. For a meal that (apart from the not-too-great appetisers) was very satisfying, I’d call that a good bargain.

The Malabar Junction lies on the ground floor, in a half-open pavilion with deep orange-red arches, offset by white walls, white table linen, red amaryllis lilies on the tables, and comfortable cane chairs. A pot-bellied earthen statue of the elephant-headed Hindu god, Ganesh, sits in one corner, and the ceiling has a beautifully carved wooden section let into the plaster.

The menu, presented by one of the waiters (who, interestingly, wear chef’s whites and aprons along with black trousers), was as promised: an Italian section (which we barely glanced at—not even long enough for it to register) and a Keralan section. This latter one was very interesting, and included attractive options like a degustation platter, a seafood platter, and a vegetarian platter. The list of dishes in each sounded as if it would be just too much to handle, so we decided to go à la carte instead, with a shared appetiser, a main course each (the waiter confirmed that, unlike most Indian restaurants, the dishes listed were individual servings, not family-size ones), and a dessert each.

We ordered a Malabar House smoked rice fish with a carrot and coconut salad to start with, followed by a king prawn biryani for me, and a king prawn and mango moilly with appams for my husband. Our orders placed, we sat back and admired the quiet and stylish comfort of the restaurant—it was nearly empty, with only one other couple sitting at a table. Our waiter got us a bread basket, with slices of what seemed like a substandard baguette (not crusty enough), and pieces of crisp fried papads. We didn’t realise there was a small bowl of butter hidden away under the papads, so my husband called for some olive oil (sadly, they only had regular, no extra virgin).

The appetiser, Malabar House smoked rice fish, was a very fresh fillet of fish, coated with a light rub of spice before being cooked (steamed? We couldn’t tell). What really made us love this dish was the unusual salad it was served with—ribbons of carrots, tossed with grated coconut, cracked black pepper, and what tasted like a very light vinaigrette. The result, texturally and taste-wise, was great.

Then came the main course. My plate of prawn biryani came as an upturned bowl of fluffy basmati rice, layered with spice-cooked prawns, and topped with one fat, spicy prawn. Alongside was a small bowl of rather tart yoghurt, whipped and topped with what is known as boondi: little fried globules made typically from chickpea flour. There was also a little bowl of spicy South Indian lime pickle, and a heap of fries (raw jackfruit? Tapioca? I couldn’t figure out what it was). All, excellent—and the prawns were superbly fresh.

My husband’s prawn and mango moilly (a moilly is a creamy Kerala curry) came in a soup bowl of thick, fragrant coconut milk-based gravy crowded with fat prawns and flavoured with raw mango. It was served with light, fluffy appams, pancakes made from a fermented rice flour batter, which leaves them soft and spongy in the middle and crisp on the edges.

For dessert, we’d already decided what we wanted to have—the vetallappam. The waitress, in an artless way, sweetly (and softly) mentioned that the vetallappam at The Malabar Junction wasn’t too good. "You should go to Brunton Boatyard to have the best vetallappam," she said. "It’s really, really good." (It emerged she’d worked at Brunton Boatyard before joining The Malabar Junction). But, since we were at The Malabar Junction, she did take our orders for vetallappams. Vetallappams are a dessert common in the Syrian Christian community of Kerala, and to Sri Lankans as well. This is basically a steamed custard, with the custard made of coconut milk, palm sugar, and spices like cinnamon, vanilla, and nutmeg.

The Malabar Junction’s take on a vetallappam was quite different from what I’d expected. The steamed custard had been cut into thin layers, and sandwiched with three layers—alternating with the custard—of mashed cooked fruit. One layer was unmistakably pineapple; one may have been ripe jackfruit; the third we couldn’t identify. On the side, in a wine glass, were two scoops of coconut sorbet, made from green coconut water—it did not have much flavour on its own, but had in conjunction with the already-divine vetallappam, it made this dessert the absolutely best dessert we had during our stay in Kochi. And yes, we stuck to that opinion even after trying the vetallappam at Brunton Boatyard.

Our bill at The Malabar Junction was Rs 2,431, including taxes; we added a tip too. It’s expensive—very much so—but worth it.

Climbing the stairs to The History, we heard the sounds of instruments being tuned: the twin drums known as tablas, and a violin, the latter an integral part of classical South Indian music. Entering the restaurant—which is very chic in a fusion of traditional and Western styles, what with its crisp linen, its hostess in white-and-gold sari, and the two musicians, who played (very competently) a series of old Hindi film songs all through dinner—we figured this was going to possibly be one of the better places we’d be eating at in Kochi.

The menu at The History is a daily-changing one, and is very short. There are only about two or three vegetarian dishes, and the same number of non-vegetarian ones, under appetisers and mains. There are two soups, three desserts—and that’s it. No reams of pages and hundreds of items to choose from.

All of it sounded mouthwatering, so we decided to share an appetiser, have a main course each, and a dessert each. For the appetiser, we picked the koonthal vendakkaya (calamari sautéed with okra and coconut milk). For a main course, I chose the Fernandes roast pork, while my husband ordered the varutharacha kozhi curry (a spicy chicken curry) with idiappams. Ordering over, we sat back and admired the décor: the high sloping wooden ceiling of the boatyard is very impressive, and the restaurant itself—all polished wood and gleaming glassware on the tables—is imposing. Our waiter, an earnest, efficient and friendly young man, brought us a basket of crisp khaakra (not a Keralan specialty; this is a popular Gujarati snack food made from lightly spiced chickpea flour, rolled into very thin circles and roasted). He also got us a complimentary aperitif: a little glass each of a non-alcoholic ginger wine, tangy and refreshing, yet not overwhelmingly gingery. It certainly gave us hope that the meal itself would be just as good.

The sautéed squid with okra was served a few minutes later, sitting on a circle of banana leaf placed on a stylish white rectangular plate. The squid and okra had been just lightly sautéed, probably only for a couple of minutes, so that the squid was just done and the okra nearly raw (in a good, non-mucilaginous way). It was coated with a sauce of coconut milk and crisp-fried curry leaves, all excellent.

Next up was the main course. The Fernandes roast pork that I’d ordered came in slices, each about 1 cm thick, the meat so tender that I didn’t need a knife to cut it. The fat, along one edge, was just right, too: enough to make the meat luscious, without being too fatty. Served with it was the roast pork gravy (which, this being an Anglo-Indian dish, was a relatively spicy gravy: I’m guessing it had onions, ginger, garlic, and possibly also a good glug of vinegar, besides spices). Also on the side was a huge helping of diced potatoes, beetroot and carrots, all cooked with the pork and imbued with all its glorious juices. I’m not a fan of either beetroot or carrot (unless the latter’s in the form of a dessert), but this, even I liked. The pork and veggies were such a large serving that the two slices of thick baguette-like bread on the side could’ve been omitted.

My husband’s meal consisted of boneless chicken cooked in a thick curry which included ground, roasted coconut (which tastes very different from coconut milk). With this came a little mound of steamed rice, a helping of what looked like French fries but appeared to have been made from tapioca; and the idiappam. An idiappam (known in Sri Lanka as a ‘string hopper’, is probably best described as a disc-like pancake made of pressed rice flour noodles. The Brunton Boatyard version was actually an appam (a fermented rice batter pancake that’s spongy on the inside, crisp and golden on the edges). It came topped with a fried egg, and my husband loved it, even if it wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting. The chicken curry, too, was very good, though the fries—probably because of the atmospheric humidity (touching 80%)—had gone rather limp.

For dessert, we decided to skip the two more Western desserts on offer, and to opt for the vetallappam instead, since the waitress at The Malabar Junction, where we’d dined the previous evening, had praised it so much. The vetallappam at Brunton Boatyard was rather more like the vetallappam I’d seen on TV food shows before I visited Kerala: an steamed custard, the colour of a rather strong latte, made of coconut milk and flavoured with palm sugar, cardamom, cinnamon and nutmeg. This sat in a fragrant pool of liquid (the way crème caramel exudes liquid?), and on the side were three semi-circles of gorgeously sweet, juicy, fresh pineapple.

I loved the vetallappam at Brunton Boatyard; my husband liked it, but didn’t go gaga over it. Both of us guessed that this version is probably truer to what a vetallappam is, traditionally, while the version at The Malabar Junction was possibly a fusion version. Whatever; we agreed that we, personally, preferred the vetallappam at The Malabar Junction—mostly because it was less sweet.

We paid Rs 2,271 (inclusive of taxes), and added a tip to it, for our meal. That’s very expensive by Kochi standards, but it was a great meal, and the ambience was a huge plus.

Unfortunately for Kochi’s Jewish community, Koder’s House was not occupied by his sons, who chose to migrate. Fortunately for visitors like us, it has been converted into a lovely-looking heritage hotel with a distinctive crimson façade. And in the Koder House hotel, there’s a restaurant named Menorah, which serves—among other dishes—the food of the Kochi Jews.

Menorah spreads out, just beyond the black-and-white chessboard floor of the lobby. It’s a pleasant, old-fashioned dining area, with pretty painted incised plaster panels on the walls and some wonderful photographs (and a painted portrait) of Satu Koder. Tables extend out to beside the swimming pool too, if that’s where you’d prefer to dine. We took a table inside, and settled down to look at the menu.

Sadly, it turned out that the Jewish spread has to be booked a week in advance, so that was out of the question. The North Indian dishes on the menu didn’t interest us, and neither did the rather uninspiring Western dishes. What we did focus on was the ‘Keralan fare’ page, which consisted of about eight dishes (all non-vegetarian), including some mouth-watering ones that are typical of the Syrian Christian community. We ordered a beef coconut fry; a chicken Chettinadu, a portion of steamed rice, and a green salad (in India, that means an undressed salad of freshly sliced veggies—typically tomatoes, cucumbers, raw onions and carrots, which was what Menorah served us too). My husband ordered a fresh lime soda; I decided to stick to water.

First up was a basket of complimentary fried snacks, rather like rice crackers. These were quite addictive, and my husband had a good deal before our meal arrived. In the meantime, his drink too had arrived—and was, surprisingly, deconstructed. The glass had some freshly squeezed lime juice; with it came a bottle of soda water, a little jug of sugar syrup, and a small bowl of salt. Convenient if you liked making it exactly to your preference, not if you didn’t like doing this fiddly business yourself.

The main course arrived after about ten or fifteen minutes, in generously sized bowls and platters. The waiter served us, and even as he was doing that, I’d begun salivating: it smelled so good. The Syrian Christian specialty, beef coconut fry (despite its fiery reddish-brown colour) was spicy but not hot. It had a lovely flavour combination of onions, curry leaves, and strips of coconut. The chicken Chettinadu, a specialty of the Chettinad trading community, was cloaked in a gloriously creamy (with coconut milk? We couldn’t tell) gravy, and with a good hit of cracked black pepper. The green salad was crisp and abundant, the rice fluffy. What’s more, when we were midway through out meal, the waiter brought us a complimentary serving of four deep-fried papads, crisp and totally without spice, and the perfect texture contrast to the rest of our meal.

What with such a great main course, we decided we had to have a dessert too—and ‘Koder Coco delight’, listed on the menu as a traditional Kochi Jewish dish, seemed the obvious choice. Unfortunately, while this doesn’t need a week’s notice to be served, it just happened to have been sold out. So we ordered a payasam, a milk pudding, instead.

Ten minutes later, when we tasted the payasam, we wished we’d skipped dessert. This was vermicelli cooked in milk with lots of sugar and some deep-fried chopped cashewnuts scattered on top. I have had payasam before, and while this is fairly typical, we realised—too late—that our sugar tolerance has diminished considerably.

Our bill at Menorah was Rs 1521.50, inclusive of taxes but excluding a tip, which we added. The two servings of payasam amounted to Rs 300 by themselves, so if we’d skipped those, we’d have eaten an excellent meal—in substantial portions—for a fairly affordable price. Definitely recommended—but not the payasam.