Dakshin, on the first floor of the Sheraton hotel in Saket, looks a little intimidating at first glance, what with the ornate beaten metal door (with pillars on either side, covered in the same metal). Once inside, though, this proves itself a warm, cosy place, with none of the starched stuffiness that characterises a lot of five star hotel restaurants in Delhi. Peach-and-white woven table linen, off-white ceilings with hanging brass lamps (traditional South Indian style) and more unmistakably South Indian artefacts: wood carvings, bits of fabric, paintings, etc.

We were eight of us—my parents, my husband, my sister, her husband and their two teenaged children. We’d phoned on ahead and reserved a table, so were warmly greeted and seated as soon as we arrived.

The menu at Dakshin needs a little time to understand; it’s divided state-wise, with one or two pages each devoted to the four southern states. The names may be a little unfamiliar to most Delhiites, but descriptions are provided for each dish—and, as we discovered, our waiter was so knowledgeable and helpful, that it was best to ask him for recommendations. Since none of us like very spicy food, we allowed him to guide us with a range of low-spice dishes.

Although Dakshin does offer alcohol, all of us settled for soft drinks: buttermilk (served South Indian style, lightly spiced with grated ginger, salt, and cumin), fresh coconut water, Sprite, and a fresh lime soda. While we waited for our food, our waiter brought us two identical sets of complimentaries—one for each end of the table.

These consisted of a large basket of crisp fried totally non-spicy assorted papads, with four types of chutneys to use as dips: a coconut chutney, a tomato one, a tamarind one, and a ginger one. Also in the middle of the table was a set of condiments, including (besides salt), a couple of types of ‘gunpowder’, the mix of ground spices and lentils (occasionally, also dried curry leaves) that makes such an addictively nutty-spicy accompaniment to just about every South Indian snack.

Our food arrived within about 15 or 20 minutes of our placing the order, and was quickly served on our individual metal platters (each platter, by the way, comes lined with a washed, fresh banana leaf, traditional in South Indian meals). A very mild lamb stew (‘erachi ishtoo’), of boneless goat’s meat cooked in coconut milk, was doled into one of the small bowls on my platter. Beside it, in the other small bowl, was served a slightly more spicy chicken curry, kori gassi, in a tomatoey gravy.

On the banana leaf lining the plate, the rest of the dishes were served: a meen pollichadu (fish fillets marinated in spices and tomato, wrapped in a banana leaf and grilled), varattiyatha (a mixed vegetable curry), beans parippu usli (chopped green beans cooked dry with a coarsely ground mix of lentils and spices), and raal poruma kootu (fat, juicy prawns cooked in a low-spice gravy, with chopped drumstick leaves; drumsticks, for those who don’t know, are fibrous pods from a tree—they are popular in curries, or with lentils).

Once these had all been served out, there came the appams, pancakes made from fermented rice flour batter, their centres spongy and soft, their edges lacy and golden and crisp. Heavenly, especially with the lamb stew, which they especially complement. We’d also ordered Malabar parathas, very flaky but richly layered parathas that are good with spicy curries. Dakshin’s were beautifully done, with almost as many layers as a good mille feuille, but silken and soft in texture.

Once the main course was over, we got down to ordering dessert. Dakshin offers about a dozen desserts, most of them South Indian must-haves like payasam (a pudding made with rice, vermicelli, or sago pearls, cooked with either milk or coconut milk—there are numerous variations). Ice cream is also available. I ordered a vattil appam, a ‘South Indian caramel custard’, as our waiter cheerfully described it. This is made using coconut milk, palm sugar, and spices such as cardamom. Dakshin’s vattil appam was as luscious and velvety, with just the right wobble, as any I’ve had in South India. Perfect. (Note that, unlike the main courses—which are in portion sizes large enough to be shared—the desserts are all individual portions).

We had to wait nearly 15 minutes for our bill to be paid, because of some technical problem regarding the credit card company. It was none of Dakshin’s fault, but they were very apologetic for it, and finally took the initiative of telling us that they’d raise the bill through another restaurant in the hotel, so that we wouldn’t have to wait any longer.

While we were waiting, the waiter brought us a box of paan, betel leaves wrapped around a mix of shaved areca nuts, coconut, and other ingredients that act as a mouth freshner. Later, when the payment had finally been cleared and we were ready to go, all the women at the table were offered little farewell presents: a tiny garland each of fragrant white jasmine flowers. These are traditionally used by women in the South, pinned to a plait or bun; since all of us have short hair, we contented ourselves with holding them and sniffing them appreciatively now and then!

Our meal at Dakshin cost us Rs 19,204, inclusive of all taxes and service charges. Expensive, yes; thoroughly satisfying, also yes. This is one restaurant you must put on your list if you want to have the best South Indian food Delhi has to offer.

Dakshin opens for lunch from 12.30 to 2.45, and for dinner from 7.30 to 11.45. Reservations are recommended, since this happens to be one of Delhi’s most popular restaurants in a five star hotel.

Then, a few years back, the Taj Group (which owns the Ambassador) revamped it and made it part of their ‘Vivanta’ sub-group: plush, sleek, upmarket. Yellow Brick Road went through (or so we presumed) a bit of a makeover too. One Sunday, my sister, her husband and their children, and my husband and I decided to have lunch at Yellow Brick Road to see how it was.

Yellow Brick Road is at lobby level, down a long and winding corridor that snakes off to the right from the lobby. The restaurant, unlike most upscale hotel restaurants, has the cosy, comfortable feel of an old-fashioned neighbourhood eatery, not a spiffy luxury restaurant. The walls are painted in pale yellow and white stripes; delightful old posters, advertisements and paintings hang on the walls, and everything—furniture, crockery, linen—is bright, sunny, and unintimidating.

Even the look of the menu card—a set of printed sheets, like a newspaper—is informal and cheery. I actually thought it was specifically designed to appeal to a rather juvenile kiddie clientele, since it contains large sections devoted to interesting facts, odd trivia, and so on. The menu itself consists of a mishmash of Western, Indian, and even Far Eastern dishes. Thai curries, stuffed parathas (a large variety, to which a separate menu card is devoted), burgers, sandwiches, pizzas, pastas, salads, grills, and Indian dishes are among the highlights of the menu.

Except for me, everybody at the table ordered Western dishes for their mains (we skipped appetisers): a croque monsieur; glazed pork chops with barbecue sauce; chicken lasagne; pan-fried river sole; and cheese and jalapeno toasts. All came in large portion sizes, with fries or sautéed vegetables and a jacket potato as a side. I had ordered a dak bungalow lamb stew, which came with a massive helping of steamed rice, and a nearly-as-large side of fresh salad.

Dak bungalows, for those not in the know, were bungalows built by the British, usually along the routes followed by the ‘dak’ (the post): they were typically government-run establishments which catered to government officials when they travelled through the countryside. Dak bungalows still function as government guest-houses for bureaucrats and other government officials on the move, and they’re invariably quite predictable, down to the sort of food you get to eat in them.

Since my father had been a police officer before he retired, I’ve been to my share of dak bungalows. Yellow Brick Road’s dak bungalow lamb stew brought back memories—very pleasant ones—of the sort of mild Anglo-Indian style lamb curries you’d find if you ever happened to eat at one of the better dak bungalows. The gravy was a mild one, and along with the pieces of meat (boneless) and potato, there were other veggies that one never found in the usual dak bungalow curry because these are still exotic, ‘non-Indian’ vegetables: broccoli, red bell pepper, and yellow bell pepper. With the plain rice and the very lightly dressed salad of carrot, cucumber, raw onion and red cabbage it was served with, the curry made for a nice, comforting meal. It was too huge, though: I could finish only half the rice.

The rest of the family seemed quite satisfied with their meal, though my husband later told me he regretted having ordered the glazed pork chops. They were tender in places and tough in others, and the glaze was "a joke"—no glaze, but a thick sauce that pooled all around and over the chops.

For dessert, half of us opted out, since the main course had been large enough to fill up tummies. My nephew ordered a tiramisu, and my husband and I ordered a sugar-free apple crumble each. Fortunately, the waiter was smart (and kind?) enough to let us know that it was a large portion, so we decided to share one instead—and found that to be a good decision. Not only because the apple crumble was a large one (it came in a soup plate), but also because it was so disappointing that the less we had to consume, the better. This looked nothing like a crumble, and tasted only marginally better than it looked. Partially stewed apples, cut into dice, had been strewn on the soup plate and topped with a very fine sprinkling of a crumb mixture that lacked the buttery, substantial crumbliness of a good topping. (My niece, who hadn’t been paying attention when this was ordered, had one look when the dish arrived, and asked us: "Why did you order gnocchi as a dessert?"—and yes, it did look like gnocchi covered with grated parmesan).

My husband, when the sad-looking dessert was placed before him, decided he needed something to help him swallow it, and ordered a scoop of vanilla ice cream. This arrived only after both of us had finished eating the crumble.

Our bill (including five soft drinks—none of us had alcohol, even though Yellow Brick Road serves it) was Rs 5,970. That’s not terribly expensive if you go only by the fact that this is a restaurant in a posh hotel. If you take into account the less-than-exciting food (between us, my husband and I agreed that the only good thing we’d tasted was the dak bungalow lamb stew), and the occasionally slipshod service, that’s too expensive. On the other hand, this is a decent place to eat if you’re in a largeish group where people have very varying tastes. Most of the tables that were occupied while we were there seemed to consist of large families or groups of friends, some of whom wanted familiar North Indian food, while others wanted Western dishes. A caveat, though: don’t go here expecting good Western food. It’s only so-so.

Travertino is, even at first glance, very pleasant. Quiet, with lots of daylight streaming in through the abundant skylights above. The linen is starched, the roses a lovely orange in colour, the glassware and crockery spotless, and the waiters smart, friendly, and knowledgeable. And yes, the chef is Italian—and affiliated to Rome’s Hassler Hotel.

We sat and studied the set menu carefully. Each section (appetisers, main courses, and desserts) contains six or seven options (about half of which are vegetarian) for you to choose from. My sister and brother-in-law, who’d dined here before, assured us that the portion sizes were European, not American—and therefore, a three-course meal was recommended. I chose an asparagus and rocket salad with goat’s cheese and pecans for an appetiser; a grilled seafood platter for a main course; and an espresso and hazelnut semifreddo with bitter chocolate sauce for dessert. Although Travertino also offers wines (charged separately), only my sister ordered a glass of the house white wine; the rest of us stuck to fresh lime sodas.

The à la carte menu at Travertino—which we did glance through, out of curiosity, proved to be a rather more extended version of the set menu. The major difference was in the prices. The tenderloin carpaccio, for instance, cost Rs 1,250 on the à la carte menu, but was one of the appetisers offered on the set menu.

Our waiter got us our drinks, and with them, two very generous baskets of bread. Tiny saucers placed at each cover were filled with olive oil (we were asked if we also wanted balsamic vinegar mixed in, but all of us declined). I sampled two of the breads—a delicious soft roll with fresh diced tomatoes mixed into the dough; and a bread stick with fried onions added to the dough—and thought both were delicious.

Before our appetisers came, a complimentary amuse-bouche was served up: shot glassed filled with a cold soup that tasted of watermelon and basil. This was nice and refreshing, and just a few minutes after we’d finished, the appetisers arrived. My husband, who’d ordered a tenderloin carpaccio, loved it—it was "waferthin" (his words), and came with a pile of rocket leaves, and lots of very thinly shaved cheese. My salad also consisted largely of rocket leaves (very young leaves, so they had just the right amount of peppery favour), with grilled asparagus and a dressing of pecan nuts and sundried tomatoes. On the side were three pecan nut halves, and three inch-long cigarillo-like tubes of pastry. These, we discovered, were filled with a creamy goat’s cheese filling, flavoured with sundried tomato; sundried tomato dust was pressed on to each end. A good, fresh salad that I liked a lot. I’d have loved it if the pecan nut halves hadn’t been definitely rancid.

The main course was, for me, better than the appetiser. The grilled seafood (two scallops, three large prawns, and a piece of basa) had been cooked very simply, with no fancy sauces or other highly-flavoured ingredients to distract one’s attention from the fresh succulence of the seafood itself. These came arranged on a small heap of grilled vegetables—bell peppers, zucchini, baby carrots, asparagus tips and onions—and with aged balsamic vinegar drizzled along the edge of the plate. Delicious!

For dessert, I’d ordered the espresso and hazelnut semifreddo with the bitter chocolate sauce; my husband and my brother-in-law had also ordered the same thing, while my sister had ordered a slow-cooked Belgian dark chocolate cake with hazelnut ice cream. Her dessert was a rich, gooey and fairly substantial one; ours were rather disappointing. The menu listing of the semifreddo had not mentioned that it came with a major unwanted extra—crisp tuiles comprised much of the dish; they’d been made in the form of rectangles, which had been sandwiched together with the semifreddo as filling.

The result was that one couldn’t really cut into it with a spoon; it was too crisp for that. So we had to lift and bite each ‘sandwich’, and that made the semifreddo squeeze out on either side. Thoroughly fiddly. Unfortunately, the taste of the tuiles also swamped the already too-mild flavour of the semifreddo (I’d never have believed this was an espresso semifreddo). The dark chocolate sauce drizzled on the plate was too little to register anything on the palate, and the toasted hazelnuts, while nowhere as rancid as the pecans, were certainly headed the same way.

We paid Rs 8,733 for our meal, inclusive of taxes and service charges. Considering that some individual dishes on Travertino’s à la carte menu cost Rs 3,000 per portion, this was quite a steal. The iffy dessert and the rancid nuts were a let-down, though.

Since both my husband and I are very fond of South-East cuisines, we decided we had to visit the Blue Ginger in Delhi’s Taj Palace Hotel. The restaurant is at lobby level, next door to the Blue Bar. We weren't interested in the bar, so let the hostess (dressed very prettily in a traditional Vietnamese ao dai and hat) show us into the restaurant. This is a rectangular hall, with a high ceiling (partly in dark polished wood, and partly what seemed like carved, gold-painted wood) and dark upholstery. The lights—shimmering 4’ high tubes that gleam pale blueish-white over the tables on the left—are interestingly un-traditional, as is the crockery (white with a plain blue crescent along one edge).

Only one other table was occupied, so we mostly had the restaurant to ourselves. We were seated at a table—with a spray of lovely white orchids in a bud vase on it—and a cold towel each placed next to our plates. The menu is extensive, with a range of cold and hot appetisers, soups, main courses, grills, caris (the Vietnamese coconut milk-flavoured curries, served with baguettes on the side, in a delicious little reminder of the country’s history as a French colony) and more.

After much to-and-froing, since everything sounded so good, we ordered an appetiser: cứu bấm xúc sàlách (stirfried minced lamb with fried onions and scallions, served with lettuce), with a main course consisting of steamed rice, Gà nướng ớt là chương (grilled chicken with lime leaf and chilli), and cải thìa sốt satế (stir-fried mushrooms in a satay sauce, served on pak choy).

While we waited for our food to arrive, our waitress came by to leave a bowl of Vietnamese rice crackers for us; these were crisp and deliciously light, and we had a hard time restricting ourselves from finishing off the entire lot.

The appetiser was served within about ten minutes: the waitress served us each a couple of large lettuce leaves, topped with some whole basil leaves. On top of this went a hefty serving of the lamb (which was more ‘chopped’ than ‘minced’), garnished with finely sliced green scallions. We rolled up our individual leaves of lettuce with the toppings, and dug in. The lamb was beautifully cooked, and had the tart, spicy, sweet flavours I always tend to associate with food from this part of the world. With the textural and flavour contrasts provided by the crisp lettuce, the fragrant basil, and the scallions, this was a great way to start the meal.

The menu hadn’t mentioned (and we hadn’t been told, when we placed our order) that the grilled chicken we’d ordered for our main course was on similar lines as the appetiser: this, too, came with a ‘plate’ consisting of crisp lettuce leaves, on which the pieces of boneless grilled chicken were served. There were differences, though: for example, this came with the addition of cold rice noodles, and with wedges of lime on the side. Also on the side was a small bowl of a coarsely ground spice mix (we thought it included sea salt, red chilli flakes and possibly fried garlic, among other ingredients), which the waitress suggested we sprinkle on the chicken along with a squeeze of lime before rolling up the lettuce.

Even though, in its basics, this dish resembled the appetiser, both of us thought it was far better: the chicken wonderfully seasoned and cooked, and the limejuice and spice adding just the right bit of zing to it. The mixed mushrooms, on baby pak choy, were good, and the satay sauce—basically red chillies, shallots, garlic, and lemon grass—was flavoursome without being terribly hot.

Even though we tend to avoid the desserts section in most Oriental restaurants in Delhi (they’re usually far too predictable), we did glance at the desserts page at Blue Ginger, and were pleasantly surprised to find some intriguing items listed here. Both of us eventually picked the same one: mandarin orange crème brulée with an orange and ginger reduction. The waitress informed us that one portion consisted of two separate brulées, so we stuck to ordering one portion.

This arrived after about ten minutes: one neatly scooped half of a mandarin orange each, in which was set the custard, covered over with the brulée. An artistic swirl of the orange and ginger reduction on the plate completed the picture. And what a picture! The custard was creamy and beautifully made, and redolent with orange: there were even hair-thin threads of zest in it. The reduction had just the right amount of ginger (I’m always a little apprehensive when it comes to ginger: too much, and it turns me off). The only flaw was that the brulée wasn’t the paperthin, crackly thing I expected it to be: it was too thick, and had—probably as a result of being thick—was a little chewy. Also, it didn’t cover the entire top of the custard; it just formed a small coin on top.

Still, in a meal that was otherwise great (and in a dessert that was, barring that shortcoming, delicious), we decided it was forgivable enough to merit another visit to Blue Ginger sometime soon. We have to try out more of the menu here.

Our bill at Blue Ginger, for two people (and with no alcohol or soft beverages—we confined ourselves to the Vietnamese lotus tea that was served complimentary), was Rs 3,553, including taxes. Considering the quality of food and the service, we thought this was pretty good value for money.

Blue Ginger is open from 12:30 to 2:45 PM for lunch, and from 6:30 to 11:45 PM for dinner. Dress code is semi-casual, which means you can wear jeans, but no shorts.

As its name suggests, this restaurant is modelled on the iconic luxury train across Europe. The restaurant – a small, exclusive one – is arranged in the shape of a train carriage. We were greeted, ushered in, led up a pair of steps into the ‘carriage’ and to our table, all gleaming with polished silverware, huge balloon-like wine glasses, and starched white napkins. The ‘walls’ are polished wood; the upholstery is a subdued, old-fashioned weave; the rosebuds on our table are white and very fresh. There’s a luggage rack – all gleaming, polished metal and beautifully shaped – above our table. The air breathes luxury.

But, of course, the food. Our menus – beverages, food, a separate wine list – were presented as soon as we’d settled in. Evian water was poured by a smart white-gloved waiter while we had a look at the menus. The food menu is, thankfully, not rambling and huge. Even then, everything sounded delicious, and it was a battle to decide on what to eat. The four of us (my husband, my sister and her husband were with me) finally decided on a three-course meal each: an hors d’oeuvre, a plat, and a dessert. (There’s a set rate for a three-course meal: Rs 3,950. A four-course meal is for Rs 4,650). My sister and her husband picked a glass of wine each; my husband ordered a ‘mocktail’. I was happy with my Evian, but the restaurant gave me a complimentary glass of juice anyway – "as a toast".

The drinks arrived, and with them, a basket of warm mini rolls: soft rolls, hard rolls, and buttery croissants no larger than the bowl of a teaspoon. With them came two types of spread: a light one of hung curd (yoghurt) with celery, and rich, creamy chicken liver paté. We were hungry, so we dug in – but even before the hors d’oeuvres were served, an amuse-bouche was brought. These were mushroom and truffle cappuccinos, served in little coffee cups. Lightly frothy, absolutely smooth, and served at room temperature, these were so chockfull of mushroomy, truffly flavour that we didn’t want them to end.

But our hors d’oeuvres were waiting. My sister, her husband and my husband had ordered the same thing: foie gras. These came in a thick, rich and luxurious slice atop a slab of toasted baguette, surrounded by caramelised walnuts and shallots, with a garnish of enokitake. All three eaters were unanimous in their praise. I’d ordered a smoked salmon roulade with a filling of trout: being a little adventurous, since I am not really that fond of smoked salmon. This, though, turned out to be lovely. The salmon was sliced thin, the filling a delicious blend of finely flaked trout and crunchy vegetables.

After the hors d’oeuvres, raspberry sorbets – with the merest hint of fresh mint – were served as a precursor to the main course. Just one scoop of sweet, tart, cold sorbet, and it formed the perfect bridge between what we’d eaten and what we were awaiting.

For the main course, I was again the odd one out. I’d picked a roasted Barbary duck with fig relish and crisp Venetian polenta; all the others had ordered the Black Angus tenderloin with potatoes, slow roasted tomatoes and jus.

The duck – medium well done, as I’d requested, was delicious and succulent, served in a prettily arranged fan of slices atop the relish, the polenta, and some sautéed vegetables, with a sprinkle of sauce and two spears of asparagus on the side. All fantastic and well put together, except for the polenta, which seemed to have been so smothered by everything else that it had lost its crispness by the time it was served to me. The rest of my family were very happy with their tenderloin: all the steaks were cooked to the correct doneness each person had asked for; and the accompaniments were just right.

After our main course plates had been cleared away, we were offered a change of napkins for the dessert course. Pretty lemon-coloured starched damask napkins replaced the used white ones; the pianist outside – in the quiet bar that adjoins The Orient Express – asked us if we had any requests. (The pianist, by the way, is quite accomplished, and played us a nice selection of oldies).

For dessert, my sister and I had ordered the apple and almond frangipane tart. The pastry was gorgeously light, golden and fluffy; the apple slices thin and the almond just enough to impart the mildest of flavours to the dish. With it came a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream: perfect. My husband and my brother-in-law had, after some deliberation, chosen to be adventurous. Both had ordered a rosemary soufflé. This turned out to be a baked soufflé, presented beautifully: in a gleaming brass-clad soufflé dish on one side, a little porcelain bowl of ice cream (scattered with black grapes) on the other, and a magenta orchid between. Pretty! And not just pretty, but very good, too – both men couldn’t stop raving about how light the soufflé was, and what a superb balance of flavours: the savoury undertones of the main ingredient (was it cheese? They couldn’t tell), the sweetness, and the freshness of the rosemary.

So, yes. We spent two hours at The Orient Express (we also spent Rs 20,000 – including taxes and a tip), and we enjoyed every single minute of it. I’d go back here like a shot. This is the sort of pampering one deserves if one can’t manage the actual Orient Express, but would like a taste of it anyway. This restaurant deserves each of the awards it’s earned over the years.

The Orient Express is situated at lobby level in the hotel. Reservations are recommended. Children are not allowed into the restaurant. You can let the restaurant know if you have dietary preferences or restrictions, and they will ensure that your meal is tailored to your needs.