April in Delhi has always carried a certain impatience about it. A restlessness in the air, a warning of what is to come. And yet, over the past few days, the city seems to have paused mid-sentence. The rains arrived unannounced, softening the edges of an otherwise impending summer. Morning walks have felt almost borrowed from another season altogether, with the faint surprise of shawls and light jackets making an appearance, as though winter briefly reconsidered its exit.
Of course, one knows better than to be fooled. This reprieve is fleeting. The long, relentless summer will return, and with it the sharp glare of Delhi afternoons. But for now, there is a rare in-between. A moment where the city exhales.
What I find most fascinating about these seasonal shifts is not just how we feel them, but how we eat them. The change reveals itself first on our plates, often before we even register it in the air. Ingredients lighten, techniques adapt, and suddenly meals begin to carry a different rhythm.
A few days ago in Gurugram, I experienced this transition in the most intimate way. At her home, Surabhi Bhandari marked three years of her supper club, Jeeman, by bringing the flavours of Jodhpur to the table. There was something deeply personal about the meal, not just in the setting but in the stories that travelled with each dish.
We began with Amalvani, a cooling drink of tamarind and jaggery that seemed to hold the very idea of summer within it. Then came ghewar ki chaat, a playful reimagining that felt both nostalgic and entirely new. Chakki ki subzi, with its steamed wheat dumplings folded into a yoghurt gravy, carried a comforting familiarity, while achrai pachrai, an unassuming medley of tinda, tori, kaachra and gwaarphali, proved that simplicity can often be the most layered expression of seasonality.
What stayed with me most, however, were the karbas. The jau ka karba, fermented barley with curd and tempering, echoed the soul of panta bhaat, humble and deeply rooted. The aamras karba, on the other hand, felt like a celebration. The season’s first mangoes folded into rice, creamy and indulgent, marking the beginning of a much-awaited time of year. These were dishes I had not encountered before, and yet they felt instinctively familiar, the kind that remind you how vast and quietly nuanced our culinary memory truly is.
From a home in Gurugram to the polished dining room of Indian Accent, the language of the season continued, albeit in a different dialect. Chef Shantanu Mehrotra’s new menu draws from the western coast, weaving together Gujarat, Maharashtra and the Konkan with a sense of restraint and clarity. There is a confidence in the way each dish holds its ground, whether it is the sharpness of a balchao paired with sanna, or the unexpected comfort of a Bombay-style tawa pulao reimagined.
And yet, what defines the experience is not just the creativity, but the emotion that underpins it. When Chef Mehrotra speaks of introducing a bread course, he does so with an almost childlike conviction. Dal and roti, he insists, deserve their own moment. It is a simple thought, but one that carries the weight of habit, memory and identity. In that moment, the fine dining facade softens, revealing something far more intimate. Perhaps the most telling detail is his fondness for the staff meal, something not listed and not plated for guests, but is deeply cherished. In many ways, it mirrors everything the tasting menu strives to be, only without the need for interpretation.
And that, I think, is what this brief April interlude reveals so clearly. Whether in a home kitchen or a celebrated restaurant, seasonality is not just about ingredients. It is about instinct. About knowing when to cool, when to comfort, when to celebrate. It is about food that responds, quietly but assuredly, to the world around it.
Delhi will soon return to its scorching self. The shawls will disappear, the mornings will lose their softness, and the city will slip back into its familiar summer cadence. But for now, in this fleeting pause, there is a certain richness to be found. Not just in the weather, but in the way our tables begin to tell a different story.