My husband and I could not be more different when it comes to food. And I do not just mean in the obvious way, that one of us is a vegetarian while the other proudly calls himself a meat-lover. It is also about the cuisines we naturally lean towards. For him, the clear winner is always something lighter, fresher, and umami-rich: steaming bowls of ramen, fragrant stir-fries, a plate of sushi, anything that falls under the wide, comforting umbrella of Asian food. I, on the other hand, find my deepest comfort in the familiar folds of regional Indian cuisine. A well-cooked dal, a homely curry, or a dish that speaks of a particular soil and season will always make me the happiest diner at the table. If I ever wander outside this boundary, it is usually in the direction of Indian Chinese, my guilty indulgence, a little nostalgic and a little celebratory all at once.
As you might imagine, reaching a consensus about where to eat out is not always straightforward. We often find ourselves scrolling endlessly through options, gently vetoing each other’s preferences with a smile or a sigh. And yet, when Ichiban comes up in conversation, the hesitation vanishes. Without fail, I find myself saying yes.
Tucked away on Pandara Road, Ichiban is more than just another restaurant for us. It has become a kind of truce, a middle ground, a place where both of our food personalities meet halfway. A thirty-five-year-old institution, this small but always bustling eatery has been feeding generations of Delhiites who think nothing of waiting in long queues for their share of hearty Asian comfort. The moment you step inside, you are enveloped in the hum of conversations, the clinking of cutlery against plates, and the occasional sizzle escaping from the kitchen. It is chaotic in the best way, alive, warm, and somehow intimate despite the crowd.
For me, a meal at Ichiban is almost ritualistic. I rarely stray from my usual order: a plate of momos to begin with, soft and generously filled, always gone too quickly, followed by a medley of stir-fries and their pan-fried noodles, which arrive tangled in just the right balance of crunch and silkiness. Yet the highlight, oddly enough, is often what is served on the side. Their kimchi, sharp with tang and carrying a quiet fire, is something I look forward to almost as much as the main dishes themselves. Alongside it comes a rainbow of sauces, some fiery, some mellow, each waiting to be discovered with a dip, a drizzle, or a spoonful.
Delhi has long been blessed with Chinese restaurants that have slipped into the city’s collective memory. Golden Dragon at The Oberoi was once synonymous with fine dining and elegance. The House of Ming at The Taj has been a favourite for decades, with its signature chilli garlic prawns and dim sums that still draw loyal patrons. Berco’s became shorthand for Indian Chinese across generations of students, families, and late-night revellers. And then there is Fa-Yian in Connaught Place, a place that defined Chinese dining for so many Delhiites, whether it was Sunday lunches, after-shopping meals, or celebratory dinners in the heart of the city. These are the places where nostalgia and appetite meet, each carrying stories of birthdays, reunions, and long conversations over steaming bowls of soup and plates of fried rice.
But how did Indian Chinese food come to be such an inseparable part of our story?
It began with Tong Ah Chew, the first recorded Chinese immigrant to India, who arrived in Calcutta in 1778, laden with tea. He soon set up a sugar mill on the city’s outskirts, and many say this is why the community came to be known as cheeni. What fascinates me more, though, is how food became the bridge. As waves of Chinese families settled in Calcutta, they found common ground with the locals through their kitchens. They began to create sauces, stir-fries, and dishes that spoke to Indian palates. Over time, this mingling gave birth to a cuisine that was as much Calcutta’s as it was theirs.
And why do we think of Indian Chinese as comfort food? For me, it is simple: it is everything we love on one plate. Thick gravies with rice, carbs on carbs, because yes, I will happily order noodles and fried rice together, and all those crispy fried treats we can never resist. It feels foreign, but never really is. The garlic, the masalas, that unmistakable hit of soy or ketchup, they all make it ours. And the best part? It has always been easy on the pocket, whether it is a neighbourhood joint or a roadside stall. Long before we even knew the word umami, Indian Chinese had already worked it out. They knew exactly what makes us go back for more.