Growing up in Mumbai, Navroze was always one of my favourite days on the calendar. Many of my closest friends were Parsis or Iranis, and the festival usually meant spending the afternoon around someone's dining table. There would be sagan ni sev, patra ni macchi, cutlace, pulao-dar and ravo, recipes that had travelled through generations and were prepared with as much anticipation as the festival itself. If we weren't eating at a friend's home, orders would have been placed weeks in advance with trusted home chefs or caterers. It was never a loud celebration. It unfolded over long lunches, familiar conversations and second helpings.
It wasn't until I moved to Delhi that I realised how much I associated Navroze with food.
Like most people who move cities, I went looking for flavours that reminded me of home. Eventually, I found them at Rustom's Parsi Bhonu, tucked inside the Delhi Parsi Anjuman on Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg. Every Navroze, that is where I would go. There were very few places in Delhi serving Parsi food, and Rustom's felt less like a restaurant and more like a bridge between the city I had left behind and the one I was trying to make my own.
Chef Kainaz Contractor and Rahul Dua did something that, in hindsight, feels incredibly important. They gave Delhi a chance to discover Parsi food beyond the occasional dhansak or berry pulao. For many, their thali was an introduction to a cuisine that has always been far richer and more nuanced than the handful of dishes it is often reduced to.
When Rustom's shut, I searched for another place for a while before quietly giving up. Somewhere along the way, I accepted that if I wanted a proper Parsi meal in Delhi, I would probably have to wait until my next trip to Mumbai.
Which is ironic because Delhi's relationship with the Parsis stretches back much further than one might imagine. Last year, the Delhi Parsi Anjuman celebrated its centenary, a reminder that the community has been part of the city's history for over a hundred years. Their numbers grew after the British shifted the capital from Calcutta to Delhi in 1911, drawing traders, professionals and entrepreneurs to the new seat of power. Today, the community numbers only around 500, tiny compared to Mumbai's, but its contributions to the city have quietly endured.
I was reminded of that only last week while sitting over tea at the India International Centre. Quite by chance, I learnt that the institution's original menu was conceived in the 1970s by Bhicoo Manekshaw, the pioneering culinary consultant, food writer and restaurateur. It was one of those facts that instantly made me look at a familiar place differently. Perhaps that is why I often find myself wondering why Delhi no longer has a restaurant dedicated to Parsi cuisine.
This is a city that has enthusiastically embraced regional Indian cuisines over the past decade. Restaurants celebrating the food of Kerala, Nagaland, Kashmir, Chettinad and the Himalayas have all found loyal audiences. Diners today are curious. They are willing to travel through history and geography with every meal. Surely Parsi cuisine deserves a permanent place in that conversation too.
Instead, with both Rustom's and SodaBottleOpenerWala now gone, there is very little left for someone hoping to understand the cuisine beyond reading about it. And that feels like a loss, not just for the city's small Parsi community, but for Delhi itself.
Which is why I was genuinely excited to hear that Chef Firozi Karanjia is bringing a Cto The Taj Mahal, New Delhi, from tomorrow, 7th August until August 16. Pop-ups are, by definition, temporary – they appear for a few days, remind us of everything we have been missing, and then disappear. I only hope this one leaves behind more than satisfied diners. I hope it convinces someone that Delhi is ready, once again, for a restaurant where Parsi food has a permanent address.