There are some weeks in Delhi when the city feels particularly generous. When conversations linger a little longer, meals unfold into stories, and chance encounters begin to shift the way one thinks about food altogether. The past few days have been just that. I found myself in the company of women who are not only cooking, but persistently reshaping how their home cuisines are understood in the capital.
It began on a bright, breezy afternoon in Jangpura, at a pakhala pop-up hosted by Anubhuti Misra and Aditi Mohapatra, the founders of Rosei Ghara. Both trained as lawyers, their journey into food feels less like a pivot and more like a quiet return to something deeply personal. Misra moved to Delhi from Cuttack in 2013, Mohapatra from Bhubaneswar nearly a decade later. They met through family, bonded over memory and food, and in 2024 began cooking from their homes. By last year, Rosei Ghara had found a more permanent footing as a cloud kitchen in Shahpur Jat.
Pakhala, the centrepiece of the afternoon, is not merely a dish in Odisha. It is ritual, memory, and relief from the summer heat, all at once. Fermented rice soaked overnight, finished with torani, spiced yoghurt, and tempered with curry leaves, mustard and red chillies. It arrives cool and comforting. Around it, a generous constellation of accompaniments. There was sesame papad from Berhampur, brittle and nutty, paired with a smoky tomato poda chutney that lingered pleasantly on the palate. Baigana bhaja, aloo chakata, chatu bhaja, saaga badi, and badi chura created a rhythm of textures and flavours that felt both humble and deeply considered. For those who preferred meat, there was macha bhaja and a robust mutton kassa.
What stayed with me, beyond the meal, was the sincerity of it all. This was not food attempting to be rediscovered or reframed for an audience, but was food that simply was presented with care and conviction.
A few evenings later, the narrative shifted, but the thread remained. I met Shri Bala, someone I have known for nearly a decade, though to say she is simply a chef would be to miss the essence of her work entirely. Also trained as a chartered accountant and lawyer, she first entered my culinary memory at a small pop-up at Trident Mumbai, part of a series that, in hindsight, was far ahead of its time. Even then, her food carried an authority.
Through her, many of us were introduced to a southern Indian culinary vocabulary that extended far beyond the familiar. There were references to Sangam literature, to histories and techniques that demanded both attention and respect. It was not performative, nor was it simplified, but it asked you to engage.
Over the years, she has mentored young chefs at culinary schools, shaping not just their skills but their way of thinking. And now, she brings that same depth to Delhi with Nadoo, her first restaurant in the city, in partnership with restaurateur Sahil Sambhi.
“Nadoo is a way to seek,” she told me, and the menu reflects this sense of exploration. It moves across the southern states with ease, balancing memory and imagination. Ghee podi idlis arrive with caviar, a pairing that feels surprisingly intuitive. Gunpowder edamame is playful yet precise. Iyengar bakery style egg puffs are the sort of thing one returns to without hesitation. There is benne dosae, donne biryani, pineapple gassi, ennai kathirikai, and even a raan that sits comfortably within this otherwise southern narrative.
What ties these experiences together is not novelty, but intent. These women did not begin in professional kitchens, yet they cook with a clarity that is often rare. There is no urgency to impress, only a desire to represent, to honour, and to share.
Delhi has always been a city of many cuisines, but it is in moments like these that one is reminded that its most compelling stories are often the quietest ones. Told across dining tables, in borrowed spaces, through recipes that carry the weight of home