Eating International in Delhi, Part 3: Others

We’ve come on one of our frequent visits to Select Citywalk, and we’re looking for something that’s filling but not greasy, so AlaTurka it is. This is a small place, about fifteen feet of space parallel to the corridor outside, from which it’s separated by plate glass windows. A low counter runs on the inside of the window, and there are about eight stools along the counter. Those are the seating facilities. The decor consists of large photographs of the items on the menu (typical fast food chain style!), and two large soft boards onto which satisfied customers have pinned currency notes from across the world—many of the notes with messages of goodwill and happiness scrawled on them.

The menu is limited, the food mainly non-vegetarian (lamb and chicken doners and iskendar kebabs), though there’s also falafel, sarma (spiced rice rolled in vine leaves and steamed), cigar boreks, kofte, and hummus with pita and salad. Different combinations are available: with or without salads and dips, with our without fries and Coke. After a quick glance through the menu, Tarun and I decide to order one each of what appeals to us: a falafel platter and a lamb doner platter. Both come with salads, dips, Lebanese bread, and Coke.

The order taker at the counter (he’s Turkish, by the way—the owner? I think so) says that the lamb doner is only available on weekends; since today’s a Thursday, we’ll have to settle for chicken doner. Okay. The order’s placed swiftly, and served up equally quick. My falafel platter comes with wedges of thin, pliable Lebanese bread, a generous dollop of a lovely creamy hummus, and an array of crisp salads: sliced tomatoes, lots of sliced onions, pickled cabbage, grated carrots, and pickled radishes. On the side are two types of dips: a tomatoey red chilly dip and a garlicky yoghurt one. The falafel itself is gorgeously crisp on the outside without being greasy, and delicious to boot.

Tarun’s chicken doner platter is similar as far as accompaniments are concerned: the same salads and the same breads, though he doesn’t get the hummus. The chicken—shaved off from the slowly rotating vertical grill at one end of the eatery—is tender on one side, crisp on the other. We share our meals and unanimously agree that the food is excellent.

AlaTurka is good if you’re looking for a quick, no-frills, inexpensive meal (it cost us Rs 450 in all, which is good value for money in Delhi). The food’s good and healthy (lots of veggies to be had here!), and it’s filling. If you’ve been splurging on expensive shopping at the mall, this is a good place to balance your budget a bit.

Chilli Seasonss specialises in food from East Asia: from Vietnam, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Myanmar, etc. The menu includes all the well-loved specialties of the region—the khaosuey, the dimsums, the spring rolls and satays, the hearty soups rich with kaffir lime leaves, basil and lemon grass and galangal; the nasi goreng, the stirfries and more... all of it mouthwatering. And really, not all of it spicy and hot.

Chilli Seasonss stands at one end of the Defence Colony Market (the nearest major landmark is the well-established Moëts Restaurant, just round the corner from Chilli Seasonss). We arrive at what is considered an unfashionably early hour in Delhi: 8 PM. A hostess greets us at the entrance and ushers us up a spiral staircase, into the restaurant on the first floor. The place isn’t very large; only about a dozen tables line one side of a long rectangular hall. It is, unusually enough for an Oriental restaurant in Delhi, free of the red lanterns, laughing Buddhas and faux jade generally associated with anything east of Kolkata. The tables are topped with dark textured wood; the chairs have straight, lattice-like backs; and the main ornamentation consists of a series of excellent original paintings of Rajasthan, by the artist Soumen Dutta.

But we’re hungry, and we quickly get down to the business of figuring out what to order. The menu is divided into sections: starters, soups, main courses (fish and seafood/pork/lamb/poultry), curries, meal-in-one dishes, rice, noodles, salads and desserts. Each section is a manageable size: seven or eight dishes each, and with each spicy and/or low calorie dish marked. Very useful. There’s also a footnote: patrons may ask for dishes to be low spice. I like that!

Eventually, we place our orders. Japanese crispy prawns with wasabi, along with fish satay, as a starter. This to be followed by the main course: vegetable fried rice, stir-fried fish with basil, and Vietnamese lemon grass pork. Tarun orders a beer, while I choose something I’ve not even heard of before: a ‘Thai hawker iced tea’ (that’s how the menu describes it) called cha jin.

We’re still admiring the paintings on the wall when our drinks arrive. Beer is beer, but my cha jin is very interesting. It comes in a tall and slim glass, very milky and sweet tea with lots of ice. It’s not quite what I’d expected (I think of iced tea as black and with lemon—or lemon grass, considering this is Thai?), but it’s actually quite nice. A few minutes later, the Japanese crispy prawns arrive: prawns dipped in batter and fried, then topped with a trickle of what seems to be mayonnaise mixed with a pinch of wasabi and chopped spring onions. The prawns are succulent and very fresh, the coating thin and crisp. But the topping is below par; there’s hardly any flavour of wasabi and since I’m not a mayo fan, it doesn’t appeal to me. Tarun asks for some wasabi on the side. By the time it comes, we’ve finished most of the prawns (6 large prawns to the portion), but the wasabi does make a world of difference to the topping.

As we’re eating the last of the prawns, the fish satay arrives. Minced fish has been mixed with spices and very thinly shredded herbs, then moulded onto ‘rods’ of lemon grass, before being grilled. It’s nice, with the lemon grass core of the satay imparting a lovely tang to the fish. The only disappointment is the dipping sauce that’s served with the fish. It consists of sliced red chillies and what seems like diced cucumber, mixed with vinegar, sugar and salt. All of it is just too mild to stand up to the robust flavours of the fish. No point serving the dipping sauce, in fact.

Five minutes after we’ve finished our starters, fresh plates and cutlery are placed before us, and the main course arrives. The rice is nondescript: finely chopped carrots and beans predominate with bean sprouts, and that’s about it. The Vietnamese lemon grass pork is tender shredded pork cooked with a sauce that includes lemon grass, kaffir lime leaves, and plenty of red chillies—enough, in fact, for us to wish we’d asked for the spice to be reduced in this dish. It’s not uncomfortably spicy; it’s just that we’d have enjoyed it more had it been a little less hot.

What I really, really like is the stir-fried fish with basil. There’s actually very little basil in this dish (just a few leaves that I can see), but the flavour of basil is awesome. The fish tastes as if it’s fresh out of the water (do they have a fish tank back there in the kitchen?!), and comes with a little bit of sauce. We’ve specifically asked for this to be low spice, and it’s delicious.

By the time we’ve finished, we’re so full, we skip dessert. This consists of the usual chocolatey stuff Delhi restaurants list; the only thing that sounds enticing to me is the lychee mould with coconut sauce. But that’ll come next time—for now, we pay up (Rs 1,835, which includes a service charge and VAT) before moving out. It’s close to 9.30, the restaurant’s begun filling up, and we’ve had a fairly satisfying meal.

Chilli Seasonss prides itself on being Delhi’s best Pan Asian restaurant. I’m not sure about that, but yes, it’s certainly worth a visit. Most of the food’s pretty good, the staff, while not great, aren’t irritating and inattentive, and the paintings are wow. And if you don’t care for chillies, remember to tell them to go easy on the spice when you order.

Basil and Thyme is a very unobtrusive little hall, painted white inside and out, sitting at the far end of the Santushti Shopping Complex, a large garden threaded with cobbled pathways and dotted with designer boutiques. The restaurant has plate glass windows that look out on the gardens outside, and the decor is unashamedly minimalistic: no paintings on the walls, no flowers, nothing but bare white walls and lights suspended on a white-painted metal frame above. It’s stylish, but unfussy.

We’ve phoned ahead and made a reservation ("We have only two seating times," says the person who takes the call. "1 PM and 2 PM.") We arrive exactly at 2, but the owner apologises because the table isn’t ready yet—if we wait outside for just a couple of minutes, they’ll let us know as soon as we can be accommodated. A waiter comes out and hands us the menu, along with a list of the day’s specials, in the meantime. We’ve barely finished looking at it (it’s a very short menu, only about half-a-dozen items under each head) when the table is vacated, cleaned up, relaid—and we’re invited in.

We sit down and place our orders (liver pâté for starters, and iced tea as drinks—Basil and Thyme serves no alcohol). While we’re waiting, a waiter comes by with a basket of hot rolls and very thin, very crisp toast, along with butter. We’re tucking into this when the iced tea comes, with a tiny jar of sugar syrup on the side. Tarun’s iced tea, he says, is overbrewed and rather too strong; mine’s insipid and could have done with more tea and more lime.

The liver pâté, served shortly after, is however sublime. This is one of the restaurant’s most famous dishes, and rightly so: the pâté, which comes in a generous soap-bar sized helping on a crisp lettuce leaf, is silken smooth and delicious. Spread on the toast, it’s to die for. There’s also a helping of salad—sprouts, juliennes of carrots and cabbage, and scoops of watermelon, drizzled with vinaigrette—on the side.

We finish the pâté, and shortly after, the main course arrives. Tarun’s ordered an Italian roast chicken, stuffed with basil and sundried tomatoes. This is a beautiful boneless dish, the chicken cut into perfect slices, all juicy and tender. There’s a chunky tomatoey sauce on top, and three veggies: zucchini sautéed with button mushrooms; thinly sliced baked potatoes; and sautéed carrots. I get the same vegetables with my order, salmon with basil and lemon hollandaise. The fish steak has been rolled in what looks like semolina before being fried; the hollandaise, though lemony and very buttery, has basil leaves, but I can barely taste them.

For dessert, Tarun orders a lemon cheesecake while I ask for a caramel custard with berry compote. The berry compote—it looks like a sauce of fresh strawberries studded with currants—is also spooned over the cheesecake Tarun’s ordered. Both desserts are good, creamy and fruity and fresh.

The food here is very good; the only things I would have improved upon are the iced tea (needed more flavour) and the hollandaise (needed more basil). Otherwise, top notch. The staff are efficient and unobtrusive, the atmosphere cosy, and the restaurant a great place for a good lunch. It is, by the way, open only for lunch, and reservations are recommended. Our bill, for Rs 2,340, means it’s not the cheapest of places—but then it’s not the most expensive either. Do note that portion sizes aren’t massive; this is definitely one of those at-least-three-courses restaurants. Less than that, and you’ll probably go hungry.

Karavan opened a few years back in Lado Sarai, a somewhat forgotten corner of Delhi. Some months back, they shifted to the very busy market of Defence Colony, a market that is full of eating places ranging from Chinese restaurants to doner and hot dog stalls. I’d read about Karavan in a newspaper, which described its food as very authentic Uzbek—it’s run, after all, by an Uzbek lady. Tarun and I therefore decide to go give it a try. It takes us a while to find it (the red-and-white Karavan sign isn’t lit, and since it’s up on the first floor, one needs to keep looking up all the while to spot it). We finally do find it, and then have to go right around a block of shops to the back of the market, where a narrow flight of stairs (no lifts!) leads up to the restaurant. We step in, and it’s like entering someone’s not-too-stylish home. The stairs are carpeted with a very old and frayed red patterned carpet, and the railing on either side of the stairs are woven around with strands of green plastic leaves: these, along with the carpet, continue into the hall that forms the restaurant. The floor has the same carpet, and the pale blueish-green wall opposite the door is festooned with plastic leaves. There’s nobody to greet us or assure us that this is, in fact, a restaurant. A woman clad in tight black jeans and T-shirt sits at a laptop at one of the tables, with her back to the door; it is she, eventually, who turns around and smiles at us. A man sitting at the end of the room with a couple of other people also gets up and comes over to greet us. We are led to one of the tables (the restaurant seats 30) and we sit down.

The menu is handed over, and Tarun and I have a look through it. Karavan serves Uzbek, Russian and Indian (?!) food—the latter the very typically Punjabi-Mughlai style that’s almost synonymous with ‘Indian’ food outside India. We, of course, are here for Uzbek food, so we don’t even bother to look at the Indian section. The Uzbek and Russian selection consists of salads, soups and main courses, each listed in English and Russian, with photos alongside and a brief description. We finally settle on an Ubzek plov (a pilaff), and kebabs with Uzbek naan bread. No alcohol is available here, just tea, coffee, lassi (an Indian drink of whisked yoghurt with sugar and/or salt), juices and aerated drinks. Tarun orders a Diet Coke, I an apple juice. Both are served within a couple of minutes by the only Indian I can see around, a waiter in a rather bright blue shirt.

While waiting for our food, we look around the hall. The wall next to us is covered with a beautifully embroidered wall hanging, multicoloured flowers on a black background. On either side of it are cane baskets that hold large disc-shaped breads, the surface of which is covered with flowers and ‘calligraphy’ worked in baked dough. Interesting! There are two paintings too, one of the Mughal emperor Babur (who was descended from the Uzbek ruler Taimur), and another of someone who looks like a medieval ruler—Taimur himself? On the wall in front of me is a flat screen TV on which Uzbek music videos run—girls in traditional costumes against a backdrop of stunningly beautiful medieval tombs and mosques.

The plov and the naan are served in less than ten minutes. I’d been expecting the plov to resemble the pulao we make in India: rice, meat, onions and fragrant (not hot!) spices. Instead, it is very gently flavoured: the rice has been cooked, along with very thinly grated carrot, in a meat stock. One piece of meat, chopped into bitesize cubes, has been scattered over the top. The only seasoning I can discern is salt. It’s rich, filling, and what I immediately label as comfort food.

The naan is, in consistency, very like a pan pizza, though more doughy and with the merest hint of salt. The top is studded with sesame seeds—yum!

Unfortunately, the kebabs take ages to come. It’s only after two reminders and much patience that they’re eventually produced, on three skewers with four pieces of mutton each. Tarun prises the meat off, and we dig in. The meat, like the plov, is seemingly flavoured only with salt. It’s tender in places, a little chewy in others, and we’re feeling a bit like we’re out on the steppes, sitting hunched over a small fire...

There’s no dessert menu here, so once we’ve finished eating, we call for the bill and pay up—it comes to Rs 760, which I think is a bit steep, since we’ve not had very fancy food. And we’re certainly not paying for the ambience.

Karavan is good if you can’t bear even the merest hint of spice. The food is of the hearty, rather plain style, completely no frills. That’s basically what Karavan itself is like.

Do note, though: they don’t accept credit cards. You have to pay cash. Also, do remember to ask them how long a dish is going to take: not asking about the kebabs meant that we waited over 20 minutes, picking at the rest of our food, before the kebabs finally turned up.

At first glance, Amigos is a little astounding. The interior has a high black ceiling with unusual avant garde chandeliers (illuminated glass tubes of variegated lengths, all filled with something that my niece Neeti says "looks like Appy Fizz"—a popular carbonated apple juice drink). The chandeliers are stylish, the rest of the place is a mix of smart and wannabe. There’s a black, gold, and white net sombrero on one wall of the bottle-filled bar. There are large framed pictures of what looks like Mayan/Aztec art, and one picture of the silhouette of a jazz trumpeter (huh?). There’s a small TV on a wall behind the bar, and a huge screen on which the same programme is being projected. Extremely distracting. The music—a little too loud—is 80’s: Tarzan Boy, Fast Car, and other songs we’d more or less forgotten.

Chin up, we tell ourselves. We’ve been to other joints which looked dreadful but had awesome food. Maybe Amigos is the same. A waiter’s placed plates of nachos with salsa on the table for us, so we dig into that while we look at the menus. The nachos are fine, the salsa’s got a little too much chilli. And the menu is puzzling. This is supposed to be a Mexican restaurant, right? Then why are about half the items listed here Lebanese? In each course, we see plenty of Lebanese dishes: hummus, falafel, mezze and more.

The drinks menu is even more bewildering. The wines and spirits are all very well, but the cocktails, ‘mocktails’ and local inventions carry no explanations, or completely baffling ones. ‘Amigos special take on a shake’ reads one—with no indication of what the ingredients are, or anything. We finally play it safe and order iced tea (me and Gourab), a glass of Chardonnay (Swapna and Tarun), Sprite (Deb), and a mangola—a sort of mango smoothie (Neeti). Neeti and Gourab have a scary experience with their drinks: the black straws have an inch-long bit of hard plastic stuck in them, which looks suspiciously like a piece of the plastic stirrer that comes in each drink. One long, unguarded first sip, and one could die of choking.

Our appetisers come after about ten minutes. The assorted mezze platter (especially requested by the kids, who don’t much care for this Mexican stuff) consists of hummus, baba ghanoush, a finely chopped salad (very salty), and a little dish of minced pickled chicken (very spicy). Along with it are miniature pita breads, crisp wedges of what looks like nachos, and crudités. All right, though we end up avoiding the salad and the chicken. The other appetiser—cheese fondue with chorizos—is equally so-so. The fondue is served in a little partly-covered fondue pot, the lid covering so much of the pot that it’s almost impossible to shove a fork in. Along with the fondue comes a plate heaped with boiled and sautéed potatoes, toasted bread, chopped gherkins, and chorizos. The chorizos are very salty, but it’s the fondue that takes the cake when it comes to disappointment: it’s thin and so watery that it drips off whatever we put in it. These guys are saving on their cheese.

We have a long, long wait before our main course is served. Deb’s ordered a quattro framaggio pizza (yes! They have pizza too), Neeti a crêpe de Hongos (with cheese and mushrooms), Gourab a chicken dish which the waiter recommends (it’s served with Mexican rice), and Tarun, Swapna and I, seared duck with a prune and pecan mole. The children don’t comment on their pizza and crêpe, but Gourab says the chicken is only about a 6 on 10. Maybe even a 5. The duck, which is served with a smallish helping of sautéed veggies, is drenched in a heavy blackish sauce in which I can’t identify either pecans or prunes. The sauce tastes strongly of cloves and the duck’s full of fat—but what really bothers me is the large amount of salt in the sauce.

By the end of it all, Gourab and Swapna are too full for dessert and decide on coffee and tea respectively. Neeti’s too sleepy for anything more, but Tarun, Deb and I order dessert. Deb asks for an Amigos signature mango-berry trifle; Tarun a homemade ice cream (the flavour of the day is fig), and I an orange cream (sic) caramel. Deb’s dessert is smothered in whipped cream, with cake, chopped mango and berry sauce. Tarun’s two generous scoops of ice cream are too sweet and come drizzled with syrup. My orange cream caramel at least looks pretty, with slices of kiwi and black grapes, a twirl of dark chocolate, and caramel. The taste isn’t bad, though I’d have preferred a more citrusy flavour.

Would I go back? Never. I don’t want to choke, or eat food that’s so salty (or so sweet) that it’s close to unpalatable. And neither the ambience nor the service are good enough to compensate. And guess how much we paid? Over Rs 7,000 for six people. Barefaced robbery.

So, being such a fan of this store, I was even more pleased to hear that Good Earth had ‘acquired’ a café. Above the store, and approached through a staircase within the store, is the newly-opened Latitude, a more relaxed and middle-rung offshoot of the superb Diva, an Italian restaurant in M-Block Market, Greater Kailash Part 2.

My usual dining quartet—my husband, Tarun; my sister Swapna, her husband Gourab, and I—decide to pay Latitude a visit. Swapna and Gourab have already dined here twice and recommend it heartily. After a long day’s work, we arrive by about 8.45 PM. By Delhi standards, that’s still early; by Latitude standards, it’s a bit late, since the café closes by 10. We make our way through Good Earth, admiring the displays as we go past up the stairs—two flights—to Latitude. This is a small café, divided into two parts. The interior, which has a refrigerated dessert-and-salad counter, has about half a dozen tables, each with its set of thatched-seat chairs. The walls and ceiling are unusual: black, painted over with a floral pattern in muted pinks and cream. And since this is above Good Earth, a lot of the objets d’art scattered around—the fairy light lamp in the window, the antique photograph of an early 20th century miss, the embroidered cushions—are obviously from Good Earth. Our table also has a delightful cruet set, shaped like the ‘showerhead’ seedpods of a lotus.

The second half of the café is ‘outside’, an enclosed balcony that looks out over the street. This has walls painted a bright blue. It’s still a work in progress (they haven’t got all the fittings up yet) but there are tables and chairs. Some people prefer to sit here because you can look out through the port hole-like windows.

The menu is brief, each section—appetisers, main courses, pastas—containing only about six or seven options each. We finally decide to order appetisers that we can share: a duo of pâtés, and a goat cheese and tomato tart. For the main course, both Swapna and I opt for a pan-fried sole with lemon and black pepper, while Tarun orders a lamb stew and Gourab asks for a gorgonzola and spinach flan. For drinks (they don’t offer alcohol, but they have a selection of juices and Indian lassis—whisked, sweetened yoghurt), Swapna, Gourab and I have iced tea while Tarun has a refreshing blend of sweet lime juice and strawberry pulp.

We’re given a large basket of warm herby bread rolls, along with a shallow bowl of olive oil, to keep ourselves going until our food arrives (both bread and oil are replenished later). The appetisers arrive soon after. The goat cheese and tomato tart has a thin pastry base, topped with a gorgeously creamy savoury baked custard in which the main component is definitely goat cheese—it’s delicious. It’s topped with slices of baked tomato, and on the side are lots of fresh rocket leaves, drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Yum!

The duo of pâtés is part-superb, part-too-sharp. The superb bit is the bowlful of chicken liver pâté, smooth and out of this world. The bowlful of olive pâté, which tastes like puréed Kalamata olives, is just too sharp for us: maybe a little cream cheese added to it could take the edge off it? To eat with the pâtés are wafer thin slices of toast, and a pile of cracker-like wedges of pastry.

Our appetisers over, the main course is served. The pan-fried sole that Swapna and I have ordered is fresh and firm, flaking easily. It’s been drenched with a very tart sauce of lemon and black pepper, and a generous serving of wilted greens (spinach? I can’t tell) is piled on to the fish. The fish is excellent, though the sauce itself is a mite too sour. The greens on top are, for me, too salty. I end up using the bread rolls to mop up the sauce and cut the sourness and salt a little.

Tarun says the lamb stew (which consists of chunks of lamb, potatoes, carrots and shallots in a tomato gravy) is good, but rich. It comes on a base of very creamy mashed potatoes. Gourab’s gorgonzola and spinach flan is a muffin-sized portion of the blue cheese and spinach, upturned over a bed of tomatoey sauce. Gourab recommends it and offers us all a taste of it, but Tarun (who’s not a fan of blue cheese), Swapna (who’s lactose-intolerant) and I (who privately thinks Gourab’s portion is so tiny, he’ll end up hungry if I take even a forkful) refuse.

Main course over, we head for the dessert counter. Latitude doesn’t have a dessert menu; daily dessert specials—tiramisu, cakes of various types, cheesecake, and so on—are displayed in the glass counter at the end of the room. Tarun orders a Bailey’s Irish Cream mousse cake, a chocolate and Bailey’s-rich mousse sitting on a small circle of chocolate sponge, while I ask for a wedge of carrot cake. Swapna and Gourab share a pot of Darjeeling tea.

The Bailey’s Irish Cream mousse cake is melt-in-the-mouth fabulous; the carrot cake is anything but. It’s a little dry, the carrot is too sparse, and—worst of all—the abundant walnuts in the cake have gone rancid. I console myself by having a couple of the delicious biscotti, crisp and buttery and studded with fine slivers of almonds, that come with the tea.

Latitude is good for some stuff; their biscotti, the chicken liver pâté, the Bailey’s Irish Cream mousse cake—but the carrot cake can be given a miss. Also, I wish they’d go a little easy on the salt. And yes, they must check their glassware: my glass had a crack along the rim, Swapna’s was chipped.

Otherwise? I’d probably go back. This is a nice, relaxed place; the food is by and large good (beware, though: the portion sizes aren’t huge); and you can combine it with a shopping trip. Expect to pay at least Rs 1,000 per person for an appetiser, a main course and a drink.

We were therefore very excited when Fez opened. This is in the heart of Delhi’s diplomatic enclave, a relatively quiet neighbourhood. The restaurant is subdued on the outside: muted lighting, an inconspicuous sign, a quiet door. We step in, and suddenly it’s North Africa—or Delhi’s perception of North Africa. The floor’s a deep grey stone, sort of cobbled and rough; the beige, textured-finish walls have arched niches in which slender vases are displayed. There’s more bric-a-brac: large mirrors with borders embossed and bevelled in lovely patterns; carved wood panels, and lots of hanging lamps, with carved metal and coloured glass. I’m not sure if the music’s Moroccan, but it’s definitely Mediterranean, and perfect for the ambience: lilting and at just the right volume, so we don’t need to speak up to be heard.

We’re seated downstairs, opposite the bar counter (it’s early, so we’re the only diners—or drinkers). The menus are brought over, and we place our orders. For beverages, we all settle for soft drinks, though Fez has a fairly extensive wine list. Swapna and I decide on a watermelon smoothie, described as a blend of watermelon and crushed ice. Since Swapna’s lactose intolerant, she checks with the waiter (who’s wearing a red fez!) if there’s any ingredient other than the fruit and ice. He confirms that there isn’t, but when our drinks arrive, sure enough: there’s milk in it. Swapna returns it, and asks for a tomato juice instead. They’re suitably apologetic, and the replacement arrives swiftly, along with some Worcester sauce if Swapna would like her drink spiced up a bit.

We have better luck with the food. I’ve been to Fez before, and this I can say from experience: they may slip up on service (as evidenced by the smoothie fiasco), but their food is really good. While we’re waiting for our starters to arrive, a waiter comes and places a cake tower-like assortment of complimentary appetisers: strips of toasted pita, olives, lettuce and crudités, along with hummus and a creamy yoghurt-and-garlic dip. We tuck in, and it keeps us going till our order arrives shortly after. We’re sharing a vegetarian mezze platter and an order of Moorish kebabs. The Moorish kebabs are of chicken, fairly spicy and served with a garlicky yoghurt dip, on a bed of pita wedges. Good, but the mezze platter is what we really adore. This is good stuff, definitely the best mezze we’ve had in Delhi. There’s a bread basket with loads of pita wedges, accompanied by a plate with more goodies: hummus, more of the garlic-yoghurt dip, and another dip with hung yoghurt and finely chopped parsley. There’s falafel and batata hara (spiced baby potatoes), deep-fried cheese cigars, sanbusas (fried pastry stuffed with spinach) and a relish of thinly sliced onions, radish and other veggies tossed in spices. All delicious. The chef’s very generous with the dips, which are absolutely superb.

By the time we’ve ploughed our way through the starters, our main course arrives. Neeti’s been cautious, and has ordered a chicken calzone from the small selection of pizzas, pastas and calzones on the menu (every even vaguely Mediterranean restaurant in Delhi seems to have this section, catering generally to people too old or too young to want to experiment much).

The rest of us have ordered Moroccan food: Swapna and Tarun have both chosen a dajaj mc’qualli, a spiced stew of chicken and chicken livers. It’s not very spicy, and has a lovely tangy flavour. It comes with a large serving of plain rice, as does the tas kebap I’ve ordered. This dish is also a stew, of lamb and spices, with a lovely sweet-sour sprinkling of some sauce I can’t identify. Gourab has the most picturesque main course: a chicken tagine. I doubt if the tagine has actually been cooked the traditional way, in an earthen tagine. But it’s served that way, covered with a pretty greenish-blue cone-like earthen cover which the waiter removes with a flourish when he places the accompanying plate of rice in front of Gourab. At an earlier meal at Fez, I’ve had the tagine—a hearty stew of chicken with vegetables, apricots and preserved limes—and can vouch for its wholesome goodness. Gourab endorses my opinion.

I just have space enough for dessert when I’m through, and settle for a malabiya; Tarun orders a cinnamon and rose petal ice cream, while Gourab and Swapna order a cappuccino and a Moroccan mint tea, respectively. I fall in love with the malabiya at first spoonful: it’s a heavy milk custard thickened with starch (according to the menu: it seems rather like rice flour has been used, but I can’t be sure). What makes it magical is the generous topping: a mix of maple syrup and marmalade-like orange preserve, studded with slivers of almonds and pistachios. Very, very nice. Tarun’s double scoop of ice cream has just the right amount of cinnamon and comes with a dash of crushed, sweetened rose petals, not too intrusive.

One last note on the food and drink: Swapna’s Moroccan mint tea—served in a pretty little teapot, with a glass she could replenish—was refreshing, light and perfect. She was praising it when she discovered that a Dilmah teabag dangled over the rim of the teapot.

Oh, well. Despite that, and the confusion about the watermelon smoothie: Fez is highly recommended. The food’s good, the ambience is pleasant and relaxed, the staff is unobtrusive but helpful, and though it is rather expensive (our bill came to Rs 4,900 inclusive of service charges), it’s well worth it.