Before Instagram taught us to eat with our eyes, we ate with our noses. We followed the scent of caramelizing onions down unfamiliar lanes, let the hiss of a hot tawa pull us into roadside stalls, and trusted the crowded tables at corner eateries more than any star rating. There were no hashtags to guide us, no curated lists — just curiosity, good company, and the thrill of discovering something unforgettable.
Some of those meals were served in humble kitchens and half-forgotten hotel corners, but they lingered long after the plates were cleared. Each dish carried the essence of a place — a philosophy of flavor that quietly found its way into my cooking.
This isn’t a list of restaurants, it’s a map of memories — a journey through the meals that shaped my palate, and the way I think about food even today.
Prawn Thokku – Puthur Jayaram
It was a college trip to Chidambaram, and my friends insisted we make a detour to Puthur. They’d been raving about this place for weeks. The “hotel” was barely more than a hut — wobbling wooden benches, and a kitchen you could see straight into. But my friends walked in like they were coming home.
The first bite of rice with their prawn thokku was a revelation — fiery, unapologetically coastal. It tasted like the sea had been wrestled into submission by red chilies and curry leaves. The prawns were soft and the gravy thick enough to cling to rice, and the heat built slowly, layering itself on your tongue until you couldn’t stop reaching for more.
Even now, when I make prawn at home, I chase that same boldness — that coastal depth that refuses to apologize for spice. It taught me that great flavor doesn’t need a polished dining room.
Elaneer Payasam – Some Wedding Caterer
I don’t remember whose wedding it was, but I remember the payasam.
It arrived in small cups, pale and almost weightless, a soft perfume of tender coconut drifting through the air thick with jasmine and ghee. The first spoonful was cool and creamy — not the heavy, sugary richness of most payasams, but something gentler. It felt tropical and elegant at once, like a secret passed quietly through generations of caterers.
There was the silkiness of condensed milk, the sweetness of tender coconut, and bits of tender coconut that gave it a texture you wanted to linger on. It was the kind of dessert that didn’t try to impress — it simply stayed with you.
It taught me that subtlety can be just as memorable as indulgence — that some flavors whisper, and that’s their magic.
White (Kongu) Biryani – Haribhavanam
I’ll admit it — I judged it before I tasted it. A pale, almost colorless biryani sitting in front of me at Haribhavanam looked like a mistake. Where’s the colour? I thought, half-expecting disappointment. But one bite changed everything.
The Kongu-style white biryani was a revelation — layered, fragrant, and quietly confident. The spice was there, but it didn’t shout. It whispered — woven deep into the grain, subtle yet certain. Each spoonful carried warmth without aggression, balance without blandness. The rice glistened lightly with ghee, perfumed with mint and cardamom, while the mutton melted into tender submission.
This meal showed me that elegance in spice can speak louder than heat ever could. To this day, when I cook biryani, I chase that same understated grace — a kind of harmony that lingers long after the plate is cleared.
Paneer Tikka – Highway Punjabi Dhabas
Late-night drives. The smell of roasting spices curling through the open window. Highway dhabas lit up like little islands of warmth along the dark road. Trucks rumbling past, the hiss of coal tandoors, and that unmistakable scent of smoke and ghee filling the night.
Paneer tikka — charred, smoky, still sizzling on skewers — arrived on dented steel plates, surrounded by raw onions, lime wedges, and laughter. The marinade was simple, the ingredients honest. But in that simplicity lived magic — the kind that only fire and freedom can create.
Those dhaba nights were about more than food. They were about adventure, about hunger — not just for a meal, but for the feeling of being untethered. Even now, when I cook paneer tikka, I want the char, the freshness, the humility of it all. Good ingredients. A hot flame. No pretense. That’s the dhaba way — and it’s still mine.
Thattu Idly – Sri Shiva Darshana Shashi, Bidadi (Bangalore)
We left before sunrise, driving through Bangalore’s empty streets towards Coorg. The air was cool, the city still half-asleep, and by the time we reached Bidadi Sri Shiva Darshana Shashi, the aroma of ghee and filter coffee welcomed me.
The thattu idly here was legendary. When it arrived — steaming, impossibly soft, with a dollop of butter melting into its surface — I understood why. These weren’t just idlies. They were the result of perfection, batter fermented just right, steamed just long enough, served at the exact moment it reached perfection. Each bite was cloud-like, subtly tangy, and divine with that bold red chutney.
That breakfast taught me something I carry into my kitchen — patience transforms the ordinary. You could taste the time in every bite. It reminded me that even the simplest food, when treated with care, can become something sacred. You can’t rush that.
Kezhvaragu Vadai – Prems Graama Bhojanam, Adayar
A few years back, I wanted to snack healthier but wasn’t sure what that even meant outside my own kitchen. Then I found myself at Prems Graama Bhojanam — a restaurant that felt like a small pause in the city’s rush.
The kezhvaragu vadai arrived crisp on the outside, tender within, and deeply earthy in flavor. Made with ragi, it was hearty without being heavy, wholesome without being boring. One bite, and I realized this wasn’t health food pretending to be indulgent — it was honest food that never forgot where it came from.
That vadai nudged me back toward ingredients my grandmother once cooked with — ragi, foxtail millet, little grains we’d stopped noticing in our busy lives. It reminded me that nourishment isn’t about novelty. It’s about remembering. What sustained generations before us still has something to teach — if we’re patient enough to listen.
Adai – Akka Kadai, Mylapore
There’s a particular scent that belongs to Mylapore mornings — hot iron meeting lentil batter, curry leaves hitting oil, filter coffee brewing somewhere nearby. At Akka Kadai, the adai arrived thick and golden, crisp at the edges, still steaming in the center.
This wasn’t fancy food. It was the kind of meal that grandmothers make without thinking, that appears on small plates day after day, year after year. But that’s exactly why it mattered. The Mylapore-style adai was familiar, grounding, eternal.
It continues to remind me that soulful cooking doesn’t need innovation. Sometimes, it just needs simplicity and repetition — the everyday meals that, through sheer consistency, become memory. The dishes we return to not because they’re exciting, but because they feel like home.
Nasi Goreng – Pelita Nasi Kandar, T Nagar
In the early 2000s, Malaysian restaurants were still rare in Chennai. Pelita Nasi Kandar in T Nagar felt like a portal — walking in meant stepping into Malysian food court. I ordered the Nasi Goreng, not entirely sure about the authenticity.
What arrived was a smoky rice, sweet soy, chili heat, and that deep umami from the shrimp paste — every element distinct, yet perfectly harmonized.
It showed me how flavors could travel across borders and still make sense together. Sweet, spice, and umami didn’t have to compete — they could coexist, could elevate each other.
Chicken Quaitho – Liu’s Waldorf Adayar
Liu’s Waldorf in Adyar — the kind of place everyone in the area had a story about. The tables were full, the air thick with the smell of soy, garlic, and anticipation.
When the Chicken Quaitho arrived, it wasn’t the fiery red noodles I was expecting. It looked simple — almost understated. But the first bite silenced our chatter. Smoky, savoury, perfectly balanced — every noodle carried the flavor of the wok, not the sauce.
That dish taught me that technique can carry flavor just as powerfully as spice. Sometimes, it’s not what you add, but how you cook that makes all the difference.
These restaurants may not all still be standing. Some have changed. Some have disappeared. But their influence remains, woven into the way I cook, the way I taste, the way I remember.
What restaurant or dish from your past still influences how you cook today? Share your story in the comments — I’d love to hear about the meals that shaped you.
