A Promise Not Plated

One does not need to posture as a connoisseur or an elitist to appreciate it—true discernment is quiet, not performative. Yet the ease with which some align themselves with questionable associations—ministerial circles, performative influencers and curated celebrity presence—does little to convince anyone of genuine taste or understanding. It only raises questions about intent, not refinement.

I miss the boneless, succulent meat sliced, prepared on natural stone over burning charcoal. Fragrant rice perfumed with kewra and spices, slow-steamed in earthen pots buried deep in warm earth—where cooking feels less like process and more like ritual. Slow-cooked barley, lentils, and pounded wheat softened with caramelised onions, and marinated cubes of meat charred until juicy on skewers, edges crisped and smoky, centers still tender. Leavened dough slapped onto the searing, thick clay walls, coming out as naan blistered with charred spots and a soft, tearing warmth.

There is a kind of dining that speaks in borrowed vocabulary—rare, seasonal ingredients, farm-to-fork claims, gluten-free assurances, lactose-free labels, vegan declarations, organic stamps, antibiotic-free and cage-free promises, as if virtue could be listed into existence. A language of reassurance that often says more about anxiety than about food.

There is talk of palate-to-palate narratives, of guides explaining the origins of each recipe, of controlled acoustics, crisp linen, polished silverware, strict dress codes, degustation menus, and wine pairings carefully aligned—an architecture of experience built as much for display as for appetite.

Deliberate variety of plates, tailored to showcase every course: servers are trained to serve all guests at a table on high-end porcelain and glassware simultaneously, approaching from the left with the left hand, moving clockwise around the table in practiced choreography.

The illusion of dining beneath the stars, driven in a horse-drawn carriage with rose water amongst fountains with lotuses and fish, through palatial grounds and panoramic views of hills and rocks, to the song Aao Huzoor Tumko Sitaron Mein Le Chalun, feels less like enchantment and more like a dawat in a haze of shisha smoke—where rancid oils linger like memory, putrefied meat pretends to be indulgence, and excessive sodium and red chilies hide beneath a reckless veil of cream that calls itself luxury, not integrity, only to receive a nickel plated bowl with tepid water and a dehydrated lemon wedge with coarse paper towels that turn into accidental origami made by children.

It has become more like a scene from the British sitcom Fawlty Towers, where “gourmet” is garnished with hair and cutlery is wiped on a mop of oily hair for a polished appearance.

Parde ke peeche — behind the veil — of refinement that once came with silver teapots, lace doilies, sugar cubes, and tiered stands of etiquette-curated high tea—culinary spaces today do not permit true inclusivity. There are still rooms where a woman may not freely request a flute of champagne or ash her cigar, let alone sit in the same space, in metaphorical cloaks of expectation, among men not shaped by the same mindset or upbringing. What remains is often polished on the surface, yet unvarnished beneath it.

Chef’s Special, once upon a time, meant something more intimate—when chefs like Imtiaz Qureshi and Habib Rehman brought dumpukht not as performance, but as inheritance, rooted in childhood and memory rather than inflated pricing or spectacle.

What remains is a disconnect between promise and plate, where words rise higher than the experience they attempt to describe, and expectation is left to do the work that execution never delivers.