Zambar is a moderate-sized restaurant, with a lot of the fairly clichéd trappings of a South Indian joint: carved wood pillars; a gleaming brass lamp on the floor, one half of the room covered with a curved ‘ceiling’ of coconut matting, to resemble the houseboats of the Kerala backwaters. Pleasant, but not memorable. The one thing about the décor that began to pall after a while were the TV screens high up on the walls, on which they constantly run an ad for Zambar. As it is, I hate TV screens in restaurants. Pubs, okay; restaurants, no. And when what’s being shown is a looping run, again and again again of the same two-minute commercial (of a restaurant you’re already sitting in!)… what’s the point?

Anyway, we ordered our meal from the pretty extensive range of vegetarian and non-vegetaria appetisers and main courses Zambar offers. Four of us opted for fresh coconut water as a drink; the others had lagers. With our drinks, we were given complimentary crisp fried papads, along with a trio of chutneys: a yellow lentil-based one, a tangy tomato chutney, and a green coriander-and-coconut one. Also on our table was a little jar of sesame oil (known as gingelly oil in India), though we ended up ignoring that.

We’d not ordered appetisers (though Zambar offers a dozen or so to choose from, including sampler platters); instead we’d opted for a main course. This arrived within about 10 minutes. The mutton stew, a very mild and fragrant one based on coconut milk, with bits of goat meat (which is what ‘mutton’ in India actually is) and veggies, was nice and soothing. My sister-in-law, ordered a vegetarian version of the same stew, without the mutton – equally good. We also ordered a Malabar fish curry, with a slightly sour, thick tomato-and-onion gravy in which pieces of fish had been simmered. Like the stew, this was delicious too, but the pieces of fish were small and few and far between.

Since Zambar’s speciality is seafood, we also ordered a Travancore crab thooran, a dry dish of crabmeat cooked with onions, curry leaves, and lime: very tasty, and low on the spice. Further on in the meal, we realised we’d perhaps under-ordered, so we added one more dish to the lot: a Tharavaram prawn curry. This one proved my favourite: gorgeously tender fresh prawns, in a coconut gravy with just enough spice to give it some punch, not enough to set your mouth on fire.

Along with the curries, stew, and the thooran, we ordered steamed rice and appams. The rice was fine, but the appams (rice-batter pancakes) were a bit disappointing. Firstly, their quality wasn’t topclass: a good appam has a soft, fluffy centre and a crisp, thin edge. These ones got the edges right, but the centres of some were thick and undercooked. Worse, Zambar seemed to have only one cook working on the appams, which meant long waits. We ended up waiting, our food growing cold, for the appams to arrive.

With all that under our belts, we couldn’t fit in dessert, but we opted for South Indian filter coffee – a rich, strong brew that can be addictive if you like coffee with milk. This was another of Zambar’s flaws: the coffee wasn’t as hot as it could’ve been. What was worse, it had shreds of thin cream floating about in it and getting stuck to our teeth. Awful. For a meal that cost us Rs 5,847 (for six people, inclusive of all taxes and a tip), I’d have expected better – in terms of quality and timing – appams, and far better coffee. Still; the food (on the whole) was good, and the ambience was relaxed and comfortable. Worth a repeat visit.

But all South Indians are not vegetarians (how could they be? All those miles of seafood-rich coastal waters?), and many of them are not strict Brahmins to whom meat would be taboo. There are Syrian Christians, who love their beef curry; or Moplah Muslims, who make delicious prawn biryanis – or even Hindu communities, like the Chettiyars who revel in delicious fried chicken and seafood curries. So, where does someone who wants good, authentic South Indian non-vegetarian food go in Delhi?

Finding Gunpowder can be a little difficult. We reached Hauz Khas Village, parked our car and walked into the market (fortunately, there’s only one entrance to the market), taking the first right turn, and then following the curve of the market to the left. Asking around a bit, we ended up walking along the fence that separates this section of the market from the Hauz Khas Monuments Complex beyond. Eventually, we did reach the tiny sign (with a curlicued squarish emblem and the restaurant’s name), pointing upwards. There’s a flight of stairs here… up, up and up. On the third floor (the fourth, if you’re American) is Gunpowder.

The restaurant isn’t big: it spreads over two sections, a covered terrace and an inside, air-conditioned room. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen tables in all, clean and stylish, but not going out of the way to project an air of genteel fine dining. The napkins are paper, and the crockery is plain white, though good quality. Where this place excels is in its food.

It took us a while to be seated, because Gunpowder is terribly popular and was all booked up (we didn’t have a reservation). But they eventually agreed to seat us at a table reserved for somebody who wasn’t going to arrive for another hour. Smart red glasses were put out for us and filled with water, the menus handed over. We couldn’t decide immediately what we wanted – everything sounded delicious. There are seafood curries, mutton and pork curries and other dishes, plus an array of less common (at least in North India) South Indian vegetarian dishes – for example, a bottlegourd dish with lentils and curry leaves. Eventually, we decided on steamed rice, a pandhi curry (a hot and sour pork curry from the Coorg region) and a chicken korma. My husband Tarun had been keen on ordering a fish curry, but the pandhi curry sounded spicy enough to give us the spice kick he needed; the korma, the waiter assured us, was a gentle curry made with little spice.

The food came within about 15 minutes, our drinks (fresh lemonades) arriving much sooner. With that to wash down the fieriness of the spice, we were fine – but despite that, the pandhi curry had us asking for more water!

It was a delicious dish, though: small pieces of fatty pork, cooked in a very thick and spicy, hot-sour gravy that seemed to be composed largely of onions. The end result was more like a pickle than a curry, with very little gravy. The chicken korma, on the other hand, was a completely different dish: soothing, the chicken simmered in a gentle sauce of coconut milk, with mustard seeds, curry leaves and a few other mild spices. With the rice, it was a perfect meal.

Gunpowder offers only two desserts: semiyaan payasam (a vermicelli and milk pudding) and khubaani ka meetha (stewed dried apricots, served with a dollop of cream). I’d never had khubaani ka meetha before, so ordered it – and liked it a lot. Tarun, who was quite full by now, ordered one too, thinking it would come in a small bowl (he remembered having had the same dessert in Hyderabad a few years ago, where it had been served in a tiny bowl) – and ended up leaving part of it; the quarter plate full of stewed apricots, though with just a tablespoon of cream on top, proved too much for him.

Verdict? Fabulous. The food is delicious, the service is good, unobtrusive – and the view over the Hauz Khas lake is fantastic. The only problem is the location (too many stairs to climb, and no lift or escalator). Otherwise, it’s decently priced too (we paid Rs 1,299 for our meal, taxes and service charge included), and if you reserve a table, you should be fine.

The Golconda Bowl is on the ground floor of the same building that houses Gunpowder: Gunpowder sits on the roof, The Golconda Bowl on the ground – and the approaches are from two opposite sides of the same building. Inside, The Golconda Bowl is all dark wood, dull red upholstery and massive (not to mention very stylish) black and white photographs of some of Hyderabad’s landmarks – the Charminar, Quli Qutb Khan’s Tomb, and so on. (The corridor leading in from the street has some more photos, which looked like bad reproductions. But some were interesting: for example, an early 20th century ceremonial procession, and a photo of the Hope Diamond – mined at Golconda).

The menu, thankfully, concentrates on good wholesome Hyderabadi food and does not try to jump onto the North Indian-Mughlai bandwagon. This is a menu replete with all that’s Hyderabadi: mirchi ka salan (fat green chillies cooked in a hot, peanut gravy); baghare baingan (fried aubergines in a spicy gravy), mutton and okra curry; biryanis, patthar kababs (‘patthar’ means ‘stone’ – these kababs are beaten very flat and cooked on a hot stone), and the like. After much pondering – and much see-sawing – we finally settled on two dishes: a kachche gosht ki biryani and a gosht haleem. With that we ordered two fresh lemonades.

A few words, now, about what these two dishes are. Kachche gosht ki biryani literally means a ‘biryani of raw meat’. No, it’s not raw when it’s served up, it’s just that the meat, when it’s layered with the rice and spices, is raw to begin with. As anybody who’s cooked rice and mutton knows, they have very different cooking times – especially in Indian cuisine, where rare is unknown. So, getting well-cooked meat without overcooking the rice to a pulp is quite a feat. The haleem is a typically Hyderabadi preparation of pounded meat cooked with coarse-ground wheat and spices.

The haleem and the biryani were served up within about 10 minutes. The biryani came in a large (very large) bowl, heaped with spiced rice, chunks of mutton, wedges of hard-boiled egg, and a generous helping of crisp-fried onions mixed all through. Not very spicy, but delicious – though the meat could have been more tender. Along with the biryani were served small portions of dahi ki chutney (a yoghurt chutney – whisked yoghurt, mixed with salt, finely chopped onions, and a little fresh coriander) and mirchi ka salan. The mirchi ka salan would probably be a welcome addition to someone who really liked a lot of heat in their biryani (because the biryani, while it has the fragrance of cardamom, cloves and similar mild spices, isn’t chilli hot). We, however, weren’t terribly enamoured by the salan: it seemed to lack substance. One fat chilli floating about in a bowlful of a thin, spicy gravy? No.

What completely made the meal for us was the haleem. It was mind-blowingly good: meat and wheat pounded to a velvety smoothness, with just enough spice to make it delectable without being at all hot, and with more of those gorgeous fried onions on top. With a squeeze of lime (wedges served alongside), it was sheer heaven. (Note, though, that it’s available only on the weekend, starting Friday night).

For dessert, though they do offer well-known Hyderabadi favourites like double ka meetha (fried bread, soaked in syrup and served with heavily thickened milk) and khubaani ka meetha (a puree of stewed dried apricots, served with cream), our waiter recommended the thandi sabz kheer: a milk pudding in which the milk is cooked along with grated bottle gourd. Though a vegetable, bottle gourd is one of those rather bland and dull veggies that are occasionally used in desserts such as these. The Golconda Bowl’s thandi sabz kheer (literally, ‘cold green kheer’) was creamy, very lightly sweetened and with a sprinkle of slivered almonds on top. Delicious!

Our bill came to just over Rs 1,500, inclusive of service charge. I liked the food a lot and would gladly go back here to try out some of the other stuff on their menu – and some of that fabulous haleem again. The only thing I didn’t like was the very dim lighting. Even on a sunny day, in broad daylight (and with the benefit of windows down one side), The Golconda Bowl was dark and gloomy. May we have some lights, please?

We first discovered Spice Market – it stands right behind Select Citywalk Mall (you can walk right through the mall, in the front door and out the back, near the KFC outlet, and a brief walk to the right will bring you to Spice Market). Back then, we’d wanted to eat here, but as it happened, we were in a hurry, and were told by a regretful captain at the door that the restaurant would open for dinner in half an hour’s time. This time, many months later, we suddenly remembered Spice Market again, and decided to go check it out. A quick phone call revealed that it’s now open all day long for à la carte orders, though the (obviously very popular, as we discovered) buffet is open only for a few hours each at lunch and dinner.

The interiors are pretty much what you’d expect of most mid-range and upscale restaurants in Delhi: off-white, textured walls; large glass windows looking onto the street outside; a show kitchen; and a row of glass shelves dotted with showy glass jars of spices and so on. We had reserved a table for two, and were duly guided to the table – which shared a long upholstered bench on either side, with the tables next to it. All very well, but not too convenient, as we realised when people occupied the table next to ours. Every time someone wanted to sit down or get up at the next table (and they were doing that a lot, having opted for the buffet), the bench would be pushed back or forward, and I’d have my elbow jiggled.

Our glass-topped table had two large plates made of beaten copper, each with a napkin on it. Once we’d had a look at the menu (a hotchpotch, with dishes from all across India, though the North Indian restaurant staples like daal makhani and kababs seemed to dominate it), we placed our orders. Our drinks – fresh lemonade – arrived soon after, and with them came some complimentaries: thinly sliced raw onions; pickled onions; four types of chutneys; and a long boat-like dish of assorted papads. We were ravenous, and the milder, spice-free papads, with a dollop of what tasted like a tomato and garlic chutney, were delicious. By the way, we were never told what the chutneys were – one was definitely tamarind, and one was a pale green one, probably a mix of yoghurt, fresh mint, fresh coriander and green chillies. The others, including the one we liked, remained a mystery.

Our starter arrived shortly after: sarson murgh (literally, ‘mustard chicken’). This was wonderful: succulent, juicy bits of chicken, marinated in a gentle mix of spices, with a predominance of mustard (even that, though, was very mild), and cooked in a tandoor or clay oven, basted with mustard oil. Mustard oil, if you’ve never had it before, can ‘hit your nose’ with a wallop that can be pretty lethal if you aren’t used to it! This was fabulous, and raised our expectations very high.

Which was sad, because the main course was awful. We’d ordered laal maas (literally, ‘red meat’), paneer papad ki sabzi, and missi roti. The missi roti, a thickish flatbread made from gramflour mixed with chopped onions, green coriander and salt, with a lavish sprinkle of ghee, was hot and delicious; the laal maas was merely hot – chilli hot. Laal maas is a traditional dish of the western state of Rajasthan. It’s made by cooking goat’s meat with (among other ingredients) dried red chillies. I’ve had well-cooked laal maas, and while it can be very fiery, it can also be delectably so. Not swimming in oil or liable to give you indigestion, both of which the laal maas at Spice Market can lay claim to.

The paneer papad ki sabzi – pieces of papad (poppadums) cooked in a thick (no gravy) dish of the local Indian cottage cheese known as paneer was slightly better. It had strips of green capsicum (bell pepper) in it, and plenty of both fresh green chillies and red chilli powder, but the oil content was a little lower.

We ended up eating only about half of what we’d been served – and eating even that quantity required a lot of fortitude! We were feeling so full (mainly, I think, a result of the vast amount of oil in the laal maas) that we decided to pass up the dessert – though the array of phirni, shrikhand etc on the menu looked inviting. Still, our bill came to a steep Rs 1,969. Not a place I’d consider going back to.

The restaurant is on the first floor (beware: only a staircase leads up; there’s no elevator or escalator). Inside, a large bar counter faces the doorway. The rest of the hall is cream-painted, with a row of beautifully carved traditional South Indian wooden pillars. More examples of traditional wooden carving hang in the form of panels on the wall, and a very large plate glass window looks out onto the street below. The music is an interesting fusion of traditional Carnatic and something that sounded part jazz-part rock-part I don’t know what. Fortunately, it wasn’t terribly loud, so we could ignore it most of the time.

We were seated, water poured for us and menus handed out within a minute of entering the restaurant. The menu is what makes Spice Water Trail the experience it is – it sounds absolutely fascinating. Each dish is neatly explained in non-flowery language, and evokes the fabulous flavours of the South: coconut milk and grated coconut; kokum (a sour fruit also called ‘fish tamarind’, because it’s traditionally used to flavour fish curries); chillies; curry leaves and mustard seeds; an awesome range of seafood. After much deliberation, we settled on a starter and a main course that we could share, with dessert to follow. We placed our order – along with fresh lemonade to sip – and sat back to await our meal.

In a couple of minutes our drinks arrived, and with them came some complimentary nibbles: lightly fried, unspiced papads (poppadums) and a selection of four chutneys. Interestingly, the waiter paused long enough to explain to us which chutney was what (this has never happened to me before, and I was pleasantly surprised): the green one was coriander (obviously, with a healthy dose of hot green chilli ground into it, from the taste of it); the white one was the ubiquitous mild coconut chutney; the red one was the equally common tomato chutney; and the yellow one was an unusual raw mango chutney, tart and slightly hot, but also delicious.

We were still digging into the papads and chutneys when our starter arrived. We’d asked the waiter for a recommendation: a fish dish that wasn’t too spicy, and was made of boneless fish (my husband can’t handle those needle-like bones). What the waiter suggested wasn’t even on the menu, but it sounded a bit like ‘sole kolivaadi’. One taste of the fish, and I was swearing I’d kill for this. It was heavenly – the fish had been marinated in a very light but spicy (and not chilli hot) batter, deep-fried to a gorgeous golden brown crisp, and brought to the table piping hot, with thinly sliced raw onion and wedges of lime on the side. Fantastic!

For the main course, we’d dithered long and hard between a wide variety of fabulous-sounding dishes: meats, chicken, seafood and vegetarian, before settling on two dishes: prawns with raw mango, and pumpkin ellisseri. We’d asked the waiter for what would best accompany these, and he’d recommended either appams or Malabar parottas. The latter, we know, are rich – they are layered, flaky flatbreads made with generous amounts of ghee or oil, and though delicious, can be heavy. Appams are fluffy risp rice-flour pancakes that are soft in the centre, crisp around the sides and totally addictive – so appams it was, and these were good, perfect for mopping up the curries that we’d ordered. The ‘raw mango’ component of the prawn curry was not really apparent; instead, what we were served was a creamy greeny-brown curry of coconut milk and other mild Southern spices, with fat prawns in the gravy. The pumpkin ellisseri was a sort of pumpkin mash, but with generous doses of curry leaves, mustard seeds, a tempering of fried lentils, and a hint of sour tamarind added. Both were out of this world, so good that we ended up ordering more appams.

Of course, having eaten such a wonderful meal, we decided we had to have dessert as well. My husband ordered a parippu payasam – lentils cooked with coconut milk and jaggery (raw sugar) – and I asked for a pineapple halva, crushed pineapple cooked with semolina, nuts and raisins, and a dash of coconut milk. We made it a point to check whether the portion size would be good for one person, or if we were ordering too much. We were assured that it would be right for one person.

That was where Spice Water Trail goofed up. The dessert portion sizes are massive; each dessert is enough for at least two people. And, with the vast amounts of sugar that seemed to have gone into each of the dishes, I’d think even three people would’ve been able to comfortably eat what was served up as one portion. Both the payasam and the halva were just too sweet, too warm (well, hot, actually), and too much. My halva, since it was made of pineapple, ended up reminding me more of pineapple jam than anything else.

Our bill came to just over Rs 2,000, inclusive of taxes and service charges. Somewhat expensive, but given the food quality, understandable. The only thing I’d change about this place is the dessert menu. The desserts – or at least what we had – could’ve done with a lot less sugar.

Otherwise? A place not to be missed.

This time, fortunately, when the craving for ‘Goan’ kicked in, we had someplace to go: Souza Lobo. Souza Lobo opened a year back in Delhi’s Greater Kailash Part – II, M-Block Market. We’d been to the original Souza Lobo, which is on Goa’s Calangute Beach, and we’d loved it. This Souza Lobo is a franchise – it was established by Jude Lobo, the grandson of the person who founded the Goa Souza Lobo.

We visited on a Sunday evening, when we’d hoped it would be fairly empty, Delhiites preferring to do their weekend partying on Friday and Saturday nights. A short flight of steps leads up into a small vestibule, from where a further flight leads up into a bar that is also part of the restaurant. The restaurant, however, is by itself, on the first floor, and you can get drinks (beer, hard liquor, cocktails, even wines – including Goan wines) here at your table.

Souza Lobo is a cheery looking place: smallish, with a pretty yellow-tiled floor, pale-green furniture with yellow faux leather upholstery, and red-painted windows looking out on the market outside. Paintings of Goa line the cream walls, and the music is delightfully Goan: an infectious melange of West and East. The menu begins with a brief explanation of the more popular Goan dishes, written by someone who’s obviously recounting their childhood in Goa – very sweet and with a personal touch that makes it endearing. Then we go on, to the food itself: different curries in mutton, fish, prawn or pork: xacutis, sorpotels, vindalhos, and so on. There are also fried dishes, and, for those who either don’t really care for Goan or non-vegetarian food, a selection of vegetarian and/or non-vegetarian North Indian food.

We, of course, being die-hard fans of Goan food, ordered stuff that was strictly, traditionally Goan: a pork sorpotel, a masala rava fried fish, and steamed rice, with fresh lemonade to drink. It took a surprisingly long time for our food to arrive – at least 20 minutes – (how long does it take to heat up rice and sorpotel? We realised later that the fried fish was made from scratch). But it was worth it. The sorpotel, small cubes of boneless and mostly lean pork, was cooked in a spicy red gravy, the way it’s made traditionally – with pig’s blood added to thicken the gravy. The fish fillets had been rolled in rava (coarse semolina) along with some mild spices before being deep fried to a crisp, delicious golden. On the side, along with the fish, was served a helping of freshly cut rustic salad – onions, tomatoes, cabbage and green capsicum, all without any dressing. There was also a small bowlful of (alas, soggy and greasy) French fries.

For dessert, we ordered bebinca, classic Goan dessert that’s painstakingly made by cooking pancakes of rice flour, coconut milk and eggs, then piling them up into a ‘cake’. I’ve had this before – you can buy packaged bebinca in Goa – but Souza Lobo’s was superbly fresh, superbly different, all the flavours mellow and lovely, the bebinca beautifully spiced with a hint of nutmeg, and served with a dollop of vanilla ice cream on the side.

All in all, a fabulous meal, despite the fact that the fries were far from good, and the waiters were often hard to get hold of. At Rs 1,463 for two people (all taxes and service charges included), this wasn’t exactly a cheap meal, but it was worth it.