In the case of Lutyens’s Delhi, the central avenue is Rajpath (originally called King’s Way). At one end is India Gate. At the other, rising beyond the twin buildings of the Secretariat, is the focus of the vista: the beige-and-red sandstone Rashtrapati Bhavan (‘president’s house’). Its construction was completed in 1931, and since then it’s been home to all the Indian presidents, besides the last few Viceroys.

Rashtrapati Bhavan (then known as Government House) was designed – furniture, fixtures, chandeliers, everything – by Lutyens himself. He was an unashamed critic of Indian architectural and design styles, and given a free hand, would have confined himself to a completely European look for the entire building. However, the then-Viceroy, Lord Hardinge, overruled Lutyens, and insisted that Indian elements be included in the architecture. What resulted is an unusual, sometimes whacky, combination of elements that is surprisingly quite effective.

Since Rashtrapati Bhavan is the residence of the President of India, it’s a high security zone. You can’t just barge in. As a casual visitor, you can approach the gates (beautiful wrought iron ones, designed by Lutyens). You can take photos of the exterior from there, and of the cannons outside, and of the columns with their carved stone elephant statues. Look for the carved caparisons of these stone elephants: each caparison has a circle carved into it. Originally, the letters GVR – George V, Rex – were carved here. After India’s independence, stone carvers were commissioned to carefully carve away those initials.

If you have permission to enter (more on this at the end of this review), go in at the gate, where your name(s) will be checked by the security officials to ensure they’re on the list of those registered for a tour. You’ll then be allowed into the reception area, where a photograph of you is taken by the local security on their webcam. (We were a large group – 31 people – and fitting all of us into that one photo, with our faces visible, was a bit difficult). If you’re on your own, you’ll have to show proof of identity – passport, for example. If you’re part of a group, whoever registered the group as its leader must show his/her proof of identity. After this, you’ll have to pass through security and a body search. All bags, cameras, etc must be deposited at the lockers – you’ll be given a token for this, which you keep till the tour ends.

Once you’re in, you can’t wander at will. Tourists are allowed into only half a dozen halls (Rashtrapati Bhavan has a total of 340 rooms, of which the President actually lives only in six rooms – the rest is taken up by offices, support staff, and – presumably – junk accumulated over the years). A Rashtrapati Bhavan guide gathers together a group of about 50 visitors – so, even if you’re already in a small group, you may find yourself joining other groups. The guide takes you through the rooms, gives a brief bilingual (English and Hindi) explanation about them, allows you a few minutes to look around, and then carries on.

Our guide, unfortunately, wasn’t very good; she didn’t seem to know much. Fortunately, we had our own group guide, a historian who pointed out all the interesting things about the building as we walked through it.

The Marble Museum: This impressively-named hall is the first hall on the tour. It doesn’t live up to its name, because it isn’t a ‘museum’ (just one gallery), and it isn’t all marble (just some of the exhibits are marble). However, this turned out to be one of the nicer halls: the walls are hung with impressive old full-length oil paintings of British kings and queens, Prime Ministers, Viceroys, Governors-General, generals, important officials, and their wives. There is also the upholstered chair Queen Mary sat on during the Delhi Durbar (the king’s chair can be seen in one of the corridors). All imposing, and interesting. Also part of the display are a few busts of some of these dignitaries. The best are two life-size marble statues of King George V and Queen Mary, in full regalia. These two statues originally stood in large niches on either side of the main doorway to Government House.

The Kitchen Museum: After the Marble Museum, we were led downstairs to the Kitchen Museum, which is a gallery devoted to the kitchen utensils, the crockery, cutlery, and glassware that has been in Rashtrapati Bhavan since it was first built. Although much of it would be pretty mundane to anyone familiar with sit-down European meals – the soup spoons, knives, forks, fish forks and knives, etc – some of it does consist of interesting cutlery that has vanished from modern tables, such as specialised cutlery for oysters, asparagus, and so on. Also on display is the Star Set, a turquoise-blue-rimmed crockery set designed especially for the Viceregal table.

The Gift Gallery: Although it sounds like a souvenir shop (which, by the way, is there in Rashtrapati Bhavan, next to Reception), this is actually a gallery devoted to gifts received by Indian presidents over the years. This is a mishmash of stuff: some of it is obviously junk, other stuff is less so. There are jeweled swords and boxes; ceremonial keys to London and Tokyo and other cities; statues; photographs of other dignitaries; a small foot-long Indonesian ship, complete with masts and rigging, made out of cloves; etc.

The Durbar Hall: This hall, used for important state ceremonies (high-ranking officials, ministers, chief justices and the like take oath of office here) is, for me, the most interesting of the halls in Rashtrapati Bhavan. It stands directly under the large dome that tops Rashtrapati Bhavan. The hall’s dome is modeled on the Pantheon in Rome, down to the circular opening – the oculus – in the centre. The square-tiled pattern inside the Pantheon’s dome is repeated here, in the form of hemispherical insets along the edges of the ceiling. There’s also a nod to local traditions in this hall: the carved stone screens fitted at the base of the dome are an almost exact copy of those you’ll see at Delhi’s Red Fort. This is also one hall where you’ll see a Lutyens invention: the Indian order of pillar capitals. This one echoes Hindu temple architecture: the capital of the pillar has simple carved stone bells at each of its four corners.

One last tidbit of information: at one end of the Durbar Hall, on a dais, is an ancient stone statue of the Buddha. It’s placed to face precisely in the direction of the India Gate, and its feet are exactly at the same height as the top edge of India Gate. (Lutyens had designed the dais to hold the Viceroy’s chair, which would symbolically thus ‘rule’ the capital; the Buddha is a post-Independence replacement).

The Ashok Hall: Once the ballroom, this hall is now used for state functions and concerts. The main feature here is the Persian-inspired paintings that cover the ceiling and the walls: they were painted in the early 1930s.

After the Ashok Hall, the guide led us out into the back, where the Mughal Gardens stretch. The gardens weren’t in bloom, so we contented ourselves with learning a bit more about the Rashtrapati Bhavan itself: that its dome, now a charcoal grey, isn’t stone, but bronze. That its length is 630 ft, exactly the same as that of Buckingham Palace. That the dome – and the railings around it – are copied from the ancient Buddhist stupa at Sanchi. That the large inverted stone bowls at the corners of the roof were originally fountains, which have since fallen into disuse. And that the rearing metal cobras – so cheesily ‘Indian’ – that mark a fountain, were part of Lutyens’s idea of an Indian element. That the tall star-topped stone column in front of the Rashtrapati Bhavan is called the Jaipur Column; it commemorates the fact that the land on which Government House was built was bought from the Maharaja of Jaipur.

Once we were done, we were led out, back to security to gather up our bags and cameras, before heading out.

The Rashtrapati Bhavan was, for us, a mixed experience. The building is grand and very interesting; the corridors and rooms are decorated in typical Indian government office style: cheap, mass-produced, ugly stuff that’s an insult to the edifice in which it’s housed.

The Rashtrapati Bhavan is open to visitors on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays, from 09:45 AM to noon, and from 02:30 PM to 04:00 PM. You must phone a few days in advance – a week would be good – to book a tour. Phone 011-23015231 (extension 4229 and 4479) for enquiries and registrations. All tours are free.

The Secretariat was built on what is known as Raisina Hill, the buildings designed in such a way as to provide a grand elevated view for anyone looking up while standing on King’s Way (present-day Rajpath, the wide avenue that stretches all the way from Rashtrapati Bhavan to India Gate). Just below the Secretariat, Rajpath broadens into a large circular expanse, known as Vijay Chowk. Beyond Vijay Chowk rises the low, gentle swell of Raisina Hill. As you go up the hill, you’ll see North Block on your right, South Block on your left.

North and South Block are mirror images of each other, built almost completely of locally procured beige and red sandstone. The red sandstone is a nod to the preceding ruling dynasty, the Mughals, who were fond of using it as construction material. As you look at the buildings, you’ll see other features that are reminiscent of Mughal monuments.

First of all, there are the main entrances to each of the blocks. The doorways are one inside the other: there’s a large outer ‘doorway’, a rectangular carved entrance with an arch in the centre, which leads through into a smaller, recessed door, also arched. If you’ve been to Humayun’s Tomb in Delhi, you’ll see the marked resemblance of this to the doorway at Humayun’s Tomb. Even the medallions on either side of the outer arch are positioned as they are at Humayun’s Tomb. And, like at Humayun’s tomb, there’s a small, projecting oriel window above the arch of the inner door.

There are other elements that are typical of North Indian architecture, a mix of Islamic elements and Rajasthani ones. The most prominent are the chhatris, the small pillared pavilions, mostly octagonal or hexagonal, that stand on terraces – you can see one large one each at the near end of both North and South Block as you walk up from Vijay Chowk. (The now-worn plaques below these chhatris carry the names of important men associated with these structures, including the Indian contractors who carried out the work).

There are also the wide dripstones (known as chhajjas in Hindi), the flat overhangs that project from a wall below the edge of a roof. There are decorative elements, like the typical carved stone screens or jaalis that one sees in Mughal buildings; carved elephants; carved ‘Hindu temple’ bells, and carved stone brackets supporting dripstones, which look straight out of a medieval Indian building.

On the other hand, the main domes of the two blocks have unashamedly European profiles (both Baker and Lutyens had refused to use ‘Indian’ domes, such as the onion dome so common on Mughal tombs and mosques). There are Corinthian columns and semi-circular arches. Interestingly, however, the combined effect is graceful and uncluttered – certainly very impressive.

In front of each of the two blocks you’ll see two high red sandstone columns, making a total of four columns in the Secretariat complex. These are known as the ‘Columns of Dominion’ and were formally presented to India as gifts from the other parts of the British Dominions – Australia, Canada, New Zealand and South Africa. Each column is carved with the name of the dominion that presented it, above a carved coat of arms.

The columns were carved in India, however, and designed by Baker – and you can see here an interesting almost-replica of an ancient Indian motif: the Lion Capital of Ashoka. The top of the column, below the bronze sailing ship that crowns it, has the same horse-chakra-bull motif as Ashoka’s capital, surmounted by an inverted lotus.

Ironically enough, Baker also put a replica of the lion capital – the four lions, back to back, facing outward – atop the dome of each of the two Secretariat buildings. Little did he know that independent India would adopt the lion capital as its national emblem, and his inadvertent placement of that motif on the South and North Block domes would become very appropriate!

The Secretariat buildings house the offices of some of the country’s largest and most important ministries. No visitors, Indian or otherwise, are therefore allowed in. You are free to view the buildings from the outside and can even take photographs.

Tip:: Try visiting between 9.30 and 10.30 on a Saturday morning: that’s when the stretch of road between the two Secretariat buildings is the venue of the ceremonial changing of the guard for the President’s Bodyguard. It’s an impressive, colourful event, with the President’s Bodyguard both on horseback and on foot, marching with a band and handing over charge from one section to the next. You don’t need permission, passes or an entry fee to watch and take photographs.

The main road here is Rajpath (erstwhile King’s Way), connecting the President’s Estate, between the secretariat buildings, past Parliament House, and down to the majestic memorial arch known as India Gate. India Gate sits in the centre of lawns that spread in a vast hexagon. Along the border of this hexagon were built, simultaneously with the other buildings of Lutyens’s Delhi, palaces for the Indian princes who supported the British: the Nizam of Hyderabad, the Maharajas of Patiala, Jaipur, Bikaner and Jodhpur, and others. In the days of the British, this area was called Princes’ Park; today, the palaces are owned by the government and are given over to government departments. Patiala House, for instance, is a judicial court; Jaipur House is the National Gallery of Modern Art, and the headquarters of Northern Railway is in Baroda House.

And bringing them all together is India Gate. The foundation stone for this structure was laid in 1921 by the Duke of Connaught, and construction took a further ten years. Looking strikingly like Paris’s Arc du Triomphe, India Gate is made of buff-gold sandstone and stands 42 mt high. Across the front of the arch, at the top, is inscribed the dedication:

To the dead of the Indian armies, who fell and are honoured in France and Flanders, Mesopotamia and Persian East Africa, Gallipoli, and elsewhere, in the Near and the Far East, in sacred memory also of those whose names are here recorded and who fell in India on the North West Frontier during the Third Afghan War.

Also engraved across the arch—along the sides, for instance—are the names of thousands of soldiers of the Indian army, both Indians as well as British, who died in war.

Under the arch of India Gate burns the eternal flame, guarded 24 hours a day by soldiers of the army, navy and airforce, two men at a time. A heavy chain forms a circular barricade around the arch itself, so visitors cannot actually go right up to the eternal flame.

Beyond India Gate, in the middle of a shallow square pool of water, stands a domed canopy made of red sandstone. This originally held a white marble statue of King George V, but when India became independent, that was removed (the statue was taken away to Coronation Park, also in Delhi). Thankfully, attempts to either destroy the canopy or to have a statue of Mahatma Gandhi installed under it have been shot down.

India Gate is open to visitors all through the day and night; there are no charges for visiting or taking photographs. Unless you like crowds, try not to visit on a weekend or after sunset on weekdays: that is when hordes of Delhiites descend on India Gate to eat ice cream, stroll about, have little picnics, or generally indulge in a family outing. Around sunset, though, is also when you just may get lucky and see a performance at India Gate: the last time we visited, the pipers and drummers band of the Border Security Force was doing a show for the force’s senior officers. And, since it’s all ‘open air’, bystanders could watch, take photos or videos, and generally enjoy the show.

What resulted, therefore, was Connaught Place.

The Delhi Town Committee’s Chief Architect, WH Nicholls, was the man who came up with the idea of creating an arcade that would function as a commercial hub for New Delhi. Modelled on the Royal Crescent in Bath (in England), this would be a set of colonnaded buildings, all double-storeyed. The ground floor would house commercial establishments, such as shops, restaurants and cinemas; the first floor would be given over to residences. The land—between Old and New Delhi—for this commercial centre was acquired in 1928; by then Nicholls had left, so his successor, RT Russell (who designed many of the most important residential buildings in Lutyens’s Delhi) was given the task of designing this complex.

Between 1929 and 1934, construction proceeded on the commercial complex. It was named after the Duke of Connaught (who was uncle to King George V, and who had visited Delhi in 1921). Certain changes were made over time to the design of the complex. For example, the seven radial roads that fan out like the spokes of a wheel from the centre of the complex were originally supposed to be covered by archways. This idea was eventually dropped. What remains today is a vast circular area, consisting of two concentric circles of white-painted buildings, which form three distinct sections: the Inner Circle, the Middle Circle, and the Outer Circle (they’re actually officially and popularly known as that too). Between the concentric circles run major roads, which intersect with minor radial roads after every block of buildings.

The first shops—a gentlemen’s tailors, a toyshop, bookshops—began opening in Connaught Place in 1935. In 1932, Connaught Place’s first cinema (Regal, then also a venue for ballet and theatre performances, and concerts) had opened, to be followed a year later by another cinema, Plaza. By the end of the decade, more cinemas: Odeon, Rivoli and the Indian Talkie House—had opened. (Nearly all of these still exist, although they’ve been taken over by big companies and turned into multiplex cinemas).

In the large open space in its centre, Connaught Place originally had the aptly-named Central Park. This is still around, and is occasionally used for concerts and performances of dance and music. More well-known is Palika Bazaar, also in the centre. This is an underground marketplace, crowded with small shops that primarily deal in electronics and DVDs, especially of Indian cinema.

Till a couple of decades ago, Connaught Place was the hub of Delhi’s shopping and restaurants. Today, ever since more malls and markets (Khan Market, Greater Kailash, etc) have mushroomed, the number of people coming to Connaught Place—or CP, as it’s universally known—has fallen. You’ll still find the old restaurants here (including ones dating back to the 40s); you’ll still come across delightful finds in the old bookshops; and Palika Bazaar is the place to go if you’re looking for the DVD of an obscure Hindi film. Plus, there are vendors who sell odds and ends (especially very cheap clothing) in the shelter of the arcades.

Even if you don’t care to come to CP to shop or dine out, it’s worth a visit just for a feel of how so many elements come together in this one space. The white-painted Georgian arcades, with their very colonial arches, are delightfully old world; the plush new office buildings towering behind them are very modern. Thrown into this cocktail is everything from cinema to food (roadside stalls, KFC, Pizza Hut, and CP’s oldest restaurants)—to books, handicrafts, souvenirs, banks, airlines, travel agents, and more. It’s quite an experience.

Note: The official name of Connaught Place is now Rajiv Chowk, after India’s late prime minister, Rajiv Gandhi. Except for the Delhi Metro (for which the hub is the Rajiv Chowk Metro Station), nobody really refers to it as anything but CP or Connaught Place.

Wenger’s is an institution in Delhi, and unlike other old-fashioned restaurants (Kwality, for example), Wenger’s hasn’t suffered the ravages of time and imports like KFC and Pizza Hut. Not that Wenger’s (or, Wenger & Co., to give it its official name) is a totally homegrown product either. This pastry shop began as Spencer’s, a confectionery shop in the area known as Kashmiri Gate. Kashmiri Gate was Delhi’s main neighbourhood for the city’s European residents—before 1912. Following the decision to shift the capital to Delhi, when Connaught Place was built, one of the first establishments to shift to the posh new commercial centre was Spencer’s, now renamed Wenger’s, after the Swiss couple who owned it.

In its heyday, Wenger’s wasn’t just a confectionery and bakery; it was a restaurant—Delhi’s largest and most glittering, with huge chandeliers, a fine ballroom and a live band. Today, the restaurant is gone, along with the chandeliers, the ballroom and the band—but Wenger’s reputation as a fine bakery remains unshaken.

The retail area of the shop is entered through a quaint old door looking onto the inner circle of Connaught Place. As you enter, you’ll find two sets of display counters. The one along your left has all the savouries: the breads, buns, sandwiches (all of which are made to order, though you can see one sample each on display), patties (or pasties, as the English would call them), quiches, and even shami kababs, the spiced, patty-like fried kababs so popular in North India. Facing this display counter, on the other side of the hall, is a set of display counters housing the sweets. This is more gorgeousness: tarts, buns, rolls, Danish pastry, an array of cake slices, French hearts—and, at the end—an entire display showcasing Wenger’s range of made-to-order (some of these need to be ordered in advance, so if you want to buy one, it’s best to order online).

We were looking for a light lunch to take home with us, and something for a bite at teatime. Therefore, we picked on a trio of things from the savoury section: a mushroom patty each, a chicken quiche, and a mushroom quiche (note that the quiches are mini ones). From the sweet section, we chose two almond Danish pastries, and two crostata arancias. There was now a little bit of confusion, because the system of ordering, paying and delivering isn’t immediately apparent.

So, here it is:

1. If you’re buying something from the savoury section, place your order with the person manning the counter. They’ll give you a printed slip with your order on it. Keep it.
2. If you’re ordering something from the sweets, repeat this process at the sweet counter.
3. Now, with your order slip(s) from one or both of the counters, walk to the far end of the counters on the left. This is where the cashier sits. You present your order slip(s) here, and pay up. Note that if you mean to pay by credit card, the cashier for that sits in the corner next to this guy.
4. Finally, once you’ve paid, the cashier will give you a printout that acts as a receipt. You take this back to the counter(s), and collect your packed boxes from them.

It can be frustrating if you’re unlucky enough to arrive at a busy hour, in which case you might end up standing in one queue after another. Try to time your visits for weekdays, during the day.

Since Wenger’s doesn’t offer any place to eat—you have to take away whatever you buy—we brought our purchases home (we paid Rs 400 for the lot). The mushroom patty and the quiches, both chicken and mushroom, we had with our afternoon tea. All three, while not awful, weren’t very good, either. The mushroom quiche had too little mushroom (but an interesting addition of a few bits of green olive, which I liked). The custard was a good consistency, well-baked yet not dry, and the pastry was light and fluffy, but a little on the greasy side. The chicken quiche, similarly, had a good custard and pastry, but fell somewhat flat when it came to the chicken itself: far too little. This was in the form of a chicken sausage, which had been mixed with some fresh green capsicum. Nice flavours, but I’d have liked a bit more chicken. The mushroom patty was made of very light and flaky (but greasy) puff pastry, stuffed with a small helping of mushrooms cooked in a thick tomatoey sauce. The mushrooms, in fact, seemed to me conspicuous by their near-absence: I’d have liked more mushroom, less tomato.

Wenger’s, it seems, are better at their desserts. The crostata arancia—something I’ve never seen at any other eatery in Delhi—was a lovely combination of flavours and textures. The tart shell was nice and light, and filled with a perfect custard. Topping that was a thin orange-juice glaze, with threads of fresh orange zest scattered across. And a sprinkle of toasted slivered almonds. Delicious.

The almond Danish pastry was of a light puff pastry, shaped into a spiral in which almonds ground with sugar and cinnamon had been folded in. This was covered with a light glaze, sprinkled with slivered almonds. Nice, but both my husband and I thought it was a trifle too sweet.

There are certainly a number of bakeries that serve better products in Delhi. But if you do want the history and the experience, Wenger’s is worth a try—and the food, while not fantastic, is not bad at all.

Kwality still exists. In fact, it flourishes—not just as a single restaurant, but as a chain and as a brand. Kwality has now a number of restaurants across India, and owns one of India’s biggest ice cream brands: Kwality Walls, the result of a tie-up with Walls.

But: the restaurant in Connaught Place, the original Kwality.

I’ve seen Kwality from the street dozens of times in my years of living in Delhi; but I’d never been inside and neither had my husband, so this was a first experience for both of us. Kwality looks old-world on the outside: a wrought iron archway leads from the pavement outside into the colonnade. In line with that arch is the entrance to Kwality, echoing the arch. The door leads into something that looks old-world, a little jaded, but quaint in an old-fashioned way. Windows look out onto the street; there are chandeliers (subdued, sparsely decorated ones); mirrors; and some lovely large framed prints of illustrated flowers.

The menu at Kwality still reflects its initial days as a restaurant of imperial Delhi. Where ‘continental’ food is now largely the domain of café and bistro style restaurants that actually import a lot of ingredients (not to mention chefs!) and use authentic recipes, the ‘continental’ section of Kwality’s menu is a very ‘70s and ‘80s Indian interpretation of Western cuisine: the description of coq au vin, for example, included capsicum (green bell peppers).

We weren’t interested in the Western food Kwality has to offer, anyway; what we were here for was its specialty, chana bhatoora. Chanas, also known as chhola or ‘Kabuli’ chana, are chickpeas (garbanzo beans), cooked in spices and served with bhatooras, deep-fried breads made of a yeasty, springy dough made of refined flour. It’s a typically Punjabi specialty and has become popular in much of North India. Kwality’s having been making their ‘special chana bhatooras from when the restaurant first opened, and it’s still known for them.

We weren’t sure if one portion each of chana bhatoora (listed as two separate items on the menu: Chana: Chef’s Choice and Bhatoora) would suffice, so we ordered a starter too. Kwality has, like any self-respecting North Indian restaurant, a range of tandoori items (and the usual curries, vegetables, daal, etc). We finally settled on a fish tikka to start with, along with a fresh lemonade each (Kwality does have a bar, with a very limited range of wines but a fair range of beers and spirits to choose from).

Within five minutes, the lemonade had arrived, and on its heels came the ‘condiments’ of a North Indian table: a small bowlful of crunchy pickled onions, and another of a branded mixed pickle (for those unfamiliar with Indian cuisine, these consist of chopped carrots, limes, raw mango, green chillies and other vegetables, mixed with a variety of spices, often with oil—not to be eaten more than a teaspoonful at a time unless you’re used to it).

Shortly after, the fish came. These were six cubes of a very fresh, firm-fleshed fish, marinated in a spicy achari (‘pickling spices’) mix, before being cooked in a clay tandoor. Along with the fish came wedges of lime and a generous helping of thinly sliced raw onions. While it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t memorable either: both my husband and I thought the spice rub had overwhelmed the flavor of the fish; there was just too much spice.

The chana bhatoora, served up once we’d finished with the fish, redeemed Kwality. I’ve had chana bhatoora in countless eateries big and small across North India, and this certainly rates among the best. Kwality’s chanas, unlike those served in most other restaurants, don’t swim in an oily sauce: they’re dry and spicy (not hot). Each of us got a mid-sized steel bowl with a large individual serving of chickpeas which had been cooked along with Kwality’s own mix of spices, green chillies, cubed potatoes, and juliennes of ginger. Also in the bowl was half a mid-sized onion, peeled and left as: the idea being you eat it the rustic way: just chomp on the onion!

The bhatoora came on its own plate, about 6-7" in diameter, looking like a bit like an edible rugby ball. Hot out of the oil in which it’s fried, a good bhatoora is very crisp and thin, with a thin, mildly spongy layer on the inside. And Kwality’s bhatooras rank right up there.

By the time we’d finished, we were so full, we could only about shake our heads when our waiter came by to ask if we’d like more bhatooras. Desserts—of which Kwality offers a selection of Western and North Indian—was out of the question, too. We asked for the bill, which was just below Rs 1,500. For what we’d had (and no alcohol, either) that’s a little steep, but we consoled ourselves with the thought that we’d had possibly the best chana bhatooras in Delhi—and we’d gotten a taste of Delhi’s history.