New Himalayan Tables

I have begun to notice it in the way menus read differently now. There is less shouting, less dressing up. Instead, there are names that sound like places you have travelled through slowly, or hoped to. Dishes that arrive with stories rather than garnish. Across cities, Himalayan cuisine has stepped out of the margins and into rooms of its own, and as someone who has eaten his way through enough trends to know when something feels real, this one feels earned.

Perhaps it started earlier, but I felt it most clearly in Mumbai, when conversations about food carts began sounding like conversations about destiny. Rongmit in Versova was one of those. A modest Nepalese streetside stall that people spoke of with affection rather than hype, it was run by actors Priya Lepcha and Rohit Kandal, who cooked to survive before they cooked to be seen. The image of them working side by side, frozen in print, feels emblematic of this moment: Himalayan food moving from street corners to brick-and-mortar spaces without losing its soul. When Rongmit announced it was opening a restaurant in Seven Bungalows, still in Versova, it felt less like an expansion and more like a homecoming.

From Memories to Menus
I think what draws me to this food is its refusal to perform. Himalayan cuisine is not about excess. It is as much about warmth as it is about preservation and patience. It comes from places where cooking is dictated by weather and by necessity. That honesty is perhaps why it feels so refreshing today.

In Gurugram, Thamel has recently opened at Sector 65 with a confidence that doesn’t need to be loud. Founded by Piyush Agrawal, it positions Himalayan food not as novelty but as either. There is care in how the flavours are presented, a sense that this is about bridging worlds rather than fusing them for effect. The restaurant leans into the generosity of mountain hospitality, using locally sourced ingredients and letting the palate remain intact, even when technique turns modern. It feels like a conversation between regions, not a compromise.

Back in Mumbai, the revival of Yeti as Yeti 2.0 in Bandra feels deeply emotional. Yeti has always been a custodian rather than an interpreter of Himalayan food, and this new chapter leans further into that role. The menu travels from Nepal to Tibet, from the Northeast to Ladakh, offering dishes like ema datshi, Thakali thalis, and Newari choila with quiet assurance. Chef Anil Bangwal’s philosophy of slow cooking, fermentation and time-led flavour reminds you that this cuisine was never meant to rush. Even the drinks here are built around mountain botanicals and indigenous infusions. Yeti’s presence in Mumbai, alongside its outposts in New Delhi at Connaught Place and Pune at Kalyani Nagar, has arguably laid the foundation for this wider moment.

New Rooms, Old Warmth
What excites me most is how personal these spaces remain. At Mumbai’s Across in Kalaghoda—run by chef Viraf Patel and his wife Prakriti Lama, who is from Nepal—the food feels like a shared biography. The restaurant looks beyond borders, drawing from Eastern India, Nepal, Bhutan, Tibet and the wider Himalayan belt. With cooking that is ingredient-forward and deeply regional. One that is less about mapping regions and more about distilling feelings. Certain dishes anchor the menu and invite return visits: shakam ezay, slow-cooked pork with fermented greens that is bold yet comforting; tingmo with cultured butter, precise and quietly indulgent; chicken liver pâté with Dalla chilli and Timur focaccia, refined and layered with gentle heat; and a khichdi with fish fry that disarms with its simplicity. Even the banana blossom pâté has found a following, while su- cha, the butter tea of Nepal and Bhutan, arrives as an expression of hospitality rather than novelty. Across is not interested in recreating dishes as they were, but in preserving their soul while allowing them to evolve—confidently, without spectacle, and far from the momo and thali tropes.

Momos & Beyond
Steamed dumplings are just the beginning. Look for tingmo (steamed bread), Nepalese sel roti, shapta (meat stir-fries) and thenthuk (hand-pulled noodle soup).

A Quiet Ascent
It’s clear to me that what ties all these places together is respect. For ingredients. For climate. Himalayan cuisine does not shout for attention, and perhaps that is why it is finally being listened to.

As I sit with these meals—relishing them with manic gusto—I realise this isn’t just about food. It’s about visibility. About cuisines from the mountains being allowed credibility and continuity. From Rongmit’s journey from cart to restaurant, to Yeti’s decade-long storytelling, and Across’s stewardship of hitherto unknown flavours and textures, this feels like a long-overdue recognition.

Now, this is the most satisfying part for a chronicler of food like myself! This is not a trend built on spectacle. It is built on the notions of generosity and staying true to one’s food philosophy. On food that was always meant to nourish first, impress later.