Boundless and Unfiltered

Category: Restaurant and food

  • Hotpot: The delicious illusion where you pay to cook your own food – and love it

    Hotpot. That bubbling cauldron of boiling broth that somehow manages to hypnotize you into dropping raw stuff into it, waiting patiently (or not so patiently), and then devouring it like a culinary champion. What is it about hotpot that’s so addictive? Why do we happily pay a restaurant to do the cooking ourselves? Spoiler alert: It’s a delicious scam, and we’re all here for it.

    Step One: Choose your broth – and your fate

    Picking your broth is like choosing your Hogwarts house. It sets the tone for your entire hotpot experience. Are you feeling spicy and bold? Go for the volcanic Sichuan broth that’s basically a lava pit of flavour and sweat. Want something mild and comforting? There’s always the clear, nourishing chicken broth that makes you feel virtuous but still just as full.

    Your broth will determine if you leave dripping with sweat and triumph or blissfully content, patting your belly like a Zen master. Choose wisely. This is your fate bubbling right before your eyes.

    Step Two: Veggies, meat, and the fear factor

    Here’s where things get fun. You get to pick what goes into this boiling cauldron. The usual suspects – bok choy, mushrooms, tofu are safe bets. But hotpot demands that you live a little. That’s right, dip your toes into the adventurous side: Chicken feet, quail eggs, or even mysterious jellyfish (yes, jellyfish).

    If you’re not a little scared, you’re not doing it right. It’s like a culinary rite of passage. And don’t even think about skipping this part. This is where tradition meets bravery, and you’ll be talking about that daring bite for weeks.

    Step Three: Sauces – because sauce makes the meal

    If you’ve read any of my previous musings on life’s essentials, you know this: Sauces maketh the meal. They can make or break your hotpot glory.

    The best part? There are literally hundreds of ways to mix and match your dipping sauces. Sesame, garlic, chili, mushroom, hoisin – throw in some fresh coriander and a splash of vinegar, and suddenly you’re a sauce wizard crafting liquid gold.

    The sky’s the limit. Go wild. Create a concoction so good it should be bottled and sold worldwide. (Hint: It won’t last past your meal.)

    The Real Secret: It’s not about the food, it’s about the experience

    Hotpot is a slow dance with flavour. You don’t rush it. You savour each bite, each slurp of noodles, each tender morsel from your bubbling pot of magic. It’s an exotic tradition wrapped in a modern social experience – perfect for a couple looking to flirt over broth, a crew of friends who want to laugh and gossip while dipping, or a family of 25 who just want an excuse to gather around a giant pot and pretend they’re not just all hungry.

    For a few glorious hours, you escape the mundane and enter a fantasyland where you are the chef, the diner, and the happy victim of a boiling pot of deliciousness.

    So next time you’re wondering why you pay someone to cook your own food but keep going back for more, now you know: Hotpot is pure magic disguised as communal chaos – and honestly? We wouldn’t have it any other way.

  • Living with no reservations, thanks Tony

    Every year, like clockwork, 8 June sneaks up and smacks me in the face like a dodgy oyster from a Bangkok street vendor. It’s the day I remember that Anthony Bourdain–Tony – left this world, and somehow, even now, I still can’t quite believe it.

    Tony wasn’t just a TV host or a celebrity chef. He was the guy – the salty, no-nonsense, noodle-slurping travel philosopher who made you want to eat soup on a plastic stool in the middle of a chaotic market in some sweaty corner of Southeast Asia. And dammit, I did.

    He taught me everything:

    – How to travel with curiosity, not arrogance

    – How to eat with reverence, not snobbery

    – How to tell a story with bite, not fluff

    – And how to weaponise dry humour with surgical precision

    I still remember the day I read the news about his death. My first reaction? “Nah, fake news. No way.” Tony was indestructible. He waded through jungles, dodged angry chefs, and drank suspicious local booze with grace and guts. But then came that sinking feeling in the stomach. You know the one – the oh-no-this-is-actually-real kind.

    And that was it. The man who, through a flickering TV screen, gave me the courage to pack up my life at 20 move to a random dot on the map… was gone. My idol, my invisible mentor, the curmudgeonly uncle I never had –but always wanted – was no more.

    I still watch reruns of A Cook’s Tour and No Reservations like they’re gospel. It’s like clinging to the voice of an old friend – someone you never actually knew but knew you, somehow. It’s not quite enough, but it’s all we’ve got.

    And yet, even now, he’s part of my DNA. He lives in the way I travel, the way I eat, the way I seek out chaos and charm in the same breath. He changed the way I think. He made me move. He made me feel. He made me want more from life than boring cruises and beige conversations.

    So today, I grab a bowl of something unpronounceable, find the most uncomfortable seat I can, and remember the guy who made it all make sense.

    Here’s to the man who said:

    “If I’m an advocate for anything, it’s to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. The extent to which you can walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food, it’s a plus for everybody. Open your mind, get up off the couch, move.”

    You changed everything. Thank you, Tony.

  • Confessions of a street food addict (stranded in the west)

    Having lived in various white-washed Western countries for most of my life, there is one thing my soul constantly yearns for. No, it’s not snow at Christmas or overpriced coffee from a hipster café with exposed brick walls. It’s street food.

    Glorious, unapologetic, spice-laden, oil-dripping, joy-inducing street food.

    Let me tell you, I think about street food more than I’d like to admit. It’s basically my Roman Empire. Every. Single. Day. I reluctantly accept – sometimes multiple times a day – that it just won’t be the same here in Australia as it is back in India or really, anywhere in Asia.

    Because here’s the thing: Asia doesn’t just serve street food. Asia is street food. It’s alive. It has a pulse, a heartbeat. It dances in the chaos of the streets, it sings from a sizzling wok, and it hugs your soul in a crinkly paper plate dripping with chutney.

    As a kid, some of my happiest memories involve eating copious amounts of pani puris and bhel puris on Juhu Beach with my grandfather.

    It was a whole evening of messy, magical perfection: Eat a pani puri, play in the sand, hop on a horse that may or may not have been retired from racing, and finish the night off with fresh coconut water straight from the coconut.

    The coconut guy would expertly hack it open with a machete (with the swagger of a Michelin chef), and then use the top to carve out that soft, sweet tender coconut flesh. Pure heaven. Gordon Ramsay could never.

    And how can I not mention gola – that iconic tower of crushed ice drenched in syrup, the king of childhood cravings. Specifically, kalakhatta. That sour, sweet, pungent flavour that I haven’t tasted since I left India decades ago. It’s a memory etched in my taste buds. I mean, come on – that’s the original umami, at its absolute dramatic, tongue-staining best. On a hot summer evening at Chowpatty, nothing calmed your soul (or sweat) like a kalakhatta gola. Sticky fingers, purple tongue, and total bliss.

    As an adult, every trip back to Asia reminds me just how intrinsic street food is to the culture. You could be drenched in sweat, dodging scooters, and possibly being eyed by a stray dog—but one bite of that snack and it’s all forgiven. Your taste buds are doing a Bollywood dance sequence, and honestly, who needs aircon when you’ve got that kind of joy?

    I blame (and thank) Anthony Bourdain for keeping this love alive during my early adulthood. I devoured his shows like I devour a good banh mi. I’m talking reruns, quotes, emotional breakdowns—the whole fan club kit. I still remember the pure serotonin hit watching lanky Tony awkwardly perch on a bright red stool in Vietnam, slurping a local soup handed to him by a woman with a bubbling pot and zero time for nonsense. I felt that moment. His commitment to eating everything, everywhere, all the time? Iconic. Relatable. Deeply validating.

    I, too, would sit curbside in the most chaotic of places just for a bite of samosa chaat in Bombay, or noodles in Singapore, or fried things on sticks in Thailand that I can’t even name but will dream about for years. Tony got it. Tony was us.

    But now, back in Australia – the land of brunch and politely portioned tacos – I find myself dreaming of a different foodscape. Sure, we have “street food festivals” and “hawker-style events,” but if I need to sell a kidney to buy a $20 bao bun, we’re not really talking street food anymore, are we?

    I’m craving the real deal. The grit. The flavour. The auntie yelling “next!” without looking up. The faint hum of Bollywood music in the distance. The unapologetically spicy chutney that makes your eyes water but you go back for more anyway. THAT is the street food dream.

    So here’s to hoping that one day, we embrace a little more of that glorious chaos. Not a neatly plated, avocado-smeared version – but the real stuff. The soul food. The kind that doesn’t need a PR campaign because it’s too busy making you fall in love with life again.

    Until then, I’ll keep watching Bourdain reruns, dreaming of Juhu Beach, and maybe – just maybe – trying to recreate that coconut-carving technique in my suburban backyard (results pending, finger count may vary).

    Thanks for everything, Tony. And to street food – my forever love story.

  • The Little Bagel Shop That Saved Me

    Years ago, life threw me a curveball. Not just any curveball – one of those gut-wrenching, soul-shattering events that most people don’t fully come back from. Some grow bitter. Others become a hollowed-out version of who they used to be.

    Me? I found solace in a bagel.

    Not just any bagel, though. A vego bagel from a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it café called Jungle Juice Bar, tucked away in Degraves Street, Melbourne.

    I didn’t go looking for a safe haven, but I stumbled into one. And for almost 15 years now, this place has been my constant – one of the few places in the world where they know my order before I even say a word. I walk in, and like magic, my drink is ready, and my bagel appears. It’s like an unspoken ritual, a quiet understanding between me and this little café that unknowingly helped piece me back together.

    The Best Bagel in the World (And I’m Not Even a Vegetarian)

    I’ve eaten an obscene number of bagels in my life. All over the world, from London to Paris to random street vendors who swore they had the best. But nothing – not one single bagel – has kept me coming back like this one.

    It’s deceptively simple: tomatoes, avocado, rocket, and the sauce – a sauce so good it could make angels weep. The owner makes it himself, and no, you cannot buy it. If you could, I’d have a stockpile at home, dunking everything I eat into it.

    The bagel itself? Pure perfection. It arrives soft and warm, and the first bite sends you into a state of bliss where nothing else matters. Your hands get messy, but you don’t care. The only mission is to savor every last morsel.

    The Service: Five-Star Hospitality, Zero Small Talk

    There’s a tall guy – who I assume is the owner –and a lovely lady who always greets me with a warm smile. They remember my order, they acknowledge me, and then – most importantly – they leave me alone.

    For someone who despises small talk and cherishes their solitude, this is chef’s kiss perfection. A brief exchange, a bit of recognition, and then the glorious freedom to sit quietly, uninterrupted. No forced chit-chat, no unnecessary pleasantries – just good food, good vibes, and the kind of service that respects personal space.

    A Sanctuary in the Chaos

    During the hardest time in my life, Jungle Juice Bar became more than a café. It was my escape hatch.

    Degraves Street is a whirlwind – bustling, loud, filled with tourists. But this tiny corner of the world let me hide away when I needed it most. It gave me consistency when everything else felt like it was crumbling. It let me sit, sip, and breathe when breathing felt impossible.

    I doubt the owners know how much their little café meant to me back then. But I do.

    And as I look back, I see the ashes of who I was and the person I became. Rising from the wreckage, piece by piece. And somewhere in that journey, there was a bagel, a smile, and a quiet place to think.

    So, to Jungle Juice Bar – thank you. For never judging, for always welcoming, for making the best damn bagel in the world, and for being exactly what I needed when I needed it most.

    If you ever need a place that feels like a warm hug (or just a life-changing bagel), don’t wait. Go to Jungle Juice. It’s quintessentially Melbourne – but more than that, it’s the kind of place that stays with you long after you’ve left.

    JUNGLE JUICE BAR: https://www.instagram.com/junglejuicebar?igsh=ZTQ0NTJtcHZlZW1k

  • Embla: Melbourne’s very own Diagon Alley hidden bar(but with great cocktails)

    If Melbourne had its own version of Diagon Alley, Embla would be the tucked-away little bar you’d only find if you knew exactly where to look.

    No big sign. No fanfare. Just a nondescript shopfront that looks like it could be abandoned – or worse, one of those places that sells “antiques” but really just hoards broken typewriters and existential dread. Blink, and you’ll miss it. But if you do notice it, you’ll pause, squint, and think, Is this a secret club? A front for something? Am I about to make a terrible life choice?

    Luckily, we decided to roll the dice and open the giant, slightly intimidating door. And thank Merlin we did. Because behind that door is pure, unfiltered, culinary magic.

    First up: the bar. The glorious, spacious bar where bartenders aren’t just slinging drinks – they’re conducting alchemy. Negronis shimmer like liquid amber, margaritas shimmy across your taste buds, and the wine list? Generous. Thoughtful. The kind that makes you pretend you know more about tannins than you actually do.

    And then there’s the food. My goodness, the food.

    The beef? Magnificent. Like, “forget everything you thought you knew about beef” magnificent.
    The chicken crisps? Impossible to stop at two. I’m not even sure stopping at ten is realistic.
    The peppers in sesame and macadamia sauce? I’d trade a family heirloom for another plate.
    The pasta? Exactly how pasta should always taste but rarely does. Fresh, silky, perfect.

    Every time I leave Embla, I’m already plotting my return before I even hit the footpath. When are we coming back? I ask my husband, like a kid who just discovered theme parks exist.

    So, if you haven’t been, do yourself a favour: find that hidden door, step inside, order a Negroni, and let the magic unfold.

    EMBLA: https://embla.com.au

  • Asafoetida: The spice that smells Like trouble but saves your tummy

    Let’s talk about a spice that’s like the quirky aunt at a family gathering – loud, slightly offensive, but ultimately the unsung hero of the day. Meet Asafoetida, pronounced asa-pho-dita (yes, it’s a mouthful – and trust me, you’ll remember it once you’ve smelled it). In simpler circles, we just call it hing, which feels less like a tongue twister and more like a quick fix.

    Now, you might not know asafoetida by name, but if you’ve ever walked into an Indian restaurant and been hit with that signature aroma – pungent, earthy, and utterly unapologetic – you’ve already met its alter ego. This spice is the reason your favourite dal and curries taste like warm, flavourful hugs. But wait – there’s more!

    From the spice rack to your medicine cabinet

    In a world overflowing with stress, anxiety, and the dreaded TMI-inducing tummy troubles (ahem, bloating, gas, constipation), Asafoetida comes in swinging like a digestive superhero. Forget sprinting to the pharmacy the next time your gut acts up. Just sprinkle a pinch of this smelly miracle worker into your food, and it might just revolutionise your relationship with digestion.

    Not convinced? Let me take you back to its roots. In Ayurveda—India’s ancient system of medicine built on the philosophy that “food is medicine” – Asafoetida is a cornerstone. Growing up in a household steeped in this belief, I learned that healing begins in the kitchen. Why pop pills when you can stir up solutions in a pot, right?

    The great (smelly) paradox

    Here’s the thing: Asafoetida has a reputation. It’s got a smell so distinct that it will make you question your choices… until you taste the end result. That aroma? It’s supposed to be strong. Think of it like tough love for your senses. The magic lies in how that pungency mellows into a rich, savoury flavour that ties your dish together. It’s the spice equivalent of “don’t judge a book by its cover.”

    How to use it without clearing the room

    The trick to handling hing is moderation. A pinch is all you need. Fry it lightly in a bit of oil to temper its raw edge, and you’ll unlock a layer of flavour that makes your lentils, beans, and even stir-fries sing. Bonus: your stomach will thank you. It’s like having a two-for-one deal – delicious food and better digestion.

    Why your gut needs Hing

    Here’s the science-y bit: Asafoetida is a natural anti-flatulent (you’re welcome), antispasmodic, and digestive aid. It’s been used for centuries to treat bloating, gas, and other stomach grumbles. And let’s face it, in today’s fast-food, stress-filled world, our guts could use all the help they can get.

    A Call to Action (and a pinch of humour)

    So, the next time you’re reaching for the antacids or dashing to the pharmacy aisle in search of relief, stop and think: What if the answer was in my spice rack all along? Give Asafoetida a try. It might just be the stinky little secret to a happier gut—and a happier you.

    Sure, it smells like trouble, but it’s also the spice that could save your day. And let’s be honest, wouldn’t you rather smell a little funky for a hot minute than deal with a grumpy digestive system all day?

    Now, go forth, sprinkle wisely, and let asafoetida work its smelly, magical wonders. Your tummy will thank you.

  • The Dumpling Diaries: Why Chi Bao is my Chinese New Year Heaven

    Ah, Chinese New Year! That glorious time of year when we have a socially acceptable excuse to stuff ourselves silly with dumplings at all hours of the day (and night). Seriously, is there anything better than the annual license to indulge in these little parcels of joy? I think not.

    As a proud Melbournian, there’s one thing I hear over and over: “The best Asian food is in the south-eastern and eastern suburbs – places like Box Hill.” Now, having called various parts of Melbourne home over the last two decades and now residing in the western suburbs, I’ve got to say –this is where I wave my chopsticks in disagreement.

    Enter Chi Bao in Yarraville. This unassuming spot, hidden in the now-trendy streets of Yarraville, is a masterclass in understated excellence. But let’s not get caught up in labels – Chi Bao is all about one word: consistency. It’s understated, humble, and consistently knocks it out of the park with its food, especially those mouthwatering dumplings.

    The Dumpling love affair

    Let’s start with the showstopper: The Xiao long bao. These soft, pillowy soup dumplings are tiny pockets of pure joy. If you’ve ever struggled with the delicate art of eating them without a volcanic eruption of soup, you’re not alone. Shoutout to Anthony Bourdain for teaching us the ropes – poke a little hole, let it cool, and then savor that heavenly mix of broth, chilli, and vinegar before devouring the dumpling itself. It’s a ritual, really, and one that leaves you craving the next dumpling immediately after the first.

    But Chi Bao doesn’t stop at soup dumplings. Their menu is a parade of deliciousness – chilli dumplings, wontons, and a variety of other Eastern delights that you don’t need to fully understand to enjoy. You just need to eat. And eat. And eat.

    Chilli oil: The Dumpling’s soulmate

    Let’s talk about chilli oil – the MVP of the dumpling world, what turns a great dumpling, into a magnificent dumpling. The perfect yin to the dumpling yang. Chi Bao’s chilli oil is the perfect blend of heat and flavor, a spicy sidekick that takes your dumpling experience from delightful to downright divine. It’s the kind of chilli oil that lingers in your memory long after the last dumpling is gone, teasing you to come back for more.

    Service with quiet confidence

    Now, onto the service. Friendly? Absolutely. Attentive? Definitely. But what I love most is their quiet confidence. Honestly, I’ve been there so many times they could probably recite my order in their sleep, but they still treat every visit like it’s the first. No over-the-top theatrics, just a gentle nod and a warm smile. It’s the kind of service that makes you feel welcomed but never overwhelmed – a delicate balance that Chi Bao nails every time.

    The trifecta of happiness

    In a world where consistency is often underrated, Chi Bao shines. They’ve perfected the holy trinity of dumpling delight: Delicious dumplings, killer chilli oil, and impeccable service. It’s simple, really – ‘consistency’ is the new ‘perfect’.

    So, as the Year of the Snake kicks off, you’ll find me at Chi Bao, indulging in my favourite tradition of all: Dumplings, dumplings, and more dumplings. Happy eating, and may your year be as satisfying as that first bite of a perfectly crafted Xiao long bao!

    Restaurant website: https://www.chibao.com.au

  • The unsung elegance of 7/11 sandwiches

    Picture this: You’re hungry, on the go, and in dire need of something quick, satisfying, and, dare I say, elegant. Enter the humble yet iconic 7/11 sandwich – a culinary savior, wrapped in a tidy little package of joy. Whether you’re strolling through the neon-lit streets of Tokyo, navigating Melbourne’s laneways, or waiting for a Tube in London, these little beauties are there, patiently waiting to make your day just a little better.

    Let’s take a moment to appreciate their genius.

    Elegance in Simplicity

    Unlike the chaos-inducing, hipster-approved sandwiches that seem to require a toolbelt of napkins, a mirror, and a quiet corner to consume without public embarrassment, the 7/11 sandwich is a masterclass in restraint. Wrapped pristinely in its plastic cocoon, it’s mess-free, fuss-free, and entirely drama-free. You can eat one standing, walking, commuting, or even mid-conversation without looking like you’ve just survived a food fight.

    While those Melbourne giant sandwiches boast artisanal sourdough and layers of obscure fillings, they also come with a side of existential dread. How do you even begin to tackle a sandwich the size of a small planet? No such concerns here. The 7/11 sandwich is a snack-size masterpiece that whispers, “I’ve got you,” without demanding a single paper towel in return.

    Versatility at Its Best

    Feeling peckish but not starving? Perfect, grab one. Want a full meal? Easy, grab two – or three if you’re feeling adventurous. The flavors are endless: the universally adored egg and mayo, the reliable katsu chicken, and even dessert options that cater to your sweet tooth. And because they’re perfectly portioned, there’s no guilt in sampling a few in one sitting. Variety is the spice of life, after all.

    A Global Phenomenon

    Whether you’re wandering the aisles of Lawsons in Japan, FamilyMart in Malaysia, or your local 7/11 in Melbourne, these sandwiches transcend borders and culinary traditions. They’re the quiet overachievers of convenience store snacks, delivering comfort and satisfaction no matter where you are at a very reasonable price.

    The Anti-Hipster Sandwich

    Sure, fancy sandwiches have their place, but let’s be honest: they’re high-maintenance. By the time you’ve wrangled one into your mouth, half the filling has escaped, your hands are covered in sauce, and you’re questioning every life choice that led you there. The 7/11 sandwich? Pure, unadulterated convenience. No mess, no fuss, just pure sandwich bliss.

    So next time hunger strikes, skip the artisanal chaos and head straight for your nearest 7/11. Trust me, that neatly wrapped pocket of joy will remind you that sometimes, less really is more.

    In Conclusion

    What’s not to love about 7/11 sandwiches? They’re cheap, cheerful, and always there for you—like the best kind of friend. And while Melbourne’s sandwich scene might be having a moment, I’ll take my humble egg mayo over an overpriced, oversized, and overwhelmingly messy sourdough spectacle any day.

    Because sometimes, elegance comes in small, plastic-wrapped packages.

  • An ode to the creamy queen: Mayonnaise

    Ah, mayonnaise. That velvety elixir of life, the silky embrace of happiness, the unsung hero of my fridge. Sure, people talk about ketchup or barbecue sauce, but let’s be honest – they’re mere jesters in the condiment court. Mayonnaise is the true queen, sitting regally atop her throne, ruling our taste buds with her rich, tangy reign.

    Let’s break it down: fries? Elevated. A burger? Transcendent. A salad? Transformed into a work of art. It’s not just a condiment; it’s a culinary magician. One moment, it’s a humble spread on your sandwich, the next, it’s a key ingredient in the world’s fanciest tartare sauce. Add a few capers and cornichons, and bam, you’ve got something so gourmet, even the French would applaud.

    Feeling fancy? Whisk mayonnaise with a touch of mustard and a splash of Worcestershire sauce, and suddenly your Caesar salad becomes the Beyoncé of greens. Feeling lazy? Just dollop it on some fish and chips, and you’ve got yourself a five-star meal without lifting a finger.

    Let’s not forget its versatility. Mayonnaise doesn’t discriminate. It mingles with everything and makes everything better. Need a creamy base for your coleslaw? Mayo’s got you. A secret ingredient for your cake batter? Yep, mayo works there too (Google it, I swear).

    Meanwhile, ketchup, bless its heart, just sits there, all one-dimensional and red, while mayonnaise is out here living her best life, turning up with flavors and possibilities. Mayonnaise isn’t just a condiment – it’s an attitude.

    So here’s to mayonnaise: the creamy queen of snacks, salads, and everything in between. Long may she reign!

  • Khichdi: The alchemy of comfort

    Ah, khichdi. The golden, mushy marvel that deserves its own place in the pantheon of life’s great comforts. Not just a dish – it’s a state of being. A molten lava-like concoction of spiced rice and lentils that quietly heals and revolutionises your soul, one spoonful at a time.

    How does one exist without khichdi? Seriously, I’d like to know. Because for as long as I can remember, khichdi has been the backbone of my survival strategy. Breakup? Khichdi. Thunderstorms? Khichdi. Wallet thinner than my patience on a Monday? Khichdi. Open fridge, echoing with emptiness? Khichdi to the rescue.

    This humble, unassuming dish is the mothership we all return to when life’s chaos threatens to send us hurtling into the void. Joyful moments, too – though let’s face it, khichdi thrives in crisis situations. Like a wise maternal figure with a ladle in hand, it soothes, nurtures, and slowly nudges you back to hope, humanity, and the quiet conviction that everything will, somehow, be okay.

    And let’s talk economics here. A bowl of khichdi costs mere pennies to make, yet its worth? Absolutely priceless. It’s kitchen alchemy at its finest—turning pantry staples into a meal that feels like it was sent from the heavens. Rice, lentils, maybe a pinch of spice, and voilà! Breakfast, lunch, or dinner is sorted. Khichdi doesn’t discriminate – it’s there for you, 24/7.

    So, next time you’re teetering on the edge of existential despair (or just staring at an empty fridge), let khichdi be your guide. It’s not just food – it’s sustenance for the body, balm for the soul, and proof that sometimes, the simplest things in life are the most profound.

    Alchemy? Maybe not. Khichdi is the philosopher’s stone.