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Habibi, come to Dubai to savour authentic Indian food
As a fragile peace emerges on the horizon, with the United States and Iran stepping back from the brink, it's time to return to our favourite food joints in Dubai
- PUBLISHED: Thu 9 Apr 2026, 9:48 PM
Why do we go to a restaurant?
Perhaps to enjoy good food.
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But then, can we not cook good food at home?
Perhaps it’s for consistency.
Consistency of what — taste, quality, experience?
Or maybe to seek a change.
A change in what, exactly?
Perhaps for a shift in ambience, the subtle difference in flavour, the pleasure of variety.
Yet, one might still wonder, can we not create that same variety within the comfort of our own home?
Perhaps we step out for something less tangible — a few unguarded moments to look at one another and smile, instead of surrendering, as we so often do, to the glow of our phone screens.
But why should that require a restaurant? Is there some unspoken taboo against meeting each other’s eyes within the four walls of home?
Perhaps, then, it is simply a break in routine — a gentle rebellion against the monotony of days that blur into one another.
People clearly have their own reasons. Yet, in the end, it all circles back to a simple promise: good food.
But how many of us are truly content with what is placed on the platter?
One often hears, before a holiday, “Back in India in a few days, then great time and great food, man.”
I am not entirely convinced. After my recent visits to India — every few months — I find myself arriving at a different conclusion: that many people there are, in fact, struggling to find truly authentic Indian food.
Growing up in India, I was convinced that the finest food was always served at home — by Amma.
She is no longer with us, yet decades later, I remain certain of one thing: the best meals are still those prepared at home — by wife, sisters, a househelp, or even in-laws.
I say this with some authority, for eating out has been a part of my life since my school days.
In primary school, I would smuggle cashews from home in the pockets of my uniform, sell them, and use the money to buy candy. By high school, my misdemeanours had grown bolder. I would steal a few coins and slip into the dim, dingy backroom of the tea shop next to the school — not so much for the food, but to observe the curious rituals of the male teachers who occupied the front room during the long break.
They would make merry — teasing one another, smoking, devouring plates of tapioca and beef, and offering irreverent commentary on their female colleagues.
In the evenings, we would gather at our family studio, where my uncle would serve hot poratta bought from the restaurant downstairs. Dining out, as we understand it today, was almost unheard of for families back in time. Eating at a restaurant was less a choice and more a necessity — something one did while in town on errands that stretched past mealtime.
On such occasions, there were familiar, dependable stops in my hometown Thrissur. Bharath, founded in 1964, and Pathans, established in 1980, were known for their South Indian vegetarian fare. Sree Radhakrishna Coffee Club, dating back to 1943, had earned a loyal following for its masala dosa, while Hotel Sapphire delighted biryani enthusiasts.
Central Hotel, established in 1936 by William during the British Raj, carried an old-world charm. It was frequented by luminaries such as Prem Nazir and political stalwarts including K. Karunakaran, Panampilly Govinda Menon, and A. K. Gopalan, and was renowned for its rich non-vegetarian dishes.
During my college days, however, my loyalties lay elsewhere — at the Indian Coffee House, established in 1958, and at Ambadi Restaurant, celebrated for its paratha and kuruma. These were not merely places to eat; they were my quiet refuge, where I would sit with Neruda or Ho Chi Minh, having slipped out of uninspiring Chaucer-era lectures.
The Coffee House, with its genteel air and its famous heart-shaped cutlet — served with fork and spoon — drew the more affluent crowd. Casino and Central, too, had their patrons, attracted as much by ambience as by food. The common man, meanwhile, found honest value at Bharath and Pathans — places where a meal was measured not in flourish, but in worth.
Then came the 1990s, when India’s middle class expanded rapidly and the industry struggled to keep pace with the surge in demand. In that scramble, something was lost: quality took a visible beating, hygiene became an afterthought, and portions shrank to a reluctant minimum.
The cutlet lost its heart-shaped charm, the sauce, its brilliant hue. The fork and spoon lost their sheen and quietly disappeared. Even the masala dosa, biryani and coffee seemed to lose their heady, irresistible aroma. The chaat lacked its characteristic tang.
The tea and coffee glasses shrank to the size of a diminutive circus prop — almost comical to behold — yet the cash till rang louder than ever, working overtime.
Then came the wave of Middle Eastern cuisine — an import carried home by expatriates. Small joints selling kebabs, mandi, and shawarma sprang up across South India, multiplying almost overnight. Soon after, a swarm of influencers began championing fast food, drawing an entire generation towards indulgence, often at the cost of health.
When reports of spoiled meat began surfacing — and, tragically, lives were lost — public sentiment shifted. A growing awareness of health and hygiene has since offered a glimmer of hope.
Yet, authentic Indian food remains elusive in many places I travel. In the part of Bengaluru where I stay, the search for true North Indian biryani — not the sticky southern variant — often ends in disappointment. The once-delightful Mangalore kachori has turned rubbery. Good filter coffee is surprisingly hard to come by. The humble masala dosa has morphed into unfamiliar shapes and flavours; the vada has lost its crispness; the sambar, its Tamil soul. Even the beloved Mangalore bun no longer carries its signature softness and fluffiness.
Tikka and tandoori dishes in the South frequently miss the depth of marinade and that unmistakable smokiness. And after repeated reports of food poisoning, even the thought of non-vegetarian fare can send a faint shiver down the spine.
This is where Dubai makes a striking difference. Rigorous and regular quality checks, combined with a fiercely competitive market, ensure that restaurants strive to deliver both authenticity and excellence. Even a modest six-dirham filter coffee at a Tamil vegetarian restaurant can lift one’s spirits for the entire day.
The clientele here is discerning and unforgiving — any establishment that falls short is swiftly left behind. That is why, even today, long queues form outside certain eateries across Dubai, with patrons willing to brave the summer heat or winter chill, all in pursuit of a meal worth waiting for.
Even as missiles and drones fell during the recent Iranian aggression, people continued to flock to Dubai’s food hubs — Karama among them — well into the early hours. For many expatriates, a ritual weekend visit to a favourite eatery is more than a habit; it is a sustaining pleasure they carry with them through the week.
And wherever I go, I am reminded that it is not the ambience that truly matters — it is the food, above all else. With every seat occupied and strangers often sharing your table, there is little of the privacy one might imagine; no lingering gaze across the table, no quiet intimacy. Yet, none of that seems to matter.
Dubai, with its more than 13,000 restaurants, has firmly established itself as one of the world’s great culinary capitals — ranked the second-best city for food globally in Tripadvisor’s Travellers’ Choice Awards 2026. It is little wonder, then, that many Indian politicians and film stars have chosen this city as the stage for their culinary ventures.
There are signs of peace on the horizon after a month of turmoil across the Gulf. The United States and Iran appear to be stepping back from the brink, agreeing to a tentative two-week ceasefire.
All’s well, one hopes, that ends well.
In the meantime, life here carries on with its familiar rhythm. So, habibi, come to Dubai, where your search for authentic Indian food may still find its most satisfying answer.
(The writer is executive editor of Khaleej Times)
