Breakfast
From eleven, when the light is still soft.
An Indianised jamming café three floors above 17th Cross — pure vegetarian Goan and coastal cooking, walls of plants, a rain curtain, and somebody playing most evenings.
Sorak and xacuti, caldin and feijoada, poi to mop them up and sol kadi to finish. Around it, everything else Bengaluru eats on a weeknight — rice bowls, pasta, and a very long list of coffee.
All 87 dishesFrom eleven, when the light is still soft.
The long, unhurried middle of a Sunday.
Full plates under the tiled roof.
Later, once the amps are warm.
Most evenings someone is playing. A keyboard against the logo wall, a guitar passed around, candles down on the floor and the room sitting cross-legged in front of it. No cover, no green room, no setlist we can promise you in advance.
More on the musicFour towns, four things worth getting wet for — running alongside the main card while the rain lasts.
Long chillies in gram-flour batter, split and stuffed, fried to order. Coconut chutney on the side.
Flat, crisp, studded with onion and curry leaf — the vada that got its name from a railway platform.
Soft, round, sour-tinged with curd. The coast's answer to a rainy afternoon.
Vada drowned in thick curd, then scattered with sev, pomegranate and coriander.