On a good day, RoohAfza tastes like a vampire’s tonic that drowned itself in a vat of sugar. On a bad day, it tastes like pulverised incense stick. What then is the hype really about?

I hated karela as a child and I’m now left to deal with my daughter, who is so averse to bitter gourd that she won’t let it anywhere near her plate.

Despite being from a cosmopolitan family, I realised that every day, I was unwittingly consuming our caste on my plate. In the game of kitchen politics, caste is a far more deeply riven divide, than the differences between North and South Indian food.

My young nephew knows A for Asparagus, B for Broccoli, and C for Celery. While the proletariat “palak” and “methi” draw a blank from him, his eyes light up with joyful recognition at the mention of rocket, kale, and arugula. His international school has only taught him about “angezi sabzi”.

The prize for fasting is the feast. Now there are feasts, and there is iftar, a meal so elaborate that it gives other religions #feastinggoals.

Indian restaurants and pubs have their own caste system. Firangs are the Brahmins of the restaurant world, and next in line are Silver Spoons – celebrities from the film industry. All the hospitality is reserved for them. At the bottom of the rung are single, young men, aka the Sad Stag Group.

Gone are the days of good old steamed idlis and paneer-capsicum pizza. Today restaurants that serve pav bhaji fondue and red velvet dhokla flourish. It doesn’t matter if the food tastes awful. Just like our lives online, it is only important that the food we eat looks great.

As a child growing up in Calcutta, we were raised to believe that if the mango was the king of all fruits, the Himsagar was the emperor. It is all about swag, style, and a symbol of Bengali pride. When I moved to Mumbai, I approached the Alphonso with all the cynicism of a Bengali. And then I was smitten by its fragrance.

Turn your plain old masala Maggi into crunchy spring rolls with this easy recipe.

Dear jackfruit, you are about to replace moringa as the next best thing to have happened to the white gut. The Brits have branded you a “vegan sensation”. Be prepared to be passed off as a burger patty, meatballs, or a crab cake.

The Bandra drinking hole Yacht is now a resto-bar. Gentrification has reared its ugly head again, as with other dive bars like Jagdamba and Abhinandan, now truncated to JD's and AB's.

Evening snacking is the death that all noble intentions meet. Vada pavs, samosas, bread rolls can be found guilty of causing everything from weight gain to cholesterol. And 5 pm is that deadly hour when all hell breaks loose.

On Poila Boisakh, the lives of the big-eyed, gentle-faced, and maach-guzzling Bengalis are marred by a potent shadow of the world’s most deadly dose of ABC – ambol (acidity), bodhojom (indigestion), and constipation.

Every Sunday, at the stroke of noon, a group of Indians gathers to validate its privilege through Instagram filters of eggs Benedict and mimosa. This breed of people can be classified as snobby Sunday brunch-goers.

In India, poverty isn’t just a state of mind, and paisa-vasooli is a way of life. Yet, people buy an extra birthday cake, just to smash it gleefully in some unfortunate soul’s face. What gives?

Make the ultimate desi-Chinese fusion food, Wai Wai Chinese Bhel and send your tastebuds on a one way trip to flavourtown.

Switching cities can be a daunting task, especially when it comes to finding everyday comfort food. But culinary experimentation and acidity are two sides of the same coin. How do you flip a favourable outcome?

If you love biryani as much as we do, and haven't got enough of it on Eid, here's some more. We got Sama Ankolkar of The Hungry Bunny to whip us some some tasty mutton biryani.

Ever wondered how to roast chicken with super crisp skin? The answer is simple, just use a brick.

My mum and I are locked in an endless deathmatch: She’ll continue to ask me what I want for the next meal, before rejecting my suggestion outright, accusing me of making “kingly demands”, and serving us lauki for dinner anyway.

Gujaratis inherit a penchant for "food terrorism". There were Gujarati kids at school who wouldn’t drink “jhoota” water in case it had been touched by a meat eater. And there was my grandmother who’d remind me that I was Jain every time I’d go for an evening snack.

Most middle-class Bengali families such as mine are moderately open-minded. You can make honest confessions to them about your vices and hope for a friendly ear, but never about your vegetarianism.

My Chinese roommate taught me that giving in to suspicious, alien flavours can prove to be a rewarding experience. And that friendships forged over fire stand the test of time.

Don’t be a douchebag to your hungry homies fasting during Ramzan and pester them with stupid queries such as “Do you feel weak?”, or “Isn’t fasting old-fashioned?” or “Don’t you cheat-eat?”

We seem to have become intolerant to the very foods that used to be household staples – butter, cheese, milk, and rotis! Has something truly changed, or as my mom would say, are we just trying new ways to push up our cool quotient?

Being vegetarian has never been an option in my household. But when my newly vegetarian friend asked how I could be a “woke” animal lover and still eat meat, I didn’t have an answer. The worst part? The judgment from my parents – my mutton-kebab-eating parents.

A list of essentials that urban Indians need to survive First World problems and the Armageddon.

The CBFC's at it again, this time it has gone after Amartya Sen. escalating stupidity up to ten, we've made them a cocktail, to help them find zen.

Travel and food are not as intricately related as we like to think. As a vegetarian, you can see the world if you don’t make a giant fuss about food.

Some Blue Cheese Tzatziki to drive away Arnab's unemployment blues.