Shibani Bawa

For many families in Delhi, going out in the ‘90s and early 2000s was a fairly predictable experience. One weekend was reserved for lavish Indian food – tandoori chicken, malai kofta, and the likes – and the next, invariably, for Chinese. It was always an oscillation between these two in those days. In our house, this ritual was followed with fascinating precision. Chinese weekends almost always meant a trek to Golden Dragon in Vasant Vihar. Even now I have a vivid recollection of that large installation of a golden dragon spread across the ceiling. The order’s branded into my memory with a white-hot poker: either sweet corn or hot and sour soup, chilli chicken, Hakka noodles, and, for me, sweet and sour prawns, which were glossy, sticky, more sweet than sour, but I loved them. Years later, I discovered that there were other facets to Chinese cuisine: tingling complexity of Sichuan peppercorns, the elegance of Cantonese broths, and the wondrous pleasures of a leisurely dimsum brunch. My childhood meals at Chinese restaurants had none of these refinements, yet I still find myself returning to them with fair regularity. It’d be unfair to bring authenticity into this conversation, because what I’m really after is comfort and nostalgia. For the very specific, gratifying joy of what’s now lovingly called ‘Chinjabi’ food. (The Punjabi self-inserts are ubiquitous, it seems.) What’s Chinjabi food? As I said, it’s pointless to pull the authenticity card in the Indo-Chinese or Chinjabi

Nihari on toast sounds like the sort of brilliant midnight snack that could easily be born in a college dorm in Agra. At Room 304, it’s this spirit of youthful improvisation of three college buddies – Sachin, Himkar and Kabir – that runs through the menu. The drinks and food lean into lived-in moments: there are memories here of tequila without mixers, rescued by the city’s trusted chaat stalls and their tangy gol gappa pani.  It’s mostly rooted in a time when these guys inhabited – you guessed it – Room 304, during their undergraduate years in Agra. Nostalgic, yes, and slightly chaotic. The first clue that this place doesn’t take itself too seriously arrives before you even walk in. Step out of the elevator and you’re faced with five identical doors, all marked 304. Naturally, everyone pauses for a second, wondering if this is a bar or the beginning of an escape room. I’ll avoid spoilers, but once you figure out the correct entrance, the rest of the evening unfolds like a charming college memory – with better drinks. Barely 30 people can fit in here, and that’s intentional. While we waited for our table, resident DJ Ananya, spinning retro vinyl, got into a chat with us the way someone hosts friends at home, rather than customers at a bar.  The idea for Room 304 apparently solidified after the founders visited a listening room in Bengaluru, so music here matters too. One particularly loud group on the evening when we were there nearly entirely derailed the vibe with an aggres