Shomi Gupta

I understand the fear of eating alone. There’s even a word for it now: solomangarephobia. But in the same amount of time that it takes you to spell and pronounce that word, you could be rifling the menu at one of these spots that are a little more solo-friendly than others.  What are the distinguishing features of restaurants that nail the right ambience for solo dining, though? They could be different for different people. Some folks like louder places so they can merge into the crowd. Others like a quieter spot because that’s the reason they came out alone in the first place.  And Delhi, admittedly, has been making a marked effort to become solo-diner-friendly. Restaurants now have communal tables. Or spots with one or two stools clearly meant for the solo diner. Or even friendly, trained staff that don’t make you feel weird about coming in by yourself.  Of course, there are always snags: the too-long-stare around the floor to find you a seat and glances from the other tables. But much like Delhi, I’m all about conquering fears, and I kid you not, I have seen couples who haven't spoken in twenty minutes warm up to each other solely because they aren’t sitting alone like me. A win for all, I suppose. What do they know… maybe I’m just a super cool undercover food reviewer… oh wait. Here are some of the best options for a party of one. 

Delhi's first serious Bihari restaurant has spent over a decade single-handedly making the case that there is a cuisine east of Lucknow worth taking seriously in the capital (Bengalis and Northeast Indians, we’re obviously not talking about you. You know who we’re talking about).  It began as a fourth-floor walk-up in Shahpur Jat and has since moved to Hauz Khas Market under the name Potbelly Bar and Kitchen, and is in better form than ever.  The old favourites are all still here – Champaran mutton, the Bihari burger, dehati fish and chips, litti chokha – but Puja Sahu Iyer, who runs the kitchen, has been rummaging through her own childhood and peppering the menu with ingredients she grew up eating.  Millet is a motif across the menu. The arbi patta chaat is a refreshing departure from its cousin, palak patta (which Delhi has adopted whole-heartedly) but the real underdog is the moong dal chaat: tangy, sweet and with the right amount of crunch as a side. Oh, and there’s a new headliner: the noon paani mutton, slow-cooked in its own fat into something so delectable that everything plays out in sensuous slow motion after the first bite. The surprise, in a part of town that has otherwise abandoned all pretence of reasonable pricing, is how good the bar is. The signature cocktails are built around house-made and fermented ingredients – the Pick-up the Ante is tequila and mezcal sharpened with turmeric, pepper and honey; the Kanji ka Quila is tequila with fermented carrot and beet

In a city where restaurants are jostling with each other to get noticed, Triveni Kala Sangam, Joseph Allen Stein’s 1963 jali-walled masterpiece, hosts a popular terrace cafe that all of the city’s art-loving crowd knows. It’s a rare pocket of old Delhi soul in the middle of New Delhi’s frantically paced Mandi House. The kitchen manages an ambitious rotation of regional specials – Odia, Kumaoni, Maharashtrian – while continuing to work outside the dictates of Instagram. Its true anchors are the heritage classics. One must speak of the crispy and sharp palak patta chaat with deference, the bun kebabs and keema mattar have likely had weighty patrons, and if you’re counting your calories and that kind of stuff, there’s ragi toast and ragi idli (with gunpowder, of course). You can also order a decently sized thali under ₹500. Ultimately though, you aren't just paying for the meal; you’re paying for the courtyard. Here, the noise of Mandi House dims, the sound of adda floats above the hum of the cooler and gallons of tea are consumed over unhurried chats about theatre. It looks exactly as it did ten years ago, and in this case, it’s a good thing. 

A Vietnamese kitchen in one of Humayunpur’s alleys, Tuoi Moi Eats has a small but focused menu that’s never set in stone. Mary, the lady behind the counter, is likely to be actively gauging your reactions, so be prepared for a post-meal debrief that is equal parts technical and sincere.  The space is intimate, the vinyl selection is effortless (we moved from ABBA to the Beatles and the music didn’t interfere with the ambience), and the food honours the principles of Vietnamese cooking: cleanness, sharp flavours, and the precise smell of good fish sauce. Order the fresh prawn summer rolls and the banh mi, which has its own cult. The pho is a clean, properly seasoned bowl with fresh ingredients. The yellow chicken curry and the raw mango salad both deliver, and, slightly improbably, so do the bacon-wrapped prawns. Finish with the Vietnamese coffee, which is approximately three espressos in a trench coat made of condensed milk. The sleeper hit, though, is the homemade ice cream. People keep going back for it on its own, which is the kind of inarticulate compliment a kitchen strives to earn. They also do a delicately balanced flan which uses jaggery. Tuoi Moi means ‘fresh, new’ in Vietnamese – it checks out.