A Cozy Café, Street Art & a Kebab Fest

 On a recent visit to Delhi, I found myself with some time on my hands before a dinner engagement with a former medical school classmate, now a renowned surgeon in the city. I decided to visit the nearby Lodi Gardens, where I spent a happy couple of hours rambling through its sprawling expanse—a walk I have narrated in a previous blog.

On my way back, I passed the Meteorological Observatory and the rather officious-looking Mausam Bhavan on Lodi Road. Its walls, however, were enlivened by a pleasing collection of street art. Among the paintings was even a rainy-day scene at CST station (the erstwhile Victoria Terminus) in Mumbai. Street art has always fascinated me; apart from its aesthetic appeal, it adroitly conceals layers of grime and dust, making the locality appear more cheerful and colourful.

It was a cold, foggy evening in early January, with the temperature hovering around 11°C. Though well protected against the chill, I had worked up a healthy appetite after my walk in Lodi Garden. I decided to drop in at a café I had read about, located barely 300 metres from my place of stay.

Common Time is a small café in Lodi Colony and, on that Friday evening, it was lightly patronised—just the way I like it. Overcrowded cafés and heightened decibel levels grate on the eardrums, and the pleasure of sipping coffee—either lost in one’s thoughts with soft background music or engaged in quiet conversation with a companion—is soon diminished.

I was fortunate to be seated at a table with several empty chairs beside me, happily munching on a butter croissant while sipping a special pour-over single-estate coffee, a speciality the café prides itself on. The coffee was served in a small, dainty cup without a handle, marked with the aphorism “designed to be held.”

Long after I had left the café, well satiated, a curious thought lingered—had “designed to be held” a deeper connotation that I had missed? As most others in the café were holding on to their companions!

As the evening slipped away, it was time to meet my friend for dinner. He had chosen a restaurant in Connaught Place—CP, as Delhiites fondly call it—named The Great Kebab Factory, modelled on the Barbeque Nation outlets I have visited in Mumbai. Here too, the crowd was limited, the décor pleasing, and the ambience inviting.

Adding to the charm was a mehfil of live music: old Hindi film songs sung on request by a young man with a pleasing voice, who captured the original sur and taal of most melodies with remarkable finesse. My friend is a devoted admirer of such music, and we spent a delightful evening listening to songs that evoked nostalgia and memories of our medical college days, happily munching on an endless array of kebabs.

The feast began with the famous Galouti Kebab from Lucknow, served on a soft shirmal roti. Chicken, fish, and lamb kebabs followed in generous succession, until we were so thoroughly stuffed that we could barely do justice to the main course that arrived thereafter. Throughout the meal, we were regaled with timeless melodies—songs that felt both familiar and comforting.

As all good things must, this wonderful evening too came to an end—one that began with a tranquil walk through Lodi Garden, punctuated over coffee in a cozy café, and concluded with a kebab fest accompanied by music, nostalgia, and the joy of reliving memories with a dear friend.