No. 1 · to arrive
Tamarind and mint, in a cold copper tumbler
A long pour, with a sprig from the pot on the kitchen step.
Once or twice a week, a quiet, tree lined lane in Bengaluru carries the smell of cardamom and brown butter out into the evening. A long table, candles in chipped brass, ten people who were strangers at 7:30 and friends by dessert. This is supper, the slow way.
Dear you, whoever you are. I am not a restaurant. I am a kitchen with a long table beside it, and on the nights I host, I cook for ten people the way I cook for the ones I love. There is no soft music piped in from somewhere; the soundtrack is the pressure cooker, and whatever Aslam next door is humming.
I will probably tell you the story of every dish before you eat it. I will definitely ask you about yours. The evening unspools at its own pace: a drink on the verandah, a slow, six course supper, and a long, lingering goodbye on the doorstep, somewhere close to midnight.
I hope you'll come. The kettle is on.
Jennie Host · Cook · DoorkeeperThe menu shifts with what the market hands me on Thursday. Here is a recent one, so you know the shape of an evening.
Every supper begins the same way: a doorbell, a hug, a glass pressed into a hand. Then it goes somewhere we couldn't have planned. These are notes from a few of those.
My favourite part of the evening is the moment after the main course, when nobody is in a hurry to leave.
We sit at one long table. The kitchen is open, so you can wander in for seconds. Children are welcome. Dogs, sadly, are not, on account of Misty the resident cat.
Reservations open one month ahead, one table a night, ten chairs around it. When the table is full, the door, for that evening, gently closes.
DAJ Pull the seal, take a seat Reserve an evening