The Alley of Paranthas stretched before me, forty food stalls deep, each one identical to my untrained eye. I had no idea what a parantha was, but I was about to eat one.
“Try everything. The food is fantastic,” Jeremy had said. I trusted my friend’s experience—he’d lived in Delhi for several years. It sounded like good advice at the time, but standing before countless stalls dedicated to one flagship food item, how the hell was I supposed to choose? It was like staring down a grocery aisle filled with different brands of tomato paste. Too many options. There had to be a way to narrow the field.
The aroma of dusty cow manure drifted from the main street. That’s it. Follow my nose. If my nose isn’t into it, why should I be?
I walked into the alleyway. Sniff. The first stall on the corner mixed its aroma with those of the main street—curry, sweat, and dust. I walked deeper. Sniff-sniff. Toasted bread and sweet spices. Sniff-sniff. Creamy chutney and roasted cumin. Sniff-sniff-sniff. A fiery curry that made my eyes water. I’d reached the end of the alleyway. My stomach rumbled. Damn it. Everything smells good.
I turned around and surveyed my options. How else could I prune? A large family emerged from a stall ahead, the father picking his teeth with satisfaction. Customers. There need to be customers. If no one wants to eat there, then why should I?
I walked the alley again, counting heads. One customer, four empty tables. Nope. Two elderly men nursing chai, otherwise vacant. Pass. It was mid-morning and people were hungry, but most stalls had at least a few empty seats. Not helpful.
What about the type of customers? Tourists might signal something less authentic, overrated, watered down for Western palates. Locals—that could be a green flag. I made another pass, this time watching who was eating what. Western backpackers hunched over their phones. A group of Chinese tourists posing for photos. And then: a stall packed with Indian families taking a break from shopping, bags of newly bought treasures piled at their feet and hung on chair backs. Women in saris. Men in business casual. A grandmother tearing into her parantha with bare hands, mopping up sauce with evident joy.
Time to commit.
I sat down at the one remaining seat, squeezed between a young couple and a middle-aged woman with three shopping bags blocking the aisle. The menu was in Hindi. Hungry and exhausted by decisions, I pointed to the top two items below what I assumed was the “Paranthas” heading. The waiter nodded and disappeared.
Five minutes later, two plates arrived. It turns out a parantha is like a crepe—a thin version of what Americans like myself call a pancake. Each had something cooked into the batter. The first had onion, the second, garlic. I took a bite.
They were, honestly, bland.
I looked around, confused. Everyone else seemed thrilled with their food. The grandmother was still going strong, somehow making her meal look like the best thing she’d eaten all week. What was I missing?
The woman next to me noticed my hesitation. “First time?” she asked in English.
“That obvious?”
She laughed. “You ordered them plain. No sides.” She gestured at her own plate, where two paranthas swam in pools of colorful sauces. “I love this place. I always come when I visit Delhi. Five times now!”
I had apparently chosen well, even if I didn’t know how to order. “What do you recommend?”
“Chana masala” she said, pointing at the chickpea curry on her plate. “And get the chutneys. That’s the secret.”
I flagged down the waiter and followed her advice. When the dishes arrived, everything changed. The paranthas weren’t the star—they were vehicles, thin and pliable, built for scooping. The first chutney was brown and gooey, sweet and spicy with tamarind and dates. The second was green and cooling, heavy with cilantro and mint. The chana masala was rich with tomatoes and spices that bloomed across my tongue.
I tore off a piece of parantha, dragged it through the brown chutney, and understood.
“Thank you,” I said to my neighbor.
She smiled, raising her open hands. “This is how we eat.”
Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the alley into the chaos of Old Delhi’s main street, full and satisfied. I turned right, toward the Jama Masjid. Jeremy had told me something about the mosque—what was it? I couldn’t remember. But I’d learned something more valuable: when you’re lost in a country where everything is unfamiliar, trust your nose, watch the locals, and don’t be afraid to ask for help.
The paranthas were just the beginning.
<3 colin