View allAll Photos Tagged iranicafe
for some unknown reason this visual got deleted from my account .. so uploading it again ...
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Irani café, completes a century this year.
Always a place to have awesome Brun Maska Pav with Tea and a Good Omelet to satisfy the your Hunger and a Yummy Tasty Mawa Cakes to fulfill your Sweet Tooth..
The Ambiance a typical Irani Cafe with all Journos of people coming at this place say it Breakfast, Lunch or Dinner so much easy to the Pocket..
Truly recommend every one to go once and have anything...
* Ek Kali, Ek Gori, translates to One Black, One White
I sit myself in a green outdoor patio of a Bandra coffee shop and stare up at the chalkboard menu. All I could read was a rubric of exotic coffees and their carmalized mochaed lattéd frapped iced versions. A few minutes later, a black coffee arrives. As the liquit eats through my mouth acrimoniously, I long for the smell of over pasteurized milk, a slice of ginger, a savory of cardamom dust, the crackle of a rusty stick of cinnamon all concocted and alchemized into something else.
Yes, I'm talking about Chai.
Chai to be slurped greedily in chipped glasses. And so I went looking for the perfect cup in Bandra.
Cafe Goodluck
The ceiling fan rattles, clicks and sways as it cools the chai in the chipped porcelain cups that lie below. A boy, a torn banyan walks up to our table and slides two glasses of water across the marble top. Smoke from an entire barrage of cigarettes spirals up to the ceiling as people drink their chai an accompanying glass of cold water, reading newspapers while eating kheema (mince) samosas and buttering their bun muskas. The Cafe permeates much Bombay talk, a bright hum insulated by its vaulted ceilings from the noise of the street outside.
These are the musty, yet strangely comfortable confines of one of the many Irani establishments in Bombay.
The boy slides across briskly to my table and looks at me with accusatory smile.
"Ek Kali chai doosri doodh walli", I tell him thinking about chai.
[t: One Black the second one with milk.]
"Ek Kali, Ek Gori", he repeats as his yellow smile widens.
[t: One Black, One White]
I laugh to myself as he walks away to the kitchen.
The chai arrives shortly only to prove to me yet again that the best cup of chai is served by a yellow smile with missing teeth belonging to a heat drenched body appearing from nowhere only to serve only more amounts of chai.
* Ek Kali, Ek Gori, translates to One Black, One White
I sit myself in a green outdoor patio of a Bandra coffee shop and stare up at the chalkboard menu. All I could read was a rubric of exotic coffees and their carmalized mochaed lattéd frapped iced versions. A few minutes later, a black coffee arrives. As the liquit eats through my mouth acrimoniously, I long for the smell of over pasteurized milk, a slice of ginger, a savory of cardamom dust, the crackle of a rusty stick of cinnamon all concocted and alchemized into something else.
Yes, I'm talking about Chai.
Chai to be slurped greedily in chipped glasses. And so I went looking for the perfect cup in Bandra.
Cafe Goodluck
The ceiling fan rattles, clicks and sways as it cools the chai in the chipped porcelain cups that lie below. A boy, a torn banyan walks up to our table and slides two glasses of water across the marble top. Smoke from an entire barrage of cigarettes spirals up to the ceiling as people drink their chai an accompanying glass of cold water, reading newspapers while eating kheema (mince) samosas and buttering their bun muskas. The Cafe permeates much Bombay talk, a bright hum insulated by its vaulted ceilings from the noise of the street outside.
These are the musty, yet strangely comfortable confines of one of the many Irani establishments in Bombay.
The boy slides across briskly to my table and looks at me with accusatory smile.
"Ek Kali chai doosri doodh walli", I tell him thinking about chai.
[t: One Black the second one with milk.]
"Ek Kali, Ek Gori", he repeats as his yellow smile widens.
[t: One Black, One White]
I laugh to myself as he walks away to the kitchen.
The chai arrives shortly only to prove to me yet again that the best cup of chai is served by a yellow smile with missing teeth belonging to a heat drenched body appearing from nowhere only to serve only more amounts of chai.
* Ek Kali, Ek Gori, translates to One Black, One White
I sit myself in a green outdoor patio of a Bandra coffee shop and stare up at the chalkboard menu. All I could read was a rubric of exotic coffees and their carmalized mochaed lattéd frapped iced versions. A few minutes later, a black coffee arrives. As the liquit eats through my mouth acrimoniously, I long for the smell of over pasteurized milk, a slice of ginger, a savory of cardamom dust, the crackle of a rusty stick of cinnamon all concocted and alchemized into something else.
Yes, I'm talking about Chai.
Chai to be slurped greedily in chipped glasses. And so I went looking for the perfect cup in Bandra.
Cafe Goodluck
The ceiling fan rattles, clicks and sways as it cools the chai in the chipped porcelain cups that lie below. A boy, a torn banyan walks up to our table and slides two glasses of water across the marble top. Smoke from an entire barrage of cigarettes spirals up to the ceiling as people drink their chai an accompanying glass of cold water, reading newspapers while eating kheema (mince) samosas and buttering their bun muskas. The Cafe permeates much Bombay talk, a bright hum insulated by its vaulted ceilings from the noise of the street outside.
These are the musty, yet strangely comfortable confines of one of the many Irani establishments in Bombay.
The boy slides across briskly to my table and looks at me with accusatory smile.
"Ek Kali chai doosri doodh walli", I tell him thinking about chai.
[t: One Black the second one with milk.]
"Ek Kali, Ek Gori", he repeats as his yellow smile widens.
[t: One Black, One White]
I laugh to myself as he walks away to the kitchen.
The chai arrives shortly only to prove to me yet again that the best cup of chai is served by a yellow smile with missing teeth belonging to a heat drenched body appearing from nowhere only to serve only more amounts of chai.
* Ek Kali, Ek Gori, translates to One Black, One White
I sit myself in a green outdoor patio of a Bandra coffee shop and stare up at the chalkboard menu. All I could read was a rubric of exotic coffees and their carmalized mochaed lattéd frapped iced versions. A few minutes later, a black coffee arrives. As the liquit eats through my mouth acrimoniously, I long for the smell of over pasteurized milk, a slice of ginger, a savory of cardamom dust, the crackle of a rusty stick of cinnamon all concocted and alchemized into something else.
Yes, I'm talking about Chai.
Chai to be slurped greedily in chipped glasses. And so I went looking for the perfect cup in Bandra.
Cafe Goodluck
The ceiling fan rattles, clicks and sways as it cools the chai in the chipped porcelain cups that lie below. A boy, a torn banyan walks up to our table and slides two glasses of water across the marble top. Smoke from an entire barrage of cigarettes spirals up to the ceiling as people drink their chai an accompanying glass of cold water, reading newspapers while eating kheema (mince) samosas and buttering their bun muskas. The Cafe permeates much Bombay talk, a bright hum insulated by its vaulted ceilings from the noise of the street outside.
These are the musty, yet strangely comfortable confines of one of the many Irani establishments in Bombay.
The boy slides across briskly to my table and looks at me with accusatory smile.
"Ek Kali chai doosri doodh walli", I tell him thinking about chai.
[t: One Black the second one with milk.]
"Ek Kali, Ek Gori", he repeats as his yellow smile widens.
[t: One Black, One White]
I laugh to myself as he walks away to the kitchen.
The chai arrives shortly only to prove to me yet again that the best cup of chai is served by a yellow smile with missing teeth belonging to a heat drenched body appearing from nowhere only to serve only more amounts of chai.
Ballard Estate in Mumbai has this wonderful Irani cafe. The high ceilings keep the place cool even when the outside is blindingly hot. Good is a mild adjective for the food, as you can tell by the fact that the place is never empty.
This was taken at 2:30 in the afternoon, immediately after the rush hour.
Why do Irani places always have mirrors? I'm not complaining; mirrors are a photographer's best friend.
One of the old, and now vanishing, Irani Cafes of Bombay. A perfect haven from the heat of the summer building up outside. Note the chairs, mosaic on the floor, the mirrors and glass cabinets. Remember the chai and the cakes. Note and remember, because they may be gone in a couple of years.
Black & White Photo challenge :Day #04 Photo #04
I was nominated by my dear friend and photographer Aslam Sayed to participate in this challenge.
Today on the 4th day I would like to nominate my friend and photographer Rohan Gogate to post black & white photos for 5 consecutive days and nominate another person each day to do the same.
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Kyani & Co is popular Irani cafe in Mumbai.
Its got a very old world charm about it.
Churning out mouth-watering fare for almost a century now, die-hard customers continue to drop in for the crisp butter kharis, layered salted biscuits, and the Irani chai, a thick overly milky, sweetened tea delicately flavoured with cardamom.
A rich, and soft Indian cake from the traditions of Indian Irani cafes. This very popular cake is made with mava (freshly reduced milk solids), cardamom and cashewnuts.
Here I was trying to reproduce as closely as possible a mava cake we had eaten made by the famous 103 year old Irani confectioners and bakers, Kyani & Co. Post on my blog.
* Ek Kali, Ek Gori, translates to One Black, One White
I sit myself in a green outdoor patio of a Bandra coffee shop and stare up at the chalkboard menu. All I could read was a rubric of exotic coffees and their carmalized mochaed lattéd frapped iced versions. A few minutes later, a black coffee arrives. As the liquit eats through my mouth acrimoniously, I long for the smell of over pasteurized milk, a slice of ginger, a savory of cardamom dust, the crackle of a rusty stick of cinnamon all concocted and alchemized into something else.
Yes, I'm talking about Chai.
Chai to be slurped greedily in chipped glasses. And so I went looking for the perfect cup in Bandra.
Cafe Goodluck
The ceiling fan rattles, clicks and sways as it cools the chai in the chipped porcelain cups that lie below. A boy, a torn banyan walks up to our table and slides two glasses of water across the marble top. Smoke from an entire barrage of cigarettes spirals up to the ceiling as people drink their chai an accompanying glass of cold water, reading newspapers while eating kheema (mince) samosas and buttering their bun muskas. The Cafe permeates much Bombay talk, a bright hum insulated by its vaulted ceilings from the noise of the street outside.
These are the musty, yet strangely comfortable confines of one of the many Irani establishments in Bombay.
The boy slides across briskly to my table and looks at me with accusatory smile.
"Ek Kali chai doosri doodh walli", I tell him thinking about chai.
[t: One Black the second one with milk.]
"Ek Kali, Ek Gori", he repeats as his yellow smile widens.
[t: One Black, One White]
I laugh to myself as he walks away to the kitchen.
The chai arrives shortly only to prove to me yet again that the best cup of chai is served by a yellow smile with missing teeth belonging to a heat drenched body appearing from nowhere only to serve only more amounts of chai.