She already knows who she’s sending it to.
Read on Substack · 2026-05-10
Full article
Notes from a call with someone who grieves menu changes.
A few months ago, I started having conversations with people about how they remember the restaurants and places they love. Not ratings or scores. Just one question, how do you actually hold onto a place in your head, and what makes you want to tell someone else about it. It started as something I needed to figure out for a project I’m working on, but somewhere along the way the conversations became the thing I looked forward to. People talk about food and places the way they talk about people they care about. With detail and loyalty. With the kind of specificity that only comes from paying close attention to something for a long time.
Pallavi was one of the first people to reply when I put up a story about it on instagram. We’d worked together briefly, remotely, never met in person. And I’d followed her for a while. Long enough to know she took her coffee seriously. Something she genuinely cared about, every single day. Her last substack note says it clearly: I make coffee as a small act of care. That’s how she is.
She replied excitedly, saying she’d love to be part of it. We got on a call, and she started talking about places the way some people talk about close friends, with history and nuance, with an almost protective warmth. She works from cafes most days, so finding the right place isn’t a weekend experiment. It’s a daily decision that her whole day depends on. Good coffee is non-negotiable. Good food alongside it matters too. And the place itself has to do its job, the quiet it holds, whether the staff gets it, whether you can sit there for four hours without feeling like you’re in someone’s way. She has a routine built around this, and she protects it because it works.
She’ll travel for a place she’s excited about. Distance doesn’t factor in. And when she falls for something, she falls properly, Subko in Delhi, Altogether Experimental in Saket. She knows what to order, when to go, when to stay longer than planned. She mentioned a tamarind sandwich at Subko with the kind of slowness you reserve for things that actually mattered. She grieved a little that they’d taken it off the menu.
The Tamarind Chicken Sandwich at Subko, Delhi. The one that’s not on the menu anymore.
When she writes about a place, the same thing happens. The same slowness, the same commitment to getting the detail right. That’s just how she actually felt it.
Before the meal is even over, she’s already filing the place for someone specific. This friend would love the seating. That one needs to try the sandwich. She’s sorting and matching, placing people inside rooms they haven’t walked into yet. She’s loving a place and simultaneously deciding who needs to feel it too. The recommendation is part of the experience, happening in real time, at the table, before the bill arrives.
Katsu Chicken Sammie at ATE. Flavourful and always fresh.
All day breakfast at ATE (which they have discontinued) with Osaka Latte (never fails)
It comes naturally to her. When she loves something, she doesn’t shut up about it. Ever. A recommendation without knowing who it’s for is just a name and a pin on a map. She wants to get the right person to the right part of the right place.
After our call, she started writing. Drafts she told me recently she hasn’t had the courage to take live yet. There’s a kind of person who falls for a place and immediately knows who else it’s for. Pallavi is that person. Falling for something, when your standards are that high, doesn’t come easy. But when it does, she means it completely.
If you want to read how other people share the places they love, what to order, who it's for, what makes them go back, check out Garlic Butter. It's a small app where people in Mumbai write honest takes on the places that matter to them. No stars, no ads.
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