Beyond the Ordinary: A Sojourn into the Hills at JW Marriott Pune’s Pahadi Food Festival

There are dinners that delight — ephemeral, pleasing, and often forgettable. And then, there are dinners that transcend the transactional, quietly orchestrating a passage not just across cuisines, but into landscapes of emotion, memory, and inherited wisdom. The Pahadi Food Festival at JW Marriott, Pune does precisely this: it is not a showcase, it is a soulful cartography of Himachal and Garhwal — a culinary pilgrimage into India’s often-overlooked Himalayan heartland.

Unfolding against the brooding greys and monsoon mists of Pune, the timing of this festival was serendipitous. The city, softened by rain and cloaked in stillness, became the perfect canvas for cuisine that was inherently contemplative — restorative in rhythm, restrained in flamboyance. This was not a festival; it was an evocation — of fog-laced pine trails, carved wooden verandas, of hearths that warm more than the body. The entire experience mirrored that intimate familiarity — a dinner less reminiscent of luxury hospitality and more akin to ancestral memory made edible.

What made this celebration remarkable was its graceful embrace of both mountain traditions. On one side, Himachali food whispered: “Let me offer you warmth and indulgence, in slow, structured elegance.” On the other, Garhwali cuisine spoke with quiet strength: “Let me give you strength, simplicity, and survival — the mountain way.” The interplay between the two was seamless — a conversation between abundance and austerity, ceremony and sustenance.

What set this festival apart was the absolute fidelity to origin — with spices sourced directly from the Himalayan slopes of Garhwal, and ground to specification to preserve their native aroma, potency, and integrity. Every masala was calibrated not in bulk but in intention — crushed and pounded using the sil-batta and hamaam-dasta, not as a nostalgic gimmick, but as a living tool of flavour preservation. This wasn’t just cooking — it was culinary archaeology, bringing the hills to the plate with undiluted honesty.

The curation, commendable in its integrity, was a master class in discipline and dignity. It shunned spectacle. It rejected the temptations of contemporary embellishment. Instead, it relied upon the quiet certitudes of slow cooking, the purity of single-origin ingredients, and the silent authority of intergenerational knowledge. What arrived on the plate was not cuisine for commentary — it was cuisine for contemplation.

The meal began on a subtle note with Manda Jholi, a vegetarian soup that presented itself with rustic clarity. The broth was thin yet assertive, carrying a gentle sourness balanced by the grounding flavour of fermented buttermilk. The earthiness of mustard seeds and cumin offered warmth, while the texture remained comfortingly grainy. It was not a showstopper, but a respectful beginning — modest, clean, and deeply rooted in Garhwali home-style tradition.

Kharode ka Soup, the non-vegetarian counterpart, stood in contrast — more primal, denser, and unapologetically collagen-rich. The bone marrow had released a gentle viscosity, lending body without excess. It was clear yet full, layered with garlic and crushed pepper, exuding medicinal warmth. A broth that felt both healing and indulgent, with a finish that lingered long after the sip — almost like a whispered invocation of mountain winters.

From the starters, Bhunni Macchi brought a satisfying escalation. The fish was perfectly seared — crisped skin, tender flesh — and enveloped in a spice blend that leaned heavily on turmeric, ajwain, and smoky undertones. The heat was not aggressive but cumulative, and the aftertaste — kissed by mustard oil — was deeply evocative of riverside cooking. Texturally, the fish flaked effortlessly, and the char provided an essential contrast. It was elegant without losing its wild edge.

The accompanying chutneys were more than condiments — they were flavour dialects. Til ki Chutney, roasted sesame paste ground with garlic and lime, offered a nutty intensity that played on the back of the tongue, both coarse and creamy, with the bitterness of toasted seeds softened by citrus. The Bhune Pyaz Tamatar ki Chutney delivered a roasted sweetness — caramelised onions blending into the acidity of tomatoes with a faint smokiness. It was bright yet mellow, a deeply comforting spread. But it was the Sil-Batte ki Chutney that stood tallest — stone-ground herbs, raw green chilli heat, and the bite of mountain salt. Unrefined, coarse, alive — this was terroir in paste form.

The vegetarian main course unfolded with Dal Fhanu — made from gahat (horse gram), slow-cooked to a coarse graininess, punctuated by black pepper, cumin, and a hint of turmeric. The dal’s thick body carried a roasted depth, with notes of dried earth and spice. It was comforting, robust, and unapologetically honest.

Louki ki Sabzi surprised with restraint. The bottle gourd held its shape, cooked just enough to retain a delicate crunch. The flavour leaned toward freshness, with hints of ajwain and mild chilli, letting the gourd speak for itself. Kaddu ki Sabzi followed — tender and sweet with a subtle tamarind edge, the pumpkin melted gently on the palate, touched by jaggery and spiced oil, giving it a balanced push-pull of sweet and heat.

Aloo ki Sabzi felt more familiar — dry, spiced potatoes sautéed with whole spices and mustard oil. The texture was spot on — neither too mushy nor too firm — and the flavour, while expected, was reassuring. A staple done right.

The non-vegetarian offerings brought a return to richness. Kukud Masaledaar — a full-bodied chicken curry — arrived in robust, slow-reduced gravy. The masala clung to the chicken in deep maroon tones, laced with cinnamon, bay leaf, and crushed pepper. There was warmth, not heat, and the chicken was tender to the bone. A dish that held structure and body — neither rustic nor over-refined.

Bhuna Bakra stood out — dark, slow-braised mutton with a concentrated spice crust. The fat had rendered perfectly, allowing the meat to remain juicy beneath a caramelised exterior. Notes of black cardamom, coriander, and dried red chilli layered themselves in rhythm. It was elemental and elegant — bold in aroma, yet surprisingly nuanced on the tongue.

The Pahadi Rajma Chawal was pure nostalgia — smaller, nuttier beans simmered in light, garlic-forward gravy, served over aromatic rice. No excessive butter or masala; this was the kind of rajma that comforts without cloying — high on texture, low on theatrics. Pahadi Kadi Chawal, in contrast, was tangy, bright, and lightly tempered. The buttermilk base gave it a pleasant sourness, with hints of methi and red chilli floating through the yellow broth. It was light, refreshing, and easy on the palate.

Gahat ki Dal ka Pathod offered something more textural — steamed lentil cakes, firm yet tender, soaking up gravy like sponges. The flavour of horse gram came through assertively, bitter-edged and aromatic, rounded out by turmeric and a whisper of mustard oil. Hari Moong ka Pathod was softer in flavour, less intense, more refined. The green moong lent itself to a milder, greener flavour, and the pathod was more delicate — subtle, spongy, and comforting.

Dessert began with Jhangora ki Kheer — a textured, gently sweet pudding of barnyard millet simmered in milk. The grains held their bite, and the sweetness was restrained, allowing cardamom and ghee to take centre stage. It was deeply rooted in simplicity.

Jhangora ke Laddu continued that theme — coarse, grainy, and beautifully bound with jaggery and ghee. The mouth feel was almost rustic, yet the sweetness was elegant and long-lasting. Dry Fruits ke Laddu, denser and more indulgent, delivered richness with every bite — the crunch of almond, the chew of dates, the depth of desi ghee — indulgent yet balanced.

Finally, Semiya Kheer arrived warm — silken, fluid, and homely. It lacked the exoticism of the earlier dishes but compensated with comfort. The vermicelli was perfectly cooked, the milk thick but not cloying, and the sweetness subtle. It was not meant to impress — it was meant to embrace.

A meal that unfolded with intelligence, restraint, and soul — each dish holding space for the next. A narrative told not in flash, but in flavour.

Yes! This was cuisine that didn’t perform. It held you. It didn’t decorate itself in adjectives — it spoke in gestures. It didn’t innovate — because it never had to.

And that is perhaps its most radical statement. In an era of culinary overstatement, where reinterpretation often tramples authenticity, the Pahadi Food Festival chose instead to preserve — to stand still, with reverence. It made no attempt to be trendy. It was content to be timeless. It neither begged for attention nor chased applause. What it offered was culinary fidelity — to terrain, to season, and to silence.

And the silence of monsoon was its greatest ally. There is something profoundly poetic about pahadi food served during rains — as though the universe conspires to bring together the outer atmosphere and inner appetite. The slow-simmered gravies. The fermented whispers. The dark grains. The restraint. It is cuisine built for introspection — for quiet evenings, thoughtful spoonfuls, and memories that rise not immediately, but gradually, like mist.

No culinary narrative is complete without acknowledging the hands and hearts behind it — and at the Pahadi Food Festival, excellence was not limited to the plate. It resonated through every department with quiet precision and visible pride.

The Kitchen Brigade, under the refined leadership of Executive Chef Mihir Kane, delivered an experience that was not merely curated — it was composed. Chef Jagjit Singh’s stewardship of the menu displayed not just technical prowess, but cultural empathy. This was a chef who didn’t reinterpret — he remembered. Each dish bore the mark of someone who has listened to grandmothers, walked through terraced farms, and understood that flavour is not manufactured; it is inherited. The contribution of Executive Sous Chef Vaidya was equally enormous.

The collaboration among the core chefs — Sevak Singh, Preetam, Narendra, Shiv, Suraj Rawat, and Shubham Rauthan — was nothing short of orchestral. Each dish bore the imprint of hands that respected tradition, honoured technique, and cooked not just with skill but with sensitivity.

Equally deserving of high praise is the Service Team, whose finesse turned hospitality into harmony. Under the thoughtful guidance of Lakshya Pathak, Nikhil, and Priyanka, the floor team delivered an experience that was polished, intuitive, and quietly attentive. Arjun, Tannu, Stewie, Somnath, and Akshay moved with assurance and elegance — each gesture deliberate, each moment mindful. A very special note of appreciation must go to Divya, whose graceful hostessing and personalised care brought warmth that perfectly echoed the cuisine itself. She wasn’t just greeting guests — she was making them feel held.

At the leadership level, the festival owes much of its strategic finesse to Mr. Peeyush Bhushan (Director F&B) and Mr. Rahul Gautam (Director Operations), whose vision to continue bringing distinctive culinary experiences to the fore is, as always, commendable. Their understanding of programming not just what’s popular, but what’s important, gives JW Marriott Pune its exceptional edge.

A word of affection and applause must also go to the PBC team — consistent, comforting, and quietly stellar in every service round. Whether it was my flawlessly prepared cappuccino or the overall ambiance of casual luxury, the contributions of Tulsi, Manisha, and Payden did not go unnoticed. And of course, Sujoy ensured every detail moved with grace and rhythm — a true custodian of quality.

To all departments involved: you didn’t just host a festival. You upheld a philosophy. And you did so with grace, humility, and unmistakable mastery.

This wasn’t a dinner. This was a cultural retrieval.

For those who have grown weary of hyper-curated, performative gastronomy — for those seeking instead an edible encounter with place, memory, and meaning — the Pahadi Food Festival was a quiet, elegant manifesto.

So let the rains deepen. Let the mist settle. Let the mind quieten. And let the hills arrive — not with spectacle, but with soul.

Some meals titillate. Others endure. This one — it will remain.

Not on the plate. But in the pause that follows the last bite. In the scent that rises with the steam. In the diary of all things truly unforgettable.

By Manav Kaushik | Culinary Commentator & Food Aesthete

 Don’t Waste Food (DWF)