Now you taste it, now you don’t: Inside the art of culinary redirection

At Luv in Mumbai, Akash Deshpande serves pork broth infused with lemongrass and ginger—not in a bowl, but in a teacup. Steam rises, evoking masala chai, and diners hesitate before sipping. Their mind insists it’s tea; their palate proves otherwise. The trick isn’t deception, but suggestion.

Across India, chefs are leaning into this kind of redirection—treating flavour as something shaped by memory, texture, aroma, and timing. They’re asking not just how food tastes, but how it’s perceived.

At Comorin, Dhiraj Dargan builds dishes around memory. His Mawa Mishri Parantha recalls his mother’s shakkar paranthas without duplicating them. Jaggery in the dough and shards of mishri mimic that childhood ritual of eating sugar crystals after lunch. “We used jaggery in the dough and added mishri to mimic that moment after lunch when we’d eat a few sugar crystals as dessert,” he says. It’s not nostalgia for its own sake but an engineered echo of comfort.

Deshpande uses memory as a primer. “Even something as simple as serving broth in a teacup makes it richer,” he says. “It primes the brain with warmth and comfort before the first sip. That changes the entire experience.” For Lakhan Jethani of Mizu, the strongest effect is indirect. “Sometimes you taste something and can’t quite place it—then you realise it’s something you loved growing up. That recognition hits, and suddenly you feel more for the dish.”

At Radisson Blu Karjat, Arun Kala taps into kacchi kairi with a mango mocktail layered with salt, chaat masala, roasted cumin, lime, and agave. It doesn’t copy the raw mango candy outright but sparks the same association. Texture, too, is a tool for surprise. At Gaijin, Anand Morwani’s Not Buff Carpaccio looks delicate but hides tartare and sushi rice inside a crisp gyoza shell. The expected softness gives way to a crack. “Texture adds structure to something that otherwise feels raw and delicate,” he says. “It’s the moment when the dish flips from what you expect into what it actually is.”

Dargan adds wasabi peas to dahi batata puri for crunch, insisting “every bite has to have play.” Jethani pairs chilled tuna tartare with warm bread to slow the rhythm of a bite. At Radisson Blu Karjat, Kala reimagines dal makhni as fondue with jeera rice shaped into arancini. The essence is familiar, but the frame is new. Sight and smell often complete the misdirection. Jethani’s Matcha Tiramisu is crafted to look like a teacup, down to a hand-painted chocolate shell that resembles ceramic. Many diners attempt to sip before realising it’s layered cake. “And when it’s cut open, there’s mascarpone chantilly, sponge, boba—all hidden in plain sight,” he says.

At KOKO, Eric Sifu leans on aroma. His Tender Coconut Carpaccio, dressed with ponzu and garnishes, feels light until acidity sharpens the bite. “It’s something fresh and unexpected,” he says. “It makes diners pause and guess how we achieved that flavour.” Smells that suggest heat but taste cold, dishes that look savoury but finish sweet—these cues create what Morwani calls “quiet mischief,” a pause where the brain scrambles to catch up.

Behind the theatre lies umami, the backbone of satisfaction. “It’s the language that speaks across cuisines,” says Morwani. His Kataifi Scallops—miso-marinated, wrapped in crisp pastry, paired with dashi beurre blanc, truffled corn purée, and sesame-bell pepper sauce—are built to release flavour in waves.

At Comorin, umami solved a flat-tasting haleem; tomatoes were added for their glutamates, deepening the dish. Deshpande likens umami to rhythm. “When someone eats a dish I’ve made, I want it to hit like a heartbeat—a straight line from first bite to last. No spikes. No gaps. Just a clean, inevitable pulse of flavour.”

What ties these chefs together is a belief that flavour is not static but choreographed. Memory primes, texture disrupts, aroma suggests, umami grounds. A broth disguised as chai, cake masquerading as tea, lentils reframed as fondue—all redirect the senses to reframe experience.

The most unforgettable meals aren’t the ones that meet expectations. They’re the ones that pause, tease, and reveal—inviting diners to taste with more than their tongues. In those moments, flavour becomes unforgettable.