I stepped off the plane in Delhi with zero expectations of how quickly India would win me over. The air was thick with heat, honking horns, and the distant scent of spices. Jet-lagged but buzzing with excitement. The screens on the Air India flight from South Korea had broken and I found myself sharing a row with a beautiful Napali woman who quickly became a friend. We chatted for the duration of the long flight and found ourselves in agreement about the things that were good about South Korea and the food on the flight – and the things that were not. We parted at immigration, she was going onward to Nepal and I was about to be immersed in India with almost no preparation.
I’d booked a hotel, but that was it. I hadn’t really even looked at logistics. I didn’t know how long I would stay. I arrived on a one way ticket with a five year tourist visa. I’m not bragging here or anything that might be the opposite of it, but I truly knew nothing except the address of my hotel. The immigration agent asked me where I would go – inwardly I wanted to panic, but I just told him the truth.
“I have a hotel in Delhi for a few days,” and that was it. Much to my surprise he smiled and became animated. “Oh, you have to go to the hill stations, you need to go to Mussoorie, ” and then he asked if I had the health form. I didn’t. He shrugged and smiled and stamped my passport. The line to get to him had been long. I hadn’t seen him smile or engage with other people this way. I passed on through.
I determined then and there that I would approach India a bit like a child. I would smile, I would engage with people, I would be a being of wonder and light leaving my fears and preconceptions behind.
I grabbed some Indian Rupee from an ATM and emerged from the protected area into the chaos of Indira Ghandi International Airport. It truly was overwhelming. So many touts, so many. I bruised past most of them – a smiling young man approached. Do you need a taxi? Do you know where you are going?
“I need a second to get my head,” I said.
“Okay,” and then he was trailing behind me. I checked the price from the airport to my hotel by Uber. It gave me a starting point.
“Here’s where I’m going,” I told him.
“3000 rupee,” he said. It was about five times what Uber listed.
I told him that and he responded that the Uber pickup point was a kilometer walk away. I knew he was lying but now we were negotiating. I got him down to 1800 rupee and a guarantee that there was air conditioning and then we were off. It was still about triple an uber but I didn’t have to deal with other touts, find the pick up spot, or wait.
In the car, he tried to hook me into setting up some tours, going out drinking, and more. Before I agreed, I checked about the uber pickup point. Confirmed, he had blatantly lied about it. I wouldn’t be doing any more business with him after the ride to my hotel.
“You can tip the driver,” he told me. I hate tipping culture and frankly, I was still annoyed about the uber pickup lie. “You can tip the driver. Uber wasn’t a kilometer away.” And I guess I failed at being a child of light and wonder in that moment, but still decided to hold onto it.
1800 rupee was about $20. Not the end of the world by any means and fair for a thirty minute drive and getting me from the airport madness. I checked with my hotel. Taxi fare usually ran from 1000-3000. Basically, 100 INR is about $1.
I wanted my first proper meal to be authentic—no tourist traps, no fancy hotel buffet. I wanted the real thing. Street food. After checking in to my mid-range hotel, I asked the manager to point me in the direction of food. He offered room service, but that wasn’t what I wanted.
He pointed towards a marketplace and somehow, I landed at one of Delhi’s iconic street food landmarks: Prince Chaat in the bustling M-Block Market of Greater Kailash 1 (GK1). This wasn’t some hidden cart in a back alley—it was a pretty famous spot, a landmark paan and chaat corner that’s been serving since 1965 and is credited with popularizing (if not inventing) the now-legendary Palak Patta Chaat. The place was packed with locals and visitors alike, a whirlwind of activity right in the heart of one of South Delhi’s poshest markets. No tables, no chairs, no place to sit—just a counter, a crowd, and pure energy. You eat standing, balancing your plate like everyone else around you. It felt exactly right for my introduction to Indian street food.
A happy looking man in his thirties was really enjoying eating something. “What is that?” I asked him.
“Palak,” he told me. “I’m not from here. Whenever I come I get this. It’s the best in India. Do you want to try mine?” I was a bit taken aback by a stranger offering to let me try his soupy yogurt crunchy thing.
“You are enjoying it enough I know it will be good,” I deferred on trying his this way.
I ordered the Palak Patta Chaat—the house specialty. The vendor worked with lightning speed, his hands a blur as he assembled the plate. Crispy spinach leaves coated in spiced gram flour batter, deep-fried to golden perfection, then piled high and generously topped with creamy yogurt, tangy green chutney, sweet tamarind sauce, chopped onions, sev, and a bold sprinkle of chaat masala.
The first bite was explosive. The spinach was shatteringly crisp, like an earthy, delicate chip that gave way to layers of cool yogurt, bright chutneys, crunchy sev, and that signature savory-spicy punch. Sweet, sour, salty, crunchy, and soft—all in one unforgettable mouthful. Sauce dripped down my fingers as I stood there in the market chaos, grinning like an idiot. For a first meal in a new country, it was perfect: bold, exciting, and completely addictive.
Still thirsty from the spices and the Delhi heat, I asked for their classic Banta Soda. The vendor grinned, mixed up a fresh masala version on the spot—lemon, sugar, roasted cumin, and the works—then topped it with fizzy soda in one of those nostalgic glass bottles.
I took a big sip.
The cumin hit first—strong and earthy. Then came something else. A deep, sulfurous note that made me pause mid-swallow. My brain immediately went to… vomit? It was unmistakable. I stood there, eyes watering slightly, plate in one hand and bottle in the other, as the crowd buzzed around me.
“That’s the kala namak,” a smiling woman chuckled, spotting my reaction. “Black salt. First time?”
It was. That distinctive pungent, eggy aroma from the sulfur compounds in the black salt had caught me completely off guard. Once I knew what it was, I could appreciate how it delivered that signature chatpata (tangy-spicy) kick when balanced with the lemon and fizz. I took another cautious sip. The shock mellowed into something oddly addictive—the cooling carbonation cutting through the lingering spice from the chaat. By the end of it, I was hooked, though I noted to go lighter on the black salt next time.
The woman and I chatted. She was sixty-five but looked forty. “It’s the yoga,” she laughed. She had worked in Japan and spent a lot of time in Hawaii. I’m not sure what I expected from Indian people, but what I’ve found so far is delightful.
That humble-yet-famous plate of Palak Patta Chaat and eye-opening Banta Soda at Prince Chaat didn’t just feed me—they set the tone for the entire trip. India had announced itself loudly, deliciously, and with a hint of sulfurous mischief.
Standing there amid the lively energy of Prince Chaat, with no seat in sight but zero regrets, I realized it was more than just food. It was an instant immersion into Indian culture: the fearless balance of flavors and personalities, the joy of eating on your feet in a crowded market and interacting with strangers, and the little surprises that make travel unforgettable. My lips were tingling, my stomach was happy, and my senses were fully awake even with travel weariness setting in.
The energy of the street seemed to just be getting started but my energy was draining as it approached midnight in Japan and Korea. Back to the hotel where the deskman set me up with a short three hour tour for the next morning. Slightly higher priced than similar AirBnB tours, but I understood he needed his cut too.
Prince Chaat – My official, standing-room-only food welcome to India. I already can’t wait to go back.