Laxminarayan Hotel (and why Michelin stars are meaningless)

For a period of about ten years, (approximately between the ages of 5 and 15), Laxminarayan Hotel was for me the finest eating establishment in all the world. Even at the time, I was probably vaguely aware that it was a distinctly unremarkable little restaurant in a tiny corner of a small town, but this did nothing to diminish its appeal.

And so, almost every time we had guests over, I remember hoping that at some point we would make a trip to Laxminarayan. Almost inevitably, we did. And, with what now seems like alarming predictability, we would end up ordering the same food- but when all the malai koftas, mutter paneers, navratan kormas and naans arrived, I remember being so much happier than I thought vegetarian food would ever make me. It was the stuff my culinary dreams were made of.

Maybe it was because of the novelty factor of eating out, (which has obviously since worn off), but very few restaurants I've been to since then have had the same effect. While the memory of eating in a Michelin-starred restaurant may remind me of an exquisite meal, Laxminarayan Hotel will always remind me of a childhood.