27/04/2026
Before supper clubs became a scene… they were just a table, a kitchen, and people who knew how to gather.
Last Saturday in Chigwell felt like that…
After years of supper clubs across London, from eight seats in Canada Water, to sixty in Battersea, Som and I found ourselves back in a home, cooking within arm’s reach of our guests. No theatre, no distance, just judgement, memory and timing.
Ambika and Kam opened their home, and reminded me what this was always meant to be. We built the menu around Vishu and Puthandu, not as a theme, but a compass.
The vazhaipoo vadai set the tone, bronzed, structured, with that quiet bitterness cutting through the richness. Nei saadam and paruppu, deceptively simple, flawlessly judged.
A milagu rasam that didn’t just warm, it awakened.
Then the Kerala spine…
Olan, restrained, almost whispered.
Avial, balanced, deliberate.
Beans poriyal, precise, textural.
The Chettinad prawn brought depth, heat layered, not loud.
The Guinea Fowl pepper fry, dark, unapologetic, and stopped conversation entirely.
Then it softened…
Ada pradhaman, slow, indulgent, lingering somewhere between dessert and memory.
But the real success wasn’t the cooking, it was the room.
Different worlds, one table. Thushara, Mindi, Radhika (who made the journey), Praveen, and Tanesa, my chiropractor and friend, who knows balance isn’t just physical.
No posturing, no optics, just people, properly present.
I’ve been called London’s “supper club king” but this was a reminder that it was never about scale, it was always about feel.
Chelmsford next, Stevenage after and Kentish Town soon.
Different homes, same intention. Because the best dining rooms were never built, they were opened.
Years from now, they won’t remember what I served. Only that they never quite found a table like it again.
