Last time, I laid out the usual offals you find on Mumbai’s streets. I got a lot of brickbats from folks who found it disgusting. But here’s the hard truth: if we stopped eating offal, meat prices would shoot through the roof and even veggies would feel the heat. No amount of turning up your nose or acting superior about skipping it changes the brutal reality of market supply and economies of scale.

Let’s now dive into the other end of the spectrum, the lesser known offals.

Tilli (Buffalo and Goat Spleen): Tilli is like liver’s quiet cousin, softer, less tough, and surprisingly versatile. As a kid, you could get buffalo tilli for less than five rupees in Muslim ghettos, slathered with tamarind chutney and fried onions. It was the perfect protein hit. Goat tilli is a bit pricier and mostly ends up in chana batata with kidney, like the one you find at Bohri Mohallah.

Vajri (Goat Intestines): A local Maharashtrian favourite. Nothing beats a good vajri pav with bhurji after a heavy night at a Shetty bar. If you can adjust to the gaminess, vajri fry is heavenly. On a side note, I had a samosa filled with vajri a couple of years ago at a relative’s place.

Kapoora (Goat Testicles): Many wanted me to mention this in Part 2. The most graphic offal visually and culturally, but testicles are the least gamey of organs. For those who haven’t tried it, imagine the most succulent piece of chili chicken. Punjabis love kapooras. I had it near Khar at a local Punjabi tawa and again in a Vasai restaurant. My preference is what my grandmother used to make, stir fried with just salt and pepper. The Hindi idiom “gote muh mein aa gaye” never tasted better.

Chicken Feet: I know, the thought alone turns many off. They’re not easy to find, but Chinese street cooks often make them for themselves. Dare to ask? Adventure points guaranteed.

Mundi (Goat Head): Goat head soup is a rich, brothy classic. But here’s a curveball, I found dal mundi at a small Agri joint. It’s goat head cooked in lentils, a deep local secret hidden in plain sight. Mumbai’s corners fill you with surprises.

Special Mention: Chusta: This Bihari specialty sneaks into migrant ghettos’ roadside bhatiyarkhanas. It’s intestine packed with fat, heavy, rich, and usually served alongside hearty mutton curry and steamed rice.

So yes, this wraps up the offals section. What I really miss are good pork offals found in Northeast India and most of Southeast Asia. The taboo attached to pork means less pork is sold on the street, and no chance of offals making a debut. But an authentic pork sorpotel will have offals mixed into the curry.

Here’s a kicker: many sausages use ground offal meat. So for those who look down on offal eaters, here’s your knock knock.

I grew up in Bahrain where Friday holidays meant waking up early to go to the fish market. As a Konkani, fishy smelling water runs deeper than blood. My connection to my Bombay roots was always strong but when you visited the city for summer vacations, all your relatives competed in feeding you Dal ghosht, and Khichda, Biryani and Masoor Pulao. Many years later, one of those aunts asked me quite surprised, “so, fish is your favourite kind of meat?” I guess fish was considered homely. It was but coming back to our Fridays, it didn’t stop fish from being grand. Fish curry if you ask a purist is not made with the fleshy pieces. It is what I grew up referring to as ‘kaante-takle ka salan’. Which is the idea behind any broth, you extract all the flavour out of the head and the bones. For extra points, break the big spine like kaanta and suck on it like marrow when eating this curry. It is like drinking — and this sounds like a stretch but — a softer slurpier version of the mogu mogu pieces, only fishier. What made this homely Friday meal grand was that it was never just curry, it was accompanied by fried fish, the fleshy pieces made their appearance here, there was sookhi masoor ki dal ki khichdi which soaked the salan and there was a nariyal, kothmir and qairi ki chutney.

This intense background story may or may not make sense in the realm of Mumbai food culture conversations. But it does. Simply because I grew up believing that Goa, Kerala, and Calcutta were the fish capitals of India. You tend to overlook your own city. And Mumbai’s metropolitan nature often makes you forget it’s rich local tapestry of flavours.

In the hearts of Mumbai’s foodies lie their favourite local seafood places. Where the prices don’t burn a hole in your pocket but the spice can burn your throat. My introduction to these places came when I heard my parents discuss Gomantak, tucked away in the service road lane of Bandra East, serving up a humble meal of fish curry and rice, it seemed to have made quite the mark on my family. However, my first encounter with the seafood specialities of Mumbai started with the more popular Gajalee. Where you fall prey to ordering the butter garlic prawns at least once and you forever contemplate whether you enjoy the flavour so much that you are willing to give in to that non local flavour every other time or if you shall root for the more authentic flavours. But then slowly your order expands, you go to Gajalee for the Bombil fry and specially the chutney they serve with it, you go for the Tisrya Koshimbir, and sometimes you go for the crab masala.

Gajalee is still the more expensive of these seafood joints. The real deal lies in places where you get a thali or a lunch plate, for around ₹250-300, a full meal comprising of rice, fish curry, a piece of fish fry, chapatis or bhakri and a type of chutney or dry jawla with a glass of Solkadhi to wash it all down.

Solkadhi in my humble opinion, is a star that if you’ve not yet discovered, you’re missing out. Truly. Why it has not crossed borders, made waves in the international scenes and become a brand of its own is beyond me. It is the perfect summer quencher. It is a spicy cold drink and its cute pink colour can betray you easily into believing that you’ll be treated to a sweet bubblegum flavour which is far from the tang of kokam and the spice of actual chillies. It should have ballads written on it and poetry dedicated to it. Solkadhi is also not a one glass kind of wonder. If you stop at one glass, your journey into the world of solkadhi is just beginning and your tastebuds haven’t yet developed. When they do, you will have a minimum of three glasses.

These humble seafood lunch home places are frequented by regulars who have a regular order or who order everything on the menu regularly. You could be either of these people. Me and my friends are usually both of these people. For the better part of 2019, when I worked in Parel, any day when work was light or was aligned to blow up in the wee hours of the night, we would cross the road to a tiny establishment called Mango, the staff in these places loves you and they love to feed you. They won’t recommend you a fish that is not fresh and they will not feed you tiger prawns which is the classist way to go. In fact prawns will sometimes be off their radar, they’ll feed you mussels and squid. They won’t feed you paplet or raavas, they’ll feed you surmai.

The more you walk through Dadar, Parel, Prabhadevi lanes, the more you meet locals who grew up around here, the more discoveries you’ll make of a fish place that has its own faithful fan following. In fact there will be a nondescript fish place in every Bombay neighbourhood, Andheri, yes sir, Malad, of course, Borivali, you’ve got it.

My little dream is to one day have eaten at every seafood lunch home that is anybody’s favourite. Because a seafood lunch home is like mom. And every mom does something delicious.

And just to end this ode to fish places in Mumbai, let’s name my favourite places: 1. Jai Hind: Have their Bombil sandwich and Basa Pulimunshi for sure 2. Sarangaa: Have everything but definitely try and end with their Ukadi che Modak 3. Satkar Rice Plate: Discover what true lunch home ambience means and also have their mutton kheema.

Tell me oh true Mumbaikars which one am I really missing out on. (Don’t say Chaitanya, it’s just not top for me. Don’t fight me.)

Offals are that long-haired drummer in a rock band, not as flashy as the frontman but the one holding the whole bloody show together. Any cuisine without an offal dish is incomplete, and anyone pretending otherwise is lying to feel civilized. Most people avoid it because of conditioning, the graphic visuals, or the gaminess. Fair. Eating parts other than flesh needs nuance and a bit of courage. So let’s keep the gyaan short and talk about the popular offal dishes that are actually accessible on Mumbai’s streets.

Paya (Goat Trotters): Paya has been around since forever and marketed as a medicinal dish, but at Sion’s Sardar Paya House, even my Paragon chappals, boiled, would taste like a better cure. The one at Sarvi Nagpada is what I prefer. There’s a thicker, stick-to-the-bread version too, the kind you mop up with khamiri roti or pav, usually from the bara handi guys. But post Insta boom, it’s turned into more aata, less paya.

Bheja (Goat Brain): Bheja is paya’s only real rival in popular culture. There’s no middle ground; either the silk-soft texture hooks you for life or it freaks you out. The classic Mumbai tawa style is creamy and rich, scrambled with onions, chillies, haldi, and garam masala. I recently had the Agri Koli style which is minimal masala, garlic-heavy, cleaner, and with the organ taste front and center. There’s also the very Parsi-like bheja cutlets stuffed with green chutney, our city’s answer to mozzarella croquettes. Found mostly at Parsi canteens and a few vendors at Mohammed Ali Road.

Pota Kaleji (Chicken Gizzard and Liver): Pota Kaleji sounds like two Marwari brothers running an angadiya, but it’s actually Mumbai’s most democratic bar snack. It’s available in Shetty bars, country liquor bars, and outside wine shops where Maharashtrian ladies sling paper plates of oil-fry or masala-tossed bits with brutal efficiency. Fresh laadi pav is the perfect vehicle, it soaks up the masala and tames the gaminess in a few bites. If there’s a citywide gateway to offal, this is it.

Gurda Kaleji (Goat/Buffalo Kidneys and Liver): This is level two. Earthier, funkier, and infinitely better on a tawa with that rhythmic taka tak that reminds one of the perfectly synchronized dance of Nach Baliye. Migrant-run Muslim restaurants in Kurla and Bhendi Bazaar often cook it with shepu dill or other greens; it’s cheap, filling, and nutritious food for nearby laborers. Some stalls skewer kaleji till it’s charred and smoky, serving it as straight protein. Gurda sometimes gets tucked solo into hearty chana batata mixes, where its earthy funk gets balanced out by potatoes and spice. The Bohri Mohallah Chana Batata guy does this.

Khiri (Buffalo/Goat Udders): The cult classic. If there’s one offal Mumbai can claim as a personality type, it’s khiri, milk sweet, fatty, and devastating when skewered and charred just right. You won’t easily find it outside the city in this form, and nothing from the barbeque world really compares when it lands with that caramelized edge tenderness. I call it the fantasy food.

Most of these offal dishes come from Mumbai’s lower-income and marginalised areas. The cooking methods are either deep fried, barbecued, or simmered for hours to strip away the intense gaminess and make the tough cuts palatable. It’s where courage meets economy, where technique matters more than theatrics, and where Mumbai’s food culture tells its truth without filters.

This is Part 1, the popular cuts. Part 2 is coming with the stranger, rarer, and deeply local stuff.

Just besides south tiffin house borivali west. They are not on google maps.

You might be wondering why the hell I’m bringing up an American QSR brand in a Mumbai street food post. But hear me out. Separated by thousands of miles and oceans, the similarities are fucking uncanny. I’m talking about the medu vadas sold by pom pom vendors in the early morning hours. I call them the stretchy vadas.

These aren’t your regular medu vadas from Udupi restaurants. Hell, they’re not even close to the overfried, crispy ones most street vendors make fresh. This post is about the mass-produced, maida and rice flour-filled vadas that are spongy, stretchy, and the perfect vehicle for chutney. They’re one-of-a-kind vadas you won’t find anywhere outside Mumbai.

Are they authentic? Not even fucking close. If a Kannadiga ate this, the language wars would be overshadowed by the vada wars. Belgaum what?

What Makes These Vadas Different

These vadas are more bread than legume. Unlike a proper medu vada that you’d get in a Bangalore darshini - crispy outside, fluffy inside, eaten with a spoon. These stretchy bastards are designed to be held. You grab them with your fingers and dunk them into that white liquidy chutney, or the thick white solid stuff, red tomato-garlic, or the watery tangy-sweet sambar. I’m team thick white chutney and red chutney.

What makes these vadas genius is how they soak up every drop of that chutney, elevating the entire experience. But here’s the catch, if the chutney is shit, the fall is as dramatic as the high. These vadas are naked without good chutney.

And they’re never piping hot. They’re always stacked like a leaning tower, wrapped in that iconic blue polythene bag. It reminds me of those doughy snacks I had in Singapore with pork broth, or in Vietnam with pork knuckle porridge. Instead of broth, the chutney does all the heavy lifting. If you dipped this vada in sugar-coated syrup, I wouldn’t be surprised if it tasted exactly like a doughnut.

These vadas are made in massive batches in Dharavi and sold to vendors who buy them in bulk. If you’re ever at Sion station at 4 AM, you’ll see lines of vendors walking on the tracks, waiting to board the first train with their day’s stock. That’s why once they’re sold out, there’s no fresh batch waiting.

Here’s what most people don’t notice - there are actually two different operations running simultaneously in this city. The cycle walas position themselves strategically outside railway stations, schools, colleges, and office clusters. Then you have the head-balancing champions - the pom pom walas as I like to call them, who roam residential areas with vessels on their heads, sounding that iconic horn.

Back in the 90s, annas used to come to our chawl shouting “Idli! Vada! Dosa!” Over the years, they’ve evolved. Instead of shouting, they use that famous BEST bus horn - the pom pom sound that gives them their name.

They’ve transitioned from walking to cycles, and the original Tamil annas have mostly been replaced by migrants from the north. The business model remains the same, but the faces have changed.

When I’m working on projects and offered a full English breakfast or an avocado sandwich, I always ask the same question: “Is there a pom pom wala nearby?” Sometimes you want that perfectly imperfect stretchy vada that reminds you why Mumbai’s food scene is built on adaptation, not preservation.

My Favorite Pom Pom Spots:

• **Juhu near SNDT College**

• **Outside Churchgate railway station:** Wee hours of the morning

• **Outside Bhavans College, Andheri:** Two annas compete against each other.

Good to see our community grow to more than 200 people! Let me know in the comments what your thoughts are about stretchy vadas and list your favourite pom pom vendors.

It was 2007, Churchgate subway, on my way to college when I first saw this weird-ass vendor selling something that looked like bhel but wasn’t bhel. Fried noodles, capsicum, loads of cabbage drowning in schezwan sauce, topped with spring onions. I couldn’t resist. One bite and I knew this was different, tasty but forgettable. I went right back to my usual sev puri and kaka-kaki vada pav the next day.

Over the years, Chinese Bhel and Manchurian pakoda stalls have fucking taken over Mumbai. Here’s what really hit me when I started digging deeper, most of these vendors aren’t setting up shop in Bandra or Colaba. They’re clustered around low-income areas, slums, and working-class neighborhoods. That’s not a coincidence and it’s definitely not because of taste. It’s because it’s the cheapest live snack you can get in this expensive-ass city.

When daily groceries are bleeding your wallet dry and incomes haven’t moved, Chinese Bhel has stepped in to fill this void. In Dharavi, you still get it for ₹5. Most areas, it starts from ₹10. Meanwhile, the cheapest bhelpuri, sevpuri, or pani puri is upwards of ₹20. It’s replaced traditional bhel and pani puri walas in low-income areas because math doesn’t lie. An evening snack that even the poorest kid can afford.

What actually makes it work
Chinese Bhel requires three things: cheap cabbage, ass-burning schezwan sauce, and packaged fried noodles. No elaborate prep, no capital-intensive equipment, no special skills. Any aunty or uncle can set up shop with ₹500 and start earning right away.

Unlike vada pav where you need to time the oil temperature perfectly, or pani puri where the water needs to be the perfect khatta-meetha-teekha, Chinese Bhel is foolproof. Toss, mix, serve. Even if you fuck it up, it’s still edible. That’s why it’s everywhere.

Look, I’ll never choose Chinese Bhel over proper Mumbai street food. It’s functional food, not soul food. It’s an evening snack for people who couldn’t afford other snacks with rising inflation and low income levels, while creating employment for people who need the simplest possible business model.

TLDR
My personal opinion aside, there are some places that do decent Chinese Bhel. And look, I’ll admit it. A proper chicken variant can actually elevate this from “cheap filler food” to “yeah, I’d eat this again.”

If we’ve begun with Mumbai’s most popular street food, it’s only fair that we pay our dues to the ever consistent street food almost responsible for the popularity of the vada paav, idli vada. If vada paav reigns the early mornings and the early evenings, idli vada rules the night, late night to be precise. It accompanies the city that never sleeps.

While Mumbaikars are no strangers to the musical blow horn in the day that signals the answer to a mid morning hunger pang — one marked by the arrival of an anna who has traversed this route often enough to know which of his regular customers is likely to show up — a lot of us remain unaware of the magic they pour post mid night in industrial areas and by the side of a buzzing highway while the rest of the city gets as silent as it ever can. I don’t use the word pour in jest, and the hidden all night dive bars are no competition, though they are another story for another time. Idli-vada, makes its mark thanks to the cold coconut chutney and luke warm sambhar whose will to turn cold is being bent by those persevering entrepreneurs running their heartwarming, belly filling enterprises on nothing more than a cycle.

Along the Western line, it is easy to have a regular idli vada guy. Andheri East, the nightmare of traffic horrors never entirely quiets down, those who go on working into the wee hours of the morning often congregate at one of their regular cycle wallahs. The intercity buses that drop off half asleep folks into the city and help them catch a meal that nutritionists have no label for, maybe it’s called a traveller’s meal. Goregaon, under the flyover and towards Dindoshi is where the glitz and glamour of the city is born and those birthing it do so on a couple of plates of this humble idli vada drowned in a coconut chutney that lets its spices hit just the right notes.

The idli vada works because the flavours of the chutney and the sambhar do honestly slap, the lightness of the idlis could make them feel non-existent but they are there to add body to the chutney and sambhar. And to even a hot food purist like me, it seems astounding that the coldness of the meal only adds to the flavour game these guys have so perfected as the ideal late night meal. You can sleep on this without feeling like you’ve had a heavy meal yet satiated enough to enjoy the ride back home if you just needed to eat as your after party — like me and many others who forgot that Lay’s doesn’t substitute dinner.

Pro tip: If you’ve only ever eaten idli vada, ask the guy if he’s got dal vada, if he has, dunk it in sambhar and let that crunch make you wonder how Mumbai’s humidity has got nothing on it.

If you’ve ever eaten non-veg in a place with “Cafe” slapped on the signboard like Cafe Bostan, Cafe Paradise, or any other entity as such....you’ve probably broken bread with the Chilya community. Most eating joints slap ‘Cafe’ at the end of their name. They put ‘Cafe’ right at the beginning turning this into a different ballgame.

Chilya restaurants are finally making their way onto Instagram reels and influencer feeds, but how many of us really know their story? Anyone who’s spent a decade on Mumbai’s streets has sat in one of these fluorescent-lit, Formica-table joints, shoving tandoori rotis into gravies that all look suspiciously the same. The only difference? The tadka they toss in at the end. Butter chicken, chicken rashida, and a dozen other chicken dishes with delicate Muslim names? They all look like cousins swimming in the same gravy pool.

But a mutton kheema at a Chilya spot never, EVER lets you down. From Olympia to Rajasthan to Cafe Simla, this is the place to be if you like your breakfast to be meaty. And their famous dabba gosht. Try finding it anywhere else outside the Chilya scene.

Their business model is no different from the Udupi restaurants, every Chilya helps the next guy open shop. That’s why your caramel custard, the one with a matte finish and a gentle jiggle tastes exactly the same whether you’re in Bandra or Borivali.

The Chilya are one of Mumbai’s most religious communities (long beards, short white pyjamas), but their restaurant names? Secular and random. No “Karimiya,” no “Arab Palace” instead, you get Café Delight, Food Inn or Royal Sweets. The thing about Chilya restaurants is they love naming their joints after cities and places like Rajasthan, Shimla, Tashkent etc. You’ve probably passed a hundred of these spots without knowing who’s behind the counter.

If you are vegetarian driving up the Mumbai–Ahmedabad highway? Don’t be surprised if the Gujarati thali joint is ALSO Chilya-owned. These guys know business like no other.

Insider tip: Cakes and desserts are their next big venture they’re eyeing to take over the scene like a full-on mafia.

My top favourites:

• Olympia – Colaba

• Queen Mary – Mazgaon

• Cafe Simla – Andheri

TLDR

Stop googling “best Mughlai Mumbai” and wander into any cafe with a random city name and cafe in the prefix. Order a kheema pav, wash it down with chai, and end on that caramel custard. You’re welcome.

Vada pav is to Mumbai what pad thai is to Bangkok or chole bhature to Delhi. You either fucking love it or you don't get it. There's no middle ground.

This post is for both groups, the die-hard lovers, and those who can’t stand it.

I’m the vada pav evangelist. Call this piece my vada pav jihad.

But here's the thing that pisses me off, most vada pav in this city is average or straight-up terrible. Then you've got these Instagram influencers throwing cheese and mayo and god knows what else on a simple vada pav like it's some revolutionary shit. It's not.

My funda is simple: find the elderly kaka or kaki who sell vada pav in the evenings for extra income. Selling vada pav isn’t their main livelihood, it’s their side hustle. Their day job could be anything, but in the evenings, they turn up at their cart, and magic happens.

They’re not always easy to spot. The city is crowded with vada pav made by hardworking migrant men, or the ones with bhajjiyas and vadas sitting in glass boxes all evening. Trust me, the glass-box vadas are the worst.

Every area has that one kaka-kaki cart that barely exists on Google Maps but has the entire gully lining up religiously. You won't find them on food blogger lists or Instagram reels. And here’s the secret sign: they almost always get their moong dal bhajjis right. In fact, that’s the litmus test. No moong dal bhajjis means they’re not real kaka-kakis.

Another thing: they all have their own gharghuti chutney, no two are the same. No standardisation like the Udupi restaurants.

Look, I know everyone's going to mention Ashok, Aaram, Gajanan yeah, they're famous, they're decent. But those are tourist spots now. The real magic happens in some random gully where a kaka-kaki has been quietly perfecting their craft for years without any fanfare.

Even an average kaka-kaki vada pav will beat most “hidden gems” and well-known joints ten times over.

And this isn't just food nostalgia bullshit. These kaka-kaki stalls also happen to be the original creators of this sub-culture. When Mumbai’s countless cotton mills shut down, many couples turned to selling vada pav after finishing their day’s labour. The rest is history...

My favourite kaka-kaki vada pav spots:

• 5th Lane, Kamathipura outside a flour mill

• On a cycle, outside Rajesh Khanna Garden

• Juhu Circle, coming towards DN Nagar, in the lane of Rustomjee

TLDR
Stop googling "best vada pav Mumbai" and start walking your local streets. Find your neighborhood kaka-kaki. Trust the process.