In this Punjabi restaurant, there’s no butter chicken or dal makhani. And you won’t miss it

Before Bawri lit up Punjabi cuisine on Goa’s culinary showcase, and before the fires of Palaash crackled deep in the forests of Tipeshwar—where tribal women cook a slow, sacred feast over open flame—chef Amninder Sandhu had already found her truest spark. It wasn’t in a restaurant but at a fleeting pop-up in Mumbai, in 2017.

That’s where she met the late Sarvesh Kaur, granddaughter of Maharaja Bhupinder Singh of Patiala. Their time together in the kitchen was brief, but something quiet and enduring passed between them, something more than just a recipe exchange. Kaur wasn’t teaching, she was transmitting—a way of cooking that resisted spectacle, insisted on slowness, and honoured the fire. “There was no gas, no flash, and certainly no rush,” recalls Sandhu. “Just firewood, time, and a reverence for food passed down through generations. That’s where I found a rhythm in cooking. It didn’t feel performative; it felt lived.”

Something cracked open right then. It planted the seed for Arth, India’s first gas-free restaurant, in Mumbai. But more than that, it rewired Sandhu’s relationship with food. She began cooking not just with technique, but also with instinct.

Now, at Kikli, her new restaurant, housed inside a restored heritage site in Delhi’s Connaught Place, Sandhu returns to that rhythm. The cooking here is slower, more inward; it’s less about invention, more about remembering. Fire, again, is at the centre of it, not just as heat or ritual but as inheritance too.

Raised in Assam, where women quietly shaped the flow of daily life, Sandhu’s connection to Punjab was kept alive through the hands of her mother, aunt, and grandmother through simple spice blends of coriander, cumin, and black pepper, and the comfort of square paranthas folded with care. Kikli is an ode to that way of being: honest, unhurried, full of heart. The name carries its own kind of music. “Kikli may be a traditional Punjabi dance full of energy and abandon, but to me it speaks of feminine strength,” says Sandhu. “It’s my way of honouring the women—both in my life and in Punjab’s history—whose warmth, resilience, and generosity have shaped its spirit.”

Every corner channels this legacy. Step inside, and you’re greeted not just with a warm ‘Sat Sri Akal’ but also with a soft shower of petals, an invitation into a world where hospitality isn’t a gesture but a way of being.

That tenderness threads through the space. The staff wear vibrant uniforms dotted with tiny figures mid-gidda and bhangra. Along the corridor, slow, luminous projections capture everyday Punjab in quiet motion—a jutti artisan at work, phulkari taking shape stitch by stitch or a grandmother tending to her kitchen with love.

Kikli unfolds gently, across three distinct spaces, each with its own texture and tone. There’s a leafy courtyard where fire takes centre stage in the open kitchen, an indoor space with deep sofas made for long, lingering meals, and a separate bar that hums at its own pace. Together, it can accommodate 120 guests. 

The food, too, is deeply personal. Rooted in Sandhu’s family archives, the menu intentionally bypasses the expected—by design, there is no butter chicken or dal makhani. Instead, it shines a light on dishes commonplace in Punjabi homes but rarely given space on restaurant tables.

Take pathiya sekiya kukkad, a smoky chicken dish from Granthgarh, traditionally cooked over cowdung cakes, or seasonal produce like chibar (wild cucumber) and mungre (rat-tail radish), slow-cooked in earthen kundas sourced straight from Bathinda.

Culinary treasures once tucked away in Punjab’s remote corners now take centre stage here. Dishes like kadahi mutton from Lakshmi Chowk—now across the border in Lahore—or the humble padoliwali dal, once reserved for slow afternoons at home, are given the space they deserve. For vegetarians, there’s chapparwale koftey (bottle gourd dumplings simmered with aloo bukhara) and chippad and tomato chutney, hand-pounded in traditional clayware until it sings with smoke and tang.

On the menu, there’s also a special tribute to Sarvesh Kaur, whose legacy still stirs the pot. And royal Punjabi dishes from storied kitchens are reimagined with care: chicken kibti, the delicate kofta alubukhara, and Patiala shahi raan, a whole leg of lamb slow-cooked, wrapped in pastry, and baked till golden. Even the lentil gets its moment of grace in the malka masoor ki dal, simmered gently with mint, coriander, and mutton stock.

And then, there’s the bread—there’s an entire menu devoted to it; Punjab, after all, is the bread basket of India. From pani de hath di roti and toonhi roti (a tender cousin of the Sindhi koki) to naturally fermented mushki roti, pillowy buns and crisp-edged katlamas that shatter at first bite. “It’s about time we broke the myth that Punjabi food is all oil and excess,” Sandhu says. “There’s no refined oil in my kitchen. Everything is organic.”

That clarity came not from books but from the road. It was during her travels across Punjab, through Chandigarh, Amritsar, Bathinda, Patiala, and its smaller, dustier villages, that the deeper truth revealed itself: the soul of Punjabi food isn’t in the recipes, it’s in the reverence. For the grain, for the butter, for the way the wheat is milled and the lassi is churned. “These may seem like small details,” Sandhu reflects, “but they carry generations of wisdom. And they’re often overlooked.”

The bar menu, designed by Jeet Rana and Chirag Pal, mirrors Punjab’s bold, unfiltered spirit. Every drink comes in two sizes: regular and the very extra Patiala, a cheeky nod to tradition that blends humour with heft. Familiar desi coolers like aam panna, ganne ka ras, lassi, and thandai are reimagined as cocktail bases. Glass rims arrive dusted with salts made from house-blended Punjabi masalas, leaving a trail of fire and memory with every sip.

And for those who like to live dangerously, there’s the Tadka Marke Beer—a wild, unapologetic mash-up of beer and a full Patiala peg—a likely twist on the boilermaker. (It lands as hard as it sounds.)

And the experience doesn’t end there. As you leave Kikli, the exit corridor (same as the entrance) gently draws you back through a thoughtfully curated retail nook, a continuation of the story told through jars, textiles, and kitschy merchandise. Whether it’s quirky cushion covers, brass lassi glasses, or hand-painted serveware, each piece echoes the everyday beauty of Punjabi kitchens. Lining the shelves are edible heirlooms: house-churned white butters infused with roasted spices, ghee-roasted naan khatais, handmade papads, sun-dried vadis, and fiery pickles made lovingly by Sandhu’s sister.

Because at Kikli, nothing is incidental. Not the food, not the fire, not the way you’re sent off—with a piece of the story in your hands.

Meal for two: ₹1,500 (without alcohol)

Timings: noon to midnight (open all days)

Address: K 11B, Connaught Outer Circle, K Block, Connaught Place, New Place, Delhi 110001

Reservations: +91 99109 79100

Kikli opens to the public on July 28, 2025