A Chorus of Cravings

‘JOLENE, JOLENE, Jolene, Jolene/I’m begging of you, please don’t take my man’.

But what if Jolene didn’t steal lovers, but gave you back parts of yourself you didn’t know you’d lost?

Every time I hear Dolly Parton’s voice rise with that pleading tremor, something cracks open. That song isn’t just about a woman and a rival—it’s about longing, hunger, fear, beauty. It’s about life. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Jolene—the restaurant—is too.

I say this not as a bystander, but as someone who’s had the rare luck to become deeply entangled in its soul. I’m the culinary director at Jolene, the shimmering coastal gem dreamed up by Amrita Arora, Shakeel Ladak, Gaurav Batra, and Ankit Tayal—four visionaries who believed in building not just a restaurant, but a resonant, living story. Set like a pearl in Anjuna, Goa, Jolene sits between sea and sky, a rhythm, a mood, a moment. There is no Jolene here to steal. There is only Jolene to give.

Ayushi Malik, the designer who brought our vision to life, has created a space that doesn’t just sit prettily by the sea—it belongs to it. The walls breathe. The light shifts. The furniture sways slightly in sync with the wind. It’s a place you arrive at with your shoulders tight, and leave a little lighter, fuller, softer.

And then, of course, there is the menu. What do you call a mushroom pâté brûlée that melts like an old soul? Or a shakshouka that hums with comfort and heat? What about a dosa waffle stacked with southern-style paneer-65, or Singapore curry noodles that make you wonder where Goa ends and the East begins?

You call it travel. You call it memory. You call it a plate full of the world. We’ve mapped stories across continents and let the borders blur. There’s the Mujaddara rice with mushroom sheesh taouk—Lebanon meets Konkan. There’s the chargrilled king oyster mushroom, drenched in garlic butter and chilli oil that tastes like monsoon afternoons and mischief. Burrata sings with romesco and grapes.

That’s what food has taught me. That’s what travel confirmed. That the act of sitting at a table with someone different from you—in skin, tongue, prayer, politics—and sharing a meal is an act of peace

Pasta twirls with Bengali mustard and red lentils. It’s not fusion. It’s not trend. It’s truth— the truth that flavour knows no passport.

If you eat with an open heart, you can find pieces of yourself in places you’ve never been.

That’s what food has taught me. That’s what travel confirmed. That the act of sitting at a table with someone different from you— in skin, tongue, prayer, politics—and sharing a meal is an act of peace. It is humility. It is grace. You chew. You smile. You nod. You ask: “What’s in this?” And that’s where it begins—a story, a connection, a tiny undoing of fear.

This menu is the child of so many journeys— mine, Amrita’s, Shakeel’s, Gaurav’s, Ankit’s, our chefs’, our farmers’, our guests’. It’s a patchwork of love and labour. A chorus of cravings. And like Dolly’s Jolene, it’s unforgettable.

Except this Jolene doesn’t plead. She invites. She opens her arms and sings: Come hungry. Come curious. Come home.

So as you sit by the Arabian Sea and dip your spoon into panna cotta or scoop up the last smear of labneh, I hope you feel it. That shimmer. That warmth. That quiet knowing. That you are not alone. That the world is still beautiful. That lunch—a simple, overlooked meal—can sometimes become a revelation.

We launch lunch not just as a service, but as an offering. A hymn. A gathering. A remembering. You don’t need a boarding pass to cross oceans: just a table, a plate, a little hunger, and a lot of heart.

‘Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene…’

The song plays again in my head as the plates go out. This time, it doesn’t sound like loss.

It sounds like home.

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