Taste in Transit: A gypsy chef finds inspiration for his menu on his travels

JUST BEYOND THE predictable pulse of Delhi, near the runways where departures dictate rhythm and arrivals blur into anonymity, sits ADRIFT Kaya— slightly removed, slightly restless, a little…adrift.

Not in confusion, but in character. Not lost, but deliberately located in that liminal space between movement and memory. It is an address that resists convenience, and in doing so, demands intention. And intention, here, is everything.

Led by David Myers—the so-called Gypsy Chef whose journeys are as plated as they are posted—ADRIFT Kaya feels less like a restaurant and more like a reflection of a life lived in transit. His Instagram may flicker with cities and seasons, but what anchors it—and what anchors this menu—is a discipline that does not drift. It distils. The new menu does not announce itself with noise. It unfolds. Quietly, confidently, like a conversation that knows where it is going.

There is, first, the hand. Temaki—those tender, tactile hand rolls—arrive not as spectacle but as sensation. Warm rice, cool fish, the crisp whisper of nori giving way in a single, decisive bite. There is no delay between making and meaning. Ebi, salmon, unagi, sea urchin— each roll is a fleeting moment, assembled and surrendered almost instantly. It is sushi that refuses to be staged. It insists on being lived.

Around it, the menu gathers momentum without ever losing balance. A mushroom salad, glossed in burnt butter and ponzu, feels both forest-floor earthy and city-slick sharp. Yamitsuki lettuce crackles with caramelised onion and garlic—addictive, almost audacious in its simplicity. The soft shell crab katsu shatters before it settles, while salmon belly tartare, softened by brioche and sharpened with caviar, plays that delicate duet of decadence and discipline.

Then comes the smoke. From the robata, the air shifts—charred, caramelised, quietly commanding. Eggplant collapses into itself, smoky and miso-slick, while broccoli, blistered and buttered, becomes something far more profound than its pedigree suggests. This is where Myers’ hand is most visible: not in excess but in editing. Not in invention but in intention.

And always, there is rhythm. Cocktails here do not compete; they converse. A citrus cut here, a smoky echo there—each glass calibrated to complement, not conquer. Between sip and bite, there is syncopation, a steady sway. Nothing is out of step. Nothing is out of sync. The bar and the kitchen move like partners who have long learned each other’s silences.

Even the indulgences—hot soba with roasted duck, unctuous and aromatic; hamachi kama, kissed with fire and finished with sudachi—carry a clarity that resists clutter. Flavour is not piled on. It is placed, precisely.

And then, dessert. Not a crescendo, but a coda. Matcha, black sesame, grapefruit— bitterness, nuttiness, brightness—held in delicate tension. Sweetness, here, is not surrender. It is structure.

What emerges, over the course of a meal, is not just a sequence of dishes but a philosophy of dining. One that mirrors the man behind it. Myers may travel, he may translate, he may traverse continents and cuisines—but his cooking remains centred. Steady. Sure.

There is something quietly cinematic about ADRIFT Kaya. The low light, the hum of conversation, the choreography of plates and pours—it all feels composed, yet never contrived. You sense the airport nearby, the constant possibility of elsewhere. And yet, at the table, you are held. Grounded. Gathered. Perhaps that is the paradox, and the poetry.

A place called adrift that anchors you. A chef in motion who cooks with stillness. A meal that moves but never wavers. In a city that often confuses excess with excellence, ADRIFT Kaya chooses restraint—and in that restraint, finds resonance.