Tasting Goa in Mumbai

Shame on me. Bombay has known O Pedro for years, made it an institution, laughed and lingered under its frangipani canopy, and I—who have eaten from far grander tables and humbler homes—had not once crossed its threshold. Until now. Until Parabjot Bali’s 30th birthday. Until friendship, flavour, and fate aligned.

Parab is Jammu-born, Bombay-bred, world-ready. A model, yes, but also more than that: a mirror and a muse, a man in whose jawline light plays like water, and in whose loyalty one can find moorings. At 30 he stands between youth’s restless flight and adulthood’s grounded grace. It is a decade where arrival begins, where we no longer chase shadows but start to shape our own.

We gathered small but strong: Parab, radiant in youth; Sabrina Suri, of Sabrina’s Kitchen, who once transformed my wary palate into a willing lover of Kashmiri food; Sonia Ghavri, darling friend and indomitable woman who has taught by example how independence, resilience, and reinvention can make life not just livable but luminous. And I, the elder at the table, 52, watching, remembering, learning again what time can take and what it tenderly gives back.

O Pedro, in Bandra-Kurla, is Goa transplanted into the belly of Bombay. It is not Goa the postcard cliché, but Goa the layered memory: Portuguese whispers and Saraswat chants, toddy vinegar and tamarind tears, coconut cream and chilli fire. It is a space that shifts from sunlit calm to dusky revelry, from reflection to riot, just as life itself does.

We began with a ceviche of mushrooms—pickled oyster folds wrapped around lima bean mousse, their tang tempered by the crunch of tempura. It was youth and age in one bite: the bracing tartness of beginning, the soft comfort of continuation, the brittle crispness of endings. Then came coconut kismur, its masala both fiery and forgiving, glazed with tamarind and chilli, reminding us that sweetness and sting often walk together.

The poee—Goa’s sourdough soul—arrived with butters: prawn balchao, garlic, chorizo. We  tore it, shared it, dipped it, devoured it. What is bread, after all, if not the allegory of companionship—broken and passed, multiplied and remembered?

There was prawn balchao, singing of vinegar seas and chilli suns; bone marrow simmered in tamarind gravy, earthy and primal; Pedro’s ceviche bright with tamarind; tacos tinged with chorizo heat. Each dish spoke of history, of home-work, of heritage. O Pedro does not chase novelty. It has nothing to prove. Its flavours are confident, considered, complete. Like turning 30 itself: no longer the noisy experimentation of the 20s, but the steadier step of substance.

We ended, as all feasts must, with sweetness.  Pastel de nata, egg custards cracking their caramel lids, and chocolate mousse kissed with tamarind caramel and mascarpone. Dessert not just as indulgence but as benediction, reminding us that life can still surprise with sugar after spice.

And around that table, what did we really celebrate? Not just a birthday, not just a restaurant, not just the belatedness of my first visit to this beloved Bombay institution. We celebrated time itself. Time that carried Sonia into a life of strength, elegance, and independence. Time that carried Sabrina from Kashmiri kitchens into my culinary memory forever. Time that carried Parab from the uncertain 20s into the luminous 30s. And time that carried me back to gratitude—for survival, for friendship, for the flavours that stitch memory to moment.

Even a small gathering, when seasoned with love and laughter, becomes monumental. Even four chairs at a corner table can feel like a cathedral. Even 30 years, marked by a modest cake and an extravagant ceviche, can taste like eternity.

So here’s to O Pedro, where Goa meets Bombay, and where one night met many lifetimes. And here’s to Parab at 30—classic, not cliché; seasoned, not spent; radiant, resilient, ready. 

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