Dumplings are proof that most cultures agree on at least one thing: dough plus filling works. Thin layers of dough, generous fillings – sweet or savoury – sometimes steamed, sometimes fried. For me, the Tibetan momo takes the top spot. Always steamed, never fried and only with meat. On a good day or a terrible one, it is always momo time.

They look deceptively simple, but a good momo demands finesse: wrappers thin enough to be translucent, filling juicy enough to drip into the spoon and absolutely no unholy additions of cabbage.

Over the years, I’ve lived in enough cities to develop what I like to think of as a momo map – from roadside shops, stalls at Dilli Haat and easy-to-miss restaurants in Delhi, to nondescript hill shacks in Kalimpong serving them with a mean peanut chutney, and a corner shop in Bandra that I stumbled upon during college after navigating alleys I’d never been down before.

During the pandemic, I even tried making them at home. With my mum’s help, we like to think we’ve finally nailed a chicken momo recipe that tastes like all our nights in the hill towns.

Which is why my four years in Kochi were truly a test for a...

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