Some things in life are sacred — like not sharing your last piece of aamras-soaked puri, or believing that Gujarati kadhi is the elixir of peace. And then there’s my personal summer ritual — a proper Gujarati thali with sanskaari servings of aamras.
So last Tuesday, in the spirit of mangoes and mild chaos, RB and I set off on our thali pilgrimage. This time, there was no planning, no Googling, no Instagram stalking of “top 5 thali places in Ahmedabad.” Pure, unfiltered spontaneity. The kind that food shows warn you about.
We ended up at Annkut Thali Restaurant, a place we hadn’t visited in five years. Not because we were avoiding it — just because Gujarat has more thali options than Bollywood has remakes.
Empty Restaurant, Full Attention
We reached around 7:30 PM — before the usual dinner stampede. Just two tables were occupied, so all the wait staff turned into our personal entourage. We were seated at a table for four because apparently, couples don’t eat thalis in peace.
The table already had some bujhiyaan-bharke yaadein waiting: those thick, crunchy besan sev, and sugar-dusted meethi mathris that screamed “90s snack dabba nostalgia.” I almost heard the Doordarshan theme music in the background.
The Snack Attack Begins
As we were just warming up, the starters arrived like a well-trained army of carbs:
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Samosa: Golden, flaky, no-nonsense
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Dhokla: Because you can't spell Gujarat without it
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Papdi Chaat: Trying its best to win the popularity contest
Corn chaat - Colourful
And the sweets?
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A bowl of sevaiyan (the no-milk type – polite and unassuming)
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Aamras, which they served as a side dish, not a dessert.
(Excuse me? Not a dessert? This is emotional damage.)
Of course, I didn’t complain. I just quietly asked for seconds. And thirds. I don’t believe in labelling mangoes as Kesar or Alphonso. That’s like asking a mother to choose her favourite child. We don’t do that here.
And Then Came the Main Course Mayhem
Just as I was giving the dhokla a loving bite, the main course servers came in like an express train on a mission. Katoris clanged, spoons shimmered, and 5 different hands tried to fill our plates simultaneously.
We politely requested a ceasefire. "Let us finish our snacks with some dignity," I whispered to the paneer sabzi about to invade my samosa space.
Once we resumed, here’s what the culinary battlefield looked like:
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Paneer (mandatory thali citizen)
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Aloo sabzi (classic, no drama)
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Parval (the surprise element)
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Soybean curry (for the protein enthusiasts)
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Gujarati Kadhi (my forever love — dal who?)
The breads were ghee-soaked goodness:
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Soft rotis
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Puffy pooris
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Proud bhakhris
Everything glistened like it had just come back from a spa. Ghee facial and all. I didn't even pretend to say "no ghee, please." I was too busy dunking bites in kadhi like a pro.
The endgame was a comforting khichdi, chaas that could calm angry gods, and the final glorious gulp of aamras. (Yes, again.)
Final Verdict (and My Mango Bias)
In and out in 30 minutes. No drama. No overthinking. Just straight-up thali therapy.
⭐ Food: 4/5 (minus one point for not calling aamras a dessert — emotional trauma, you see)
⭐ Ambience: Simple, clean, air-conditioned peace
⭐ Service: Speed of light. Might need seat belts next time.
⭐ Will I return? Only if I don’t eat too much poha on Sunday.
In conclusion, dear reader, if you find yourself in Ahmedabad with your stomach growling like a Bollywood villain, head to Annkut. Eat before the crowd hits. Relish the kadhi. Honour the aamras. And remember: in the thali world, there are no small servings, only small appetites.
Neerja Bhatnagar
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