You have to get there before sunrise. That’s the rule—unspoken but sacred—if you want a taste of the Kolkata that’s slowly slipping through the cracks. A Kolkata stitched together with steam, soy, and stories whispered between bites of delicate dumplings. A place where heritage lingers in the air, thick as the scent of sesame oil and pork broth.
It was 2008. I was 19. And the city was just beginning to show me her after-hours secrets.
My childhood in Kolkata was tenderly curated: museums, parks, libraries, and the safety of familiar family-run restaurants. We didn’t venture out late. The city existed within boundaries. But college cracked something open. I found myself surrounded by a new tribe: friends who danced till 3 am, who smoked their cigarettes with poetry, and who knew the best pork curry in town didn’t come from Park Street but from someone’s uncle’s hole-in-the-wall kitchen in Tangra.
That morning—or should I say night?—we had just stumbled out of a head-banging gig. The sky was somewhere between violet and blush pink. I was exhausted. Sweaty. A little euphoric. And very, very hungry.
“Fancy breakfast?” a friend asked.
“At 4 am?” I laughed. “Azad Hind Dhaba, then?”
He grinned. “Even better.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were dropped off near Poddar Court. The lanes were barely lit. Shops shuttered. But something hung in the air—a smell I couldn’t place. Fermented? Umami? Smoky? It was magnetic.
And then we turned the corner into Tiretta Bazaar. There it was: throbbing, alive, all awake while the rest of the city slept. A narrow street jammed with makeshift stalls: bamboo poles, tarpaulins, flickering bulbs. But it wasn’t the setup that stunned me. It was the food.
Steam rose from towering metal baskets like smoke signals to the gods. Elderly Chinese aunties stood behind massive pots, their faces lined with stories, their hands moving with choreography honed over decades. The air was thick with the scent of sesame, soy, ginger, and slow-simmered bone broth. There were pork buns puffed like little clouds. Wontons so translucent you could see the minced meat blush through. Rice rolls sticky and warm in banana leaves. Prawn dumplings with wrappers so delicate I was scared to touch them. And soup, god, the soup, ladled from huge aluminium cauldrons, hot and clear, kissed with scallions and pepper.
We wedged ourselves into a line at a stall run by a woman with the stern grace of a general. She handed us five plump steamed chicken momos with a nod. Twenty bucks. A plastic bowl of soup on the side.
The first bite? I still remember. The momo wrapper was impossibly soft, barely holding in the juice of the meat. The soup was like a lullaby—warm, salty, whispering secrets to my tired bones. And they kept refilling it. Three times. No charge. Just warmth.
An Alleyway Of Flavours
Tiretta Bazaar isn’t just a breakfast market. It’s living memory. A remnant of when Kolkata had a thriving Chinese population: families who arrived as shoemakers, dentists, leather tanners, and bakers. They built temples, celebrated the Moon Festival with glowing lanterns, and gave us a cuisine that became as much ours as theirs.
You could sense the layers. The dumplings carried history in their folds. The soup wasn’t just broth; it was balm. There was a sticky sweetness to the bao that made you pause — honey, maybe? Or nostalgia, thick on the tongue. Even the hot sauces had character — not store-bought heat, but something fermented, spicy, soulful.
That morning, I sat on a plastic stool, slurping soup, watching the steam rise and dissolve into the dawn. I saw couples leaning into each other over pork baos. Men in office shirts folded at the elbows, inhaling their third bowl. Sleepy children gnawing on dumplings, their mothers rubbing their backs. Everyone is equal here. Everyone is fed. It was church.
I was silent. Moved. And maybe, changed.
In a city often described in nostalgia and sepia tones, Tiretta Bazaar is a burst of heat, spice, and sound. It reminded me that Kolkata doesn’t only live in Durga Puja pandals or Tagore’s poems: she lives in these pre-dawn pockets, in steam and spice, in the grip of a chopstick and the whisper of a disappearing culture.
Over the years, I’ve gone back. The stalls have reduced. Some mornings are quieter now. The younger Chinese residents have moved to other countries, and the aunties are growing older. The clanging of pans is softer. The energy, while still vibrant, carries a sense of fragility — like porcelain, beautiful and breakable.
But still, the food remains.
This isn’t just about Chinese breakfast in Kolkata.
It’s about waking up before the world does. It’s about walking through fog and finding warmth. It’s about the smell of dumplings when your heart is raw from dancing too hard. It’s about a city showing you its most secret smile, and hoping you remember.
If you go, and I hope you do, go early. Before 7:30 am. The food starts vanishing by then, and the stalls quietly fold up, returning to anonymity. Head near Poddar Court, Central Kolkata. Follow the steam.
And take your time. Don’t just eat. Watch. Listen. Smell. Let the place wrap itself around you. Because in Tiretta Bazaar, you don’t just taste dumplings. You taste time.
Also Read: A Feast for the Senses: Exploring India’s Vibrant Street Food Markets
