Have you ever been to a place where a mariachi tune could flirt with the Indian sitar and sound as though they were always meant to play together? That’s what Pendulo reminded me of—a confluence so seamless it felt less like fusion and more like memory uncovered. Growing up, my mother would crush fresh green chillies with gondhoraj lime and salt to brighten a plain dal-bhaat on a summer afternoon. Somewhere else in the world, roasted corn gets the same treatment—chilli, lime, salt. Different continents, same instinct. At Pendulo, those instincts don’t just meet, they harmonise.
In Shades Of Agave
Pendulo is the newest entrant at Ambawatta One in Delhi, a 50-seater restaurant that opened in September. Its name—Spanish for “pendulum”—isn’t metaphorical fluff. At the entrance, an enormous clay pendulum carved with Indian and Aztec motifs swings gently, as if ushering you from one culture into another. A spice bar beneath it holds jars of guajillo, kokum, and exotic flours, tempting you to sniff before you’ve even found your seat.
Inside, the room glows in what the team now calls “Agave Green”, a shade they invented after cycling through swatches until it felt right. The interiors are layered with thoughtful details—potted plants tucked between soft marble tables, lights shaped like agave plants, and chairs that borrow from the nostalgia of Indian bungalow furniture. Two seating areas set the mood—one designed for larger, convivial groups, and the other, a more intimate space, suited for quieter meals. Even the music plays along, with a live sitar slipping into the rhythm of Latin beats, so subtle you barely notice until you’re already smiling.
The restaurant is the brainchild of restaurateur Sahil Baweja, who has long been fascinated by the parallels between Indian and Mexican cuisines. “Indian food has absorbed so much history. But what if it was the one travelling the world in the last 500 years? How would other cuisines adapt to us?” he mused when I asked where Pendulo began. The answer arrived over drinks with his best friends, chefs Megha Kohli and Noah Louis Barnes. The three decided to build something novel—an entirely new cuisine imagined at the crossroads of India and Mexico.
What Arrives At The Table
Our evening began with a clink: Rosé Rosado in one hand, Fuego Kokum in the other. The Rosé Rosado opened with smoky mezcal, softened by in-house rose petal jam; grapefruit lent brightness, aperol added bitter threads, and gulkand tied it together like a whiff of monsoon in Jaipur. Served over cacao butter ice, with sumac and scattered rose, it leaned distinctly Indian in flavour.
The Fuego Kokum, meanwhile, carried the balance of both worlds. Mezcal again set the tone, but this time layered with chile tincture, a saline thread, and kokum chile gel balanced on a house-made nacho crisp. It was the kind of drink that rolled in like a tide, smoky and tart, leaving your palate alive for what was to follow.
The first bite came in the form of a palate activator—Dawn at the Milpa, a warm-sweet concoction made of corn, Oaxaca cheese, jalapenos, and jaggery. From there, the 12-course tasting menu unfolded slowly, almost ceremoniously.
“Even something as simple as papad in India has its echo in nachos or crisps in Mexico. That’s why our first course feels like a spice thali—only everything is Mexican,” quipped Chef Barnes. Almost on cue, Monsoon over the Sonoran arrived—nachos made from Indian grains, paired with guacamoles and salsas. It was a course that spoke both languages fluently. One after another, the menu unfolded in this way, each blurring borders, yet staying firmly rooted.
The Star Dish
Choosing a single favourite felt unfair. The Reshampatti Chicken Quesadilla set a high bar early: reshampatti-spiced, grilled corn-fed chicken layered with refried black beans, avocado, pickled onions, jalapenos, fermented hot sauce, and a crumb of dehydrated chicken skin, all bound together by mozzarella. Comforting yet complex, it was as satisfying as a plate can be.
Then came Spice Bazaar Taco: Bottle Masala Chicken, where East Indian bottle masala spiced the grilled chicken, lifted by salsa matcha, refried beans, and habanero aioli. It wasn’t just a taco; it was a reminder of how spice blends carry memory across centuries.
But if there was a true standout for me, it was Pickles of Mejico: Kodava Pork & Watermelon Pickle Taco. Juicy pandi-style pulled pork played against the sharpness of fermented watermelon rind, layered with crispy pork skin, coriander salsa, burnt garlic crema, charred pineapple, and tomato salsa. A mouthful that managed to be bright, smoky, and indulgent all at once.
And just when I thought I had reached my limit, the Awadhi Lamb Barbacoa arrived. Slow-cooked lamb, tender enough to fall apart with the nudge of a fork, met avocado crema and cilantro-lime Gobindobhog rice, rounded with chickpea yellow. One bite and it didn’t just fill the stomach—it stilled the room. The flavours had a quiet gravitas, as though centuries of cooking traditions had found their way into that bowl.
As Chef Kohli summed it up, “We don’t need to add a gimmick or an extra ingredient where it isn’t necessary. Both cuisines, as they are, can sit together naturally.” The menu is proof.
Drinks That Swing Both Ways
If the food is narrative, the drinks are a playful footnote. Goa-based mixologist Fay Barretto, who designed the programme, blurs the line between kitchen and bar—and it shows. “Otherwise, it’s just another cocktail menu. Here, we wanted the kitchen to come to the bar,” shares Barretto.
At Pendulo, nearly everything is made in-house. A kokum-chilli paste that takes days to perfect. Olives are smoked for hours before their brine is tempered into a cocktail. The drink menu showcases a pendulum scale that lets you see whether they lean more Indian or Mexican. A “Rasam Revival” tilts firmly toward India, while a mezcal-based rose concoction swings the other way. Some cocktails arrive with small edible companions: the Soltera, for instance, is topped with a pistachio cookie—an ode to single women, referencing a Mexican custom where such cookies are gifted to new brides.
The Pendulo Effect
Pendulo doesn’t chase fusion trends. It feels like a thought experiment brought to life: what if India and Mexico had been talking across kitchens for centuries? The result is food that feels both familiar and surprising, drinks that amplify the story, and a space layered with details that whisper rather than shout.
As Baweja put it, “There’s harmony and contrast both—the chilli, the citrus, the boldness. That’s what registers with the Indian palate.” He’s right. By the end of the evening, you don’t walk out heavy with a 12-course meal. You walk out with the afterglow of flavours swinging both ways, like a pendulum finding its rhythm.
