How ITC Maurya’s Avartana reinvents South Indian cuisine with flair

Before it came to Delhi, Avartana had already built its reputation in Chennai, where it first opened at the ITC Grand Chola (in 2017) and quickly became one of ITC’s most celebrated culinary ideas. Its popularity in Chennai more or less dictated what came next: Avartana began to travel. First to Mumbai at the ITC Maratha, then to Kolkata at the ITC Royal Bengal, and even to Colombo at ITC Ratnadipa, each outpost carrying the same grammar. The Delhi outlet opened in October 2024 and since then, it has drawn diners in droves.

The fermented chilli prawn was small enough to disappear in two bites. But the balance was lethal, in the best way. The prawn emulsion was creamy but not heavy, and then the fermented chilli swung in. The idli had a mild sourness that came alive against the sea-salt tone of the shrimp. I found myself taking a very slow breath after it, thinking: If this is the warm-up, where exactly are we headed? The next thing that grabbed me was the coriander chicken on a mini appam. Mini is the key word. It was tiny but it carried so much intention. The coriander didn’t play the garnish it usually does, but felt like the whole backbone of the dish: deep, fragrant, and a little woody.

The appam underneath was barely sweet, barely soft, but enough to catch every bit of the chicken’s richness. I thought, how odd it was that something this tiny could feel so complete. Like a full paragraph condensed into a single line. Then came the shrimp and coriander dumpling with a chilli-coriander jam. The casing was thin but firm, and the filling had the warmth of coriander running straight through it. The jam on the side delivered a punch: sweet, sharp, and herbaceous all at once. It tasted like someone took two familiar flavours from coastal kitchens, stripped them down, and rebuilt them from scratch. That was evident in other dishes, which had other wonders.

Spiced boletus and that flicker of fire

The spiced boletus came tucked inside an aerated rice bun, with a small flame flickering beside it. Now, 99 percent of the time, when a restaurant brings fire to the table, it’s drama for the sake of drama. Here, the fire actually meant something. The smoke kissed the bun, giving it this delicate charred aroma that made the mushroom inside feel deeper, more grounded. The boletus itself was earthy and dense in flavour, like a walk through a monsoon forest. And the rice bun — it’s hard to describe it without sounding overexcited — was impossibly light, like a cloud with a pulse. The smoke threaded through it, and suddenly the whole thing clicked: modern technique, but anchored in the logic of rice, fire, and earth.

The lamb rice arrived later, almost in the middle of the tasting journey, and it stunned me because it didn’t try to be bold or flashy. It was gentle. The lamb was tender. The rice had its own shy fragrance. The okra yogurt felt like a revelation. Okra in yogurt is not a combination I associate with fine dining, but it worked like a grounding element: vegetal and slightly viscous. It linked the meat and grain in a way that felt strangely emotional, like comfort food that had been translated into a new language but kept its heart intact. If the meal had a centre, this dish was it.

Cocktails and dessert

I also dipped into Avishka, their cocktail menu, “a narrative in liquid form”. Each drink felt like a postcard from a different part of the south. The Guntur Imli Highball had a tamarind note that was sour and carried that woody perfume that tamarind from Andhra is known for. The Anantapur Bajra Martini tasted toasty and mineral, thanks to roasted bajra infused into the gin. Such a smart, unexpected choice.

The Idukki Cardamom Sour made me realise how cardamom behaves when given space: less floral, more resinous, almost sharp. The Coorg Coffee Espresso Martini, nitro-infused, smelled like the hills: citrus with a touch of bitterness, smoke curled inside chocolate. They felt like a way of mapping the peninsula through aroma and memory.

In desserts, pumpkin and candied ginger was not about indulgence, but the jaggery-sesame ice cream turned the whole thing into something else. The pumpkin brought warmth, the ginger brought brightness, and the ice cream tied them together with that deep, nutty sweetness jaggery does better than refined sugar ever will. After so many sharp, bright, smoky, herb-driven flavours, this dessert felt like a long exhale.

Somewhere between the third and fourth course, it hit me that Avartana coming to Delhi isn’t just about expanding a successful Chennai restaurant. It’s about presenting southern cuisine without making it all about dosa-sambar-idli, which North Indians tend to do. By the time I stepped out into the cold air after dinner, the name — Avartana — finally made sense to me. Iteration. Repetition. Rhythm. Not in the sense of sameness, but in the sense of returning to an idea from different angles. That’s exactly what the meal felt like: familiar flavours returning in unfamiliar forms.