We land at Heathrow bleary-eyed and stiff, that peculiar half-dreaming state only an overnight transatlantic flight can deliver. The London sky is the soft gray of a teacup left to cool, and the clock insists it’s morning - never mind that my body is convinced it’s still somewhere over the Midwest in the middle of the night. Experience has taught me the only cure for this temporal dislocation is to push straight through: drop the bags, walk the city until my legs ache, and finish the day with an early dinner at Dishoom Carnaby. For almost a decade this ritual has been the metronome that resets my internal clock, a fragrant, sizzly full stop to the longest day of the year.
A Stroll Through Swinging History
Carnaby Street is London’s perpetual adolescence, forever dressed for a party that started in the sixties and somehow never ended. Even on a drizzly weekday the lane hums with colorful murals splashed above boutiques, neon slogans coaxing you to breathe and smile and shop. It is the perfect place to weave through the collage of mod heritage and sneaker-head present, letting the noise and motion jolt yourself awake. Just off the main drag, at 22 Kingly Street, Dishoom crouches behind a modest façade of polished timber and glass. There’s almost always a queue, but at this late afternoon hour, too early for dinner, too late for lunch, the line is mercifully short. The smell of charred spice wafts out each time the door swings open, an olfactory siren song that tightens my stomach with anticipation. Before our table is ready, we snag a highly coveted seat in the “permit room” or bar. I order a pint and my wife orders her first glass of chai. Even this early, the area is relatively crowded and a college student down from Birmingham strikes up a conversation with us.
Tip: Dishoom Carnaby takes limited bookings at quieter times, but walk-ins dominate. Arrive before six-thirty on weekdays and your wait is rarely more than ten minutes; any later and you’ll queue with the after-work crowd snaking out the door and down Kingly Street.
Stepping Into Old Bombay
Dishoom styles itself after the Irani cafés of mid-century Bombay, places where students, writers, and workers found strong chai, Kejriwal toast, and the comfortable democracy of a shared canteen table. After a long flight and a half dazed walk through the streets of London, a strong chai is definitely on the list of must-haves. Luckily for me, it is bottomless. The Carnaby outpost nods to that heritage without feeling kitsch: sepia photos of Parsi families watch from wood-paneled walls; ceiling fans whir; a haze of incense mingles with the buttery smoke leaking from the kitchen pass. We're seated in the Verandah: an airy, nostalgic space that feels worlds away from the bustle of London, both distant and disarmingly familiar.
Dishoom’s staff seem perpetually buoyant, gliding between tables with copper jugs of chilled water and gentle jokes about our jet-lagged squinting. They’ll happily pace your courses if you warn them you’re fighting sleep, and they’ve mastered the art of the invisible refill. The chai is topped up the moment you tip the cup, naan arriving seconds before the curries run dry. Lighting stays at that flattering dusk-o’clock glow, making even the most haggard traveler look portrait-ready in the photos you’ll inevitably take of your daal.
Chilli Broccoli Salad: The Bright Starter
The go-to starter is always the Chilli Broccoli Salad. This is a dish that practically deserves its own sunrise soundtrack. Charred florets, sharp citrus, and a dash of chilli heat collide in a finely chopped riot of flavor. It’s light, punchy, and the perfect palate reboot after a day of airplane pretzels and reheated pasta - even jet lag doesn’t stand a chance.
House Black Daal: A Midnight-Black Hug
If the salad is daylight, the House Black Daal is midnight. It is slow-cooked for 24 hours until the lentils melt into a velvet swirl the color of wet slate. Spoon it onto a flaky garlic naan and the world contracts to one perfect mouthful: earthy, peppery, faintly smoky from the tandoor singe on the bread’s underside. Dishoom’s daal is a study in patience, and on a day spent rushing from gate to taxi to hotel, that unhurried depth feels profoundly generous.
Rogan Josh: Comfort with a Kashmiri Lilt
There are flashier mains on the menu- the smoky lamb chops, the theatrics of the biryani sealed with a puff-pastry lid- but I always come back to the Rogan Josh. Tender cubes of lamb lounge in a crimson gravy spiced with fennel, Kashmiri chillies, and the buttery perfume of ghee. Each bite is warming without being punishing, the kind of spice that settles into your bones rather than scorching your tongue. I scoop it up with a piece of roomali roti so thin it’s practically translucent, and for a moment all the miles and time zones dissolve in the steam rising off the plate.
There’s a moment, halfway through the Rogan Josh, when the restaurant’s brass soundtrack hushes and the curry’s cinnamon-ghee perfume rises in a slow exhale. I spear a piece of lamb, watch the sauce ribbon off the fork, and realize I haven’t thought about time zones, baggage claims, or the emails waiting in my inbox for at least five minutes. That’s the real magic of Dishoom Carnaby: it isn’t just dinner; it’s a benign illusion that convinces you that you’ve always belonged exactly here, exactly now.
The Practical Magic of an Early Dinner
Why eat dinner at five-thirty? Because the goal is to crawl into bed by nine and trick my circadian rhythm into believing it’s survived a normal day. The richness of the daal and the slow-burn spice of the curry flood me with serotonin; the carb-heavy bread lulls my brain toward sleep. By the time I settle the bill, night has only just draped over Soho. I step outside into the chance glow of Carnaby’s string lights and feel, for the first time since touchdown, synced with London’s heartbeat. London has changed into magical dusk, though I might be a bit delirious by this point.
I pay, step back onto Kingly Street, and let the neon wash over me. The sky still holds a trace of summer blue, though my watch insists it’s night. No matter. Tomorrow I’ll wake on London time, ready for markets and museums and whatever flaky pastry the day presents. And when anyone asks how I beat the jet lag, I’ll point them toward the gentle roar of Dishoom’s tandoors and say, “Start with the Chilli Broccoli. Finish with the Black Daal. Trust the spices to do the rest.”
Mentioned in the Article
Dishoom - Carnaby Place • London, England