Whether in Montreal, where she was born and raised, or in Delhi, where her award-winning brasserie sits, the stylish chef’s love for gastronomy has always run deep. She came to India to chase her passion about eight years ago, after leaving behind an engineering career and having trained at the esteemed ITHQ (Institut de tourisme et d’hôtellerie du Québec). In 2014, she introduced unusual combinations like oysters with charred onion petals, tamarind puree, and rose vinegar when she became the first Indian chef to be invited to host a solo dinner at the James Beard House in New York City. Also presented there was her very own coffee-table book called Eating Stories, packed with charming visuals, tales and recipes.

In pursuit of narratives

“I am studying Ayurveda so, at the moment, I’m inspired by the knowledge and intuition which comes with that, but otherwise I completely live for stories. Those of the people around me — of spices, design forms, music, traditions, history and anything else I feel connected to.”

Culinary muse

“I truly believe that nature is perfect, so I feel privileged to use the ingredients that it provides, while adding my own hues, aromas and combinations…it feels like I get to play endlessly every day.”

After-work indulgence

“My favourite places to eat at are Cafe Lota and Carnatic Cafe in Delhi, and Betony and Brindle Room in NYC.”

Dream dish

“This salad I created called ‘secret garden’. It’s so beautiful to look at and has such a unique spectrum of flavours…all while using only the freshest, most natural produce to create something completely magical.”

Reception blooper

“Most people make the mistake of over-complicating the menu; having too much diversity and quantity. Wastefulness isn’t a good way to start a life together.”

A third-generation entrepreneur from a highly distinguished culinary family, she runs a thriving studio in Khar where state-of-the-art cooking stations and dining tables allow her to conduct a variety of workshops and sessions. Her grandfather is remembered as the man who migrated from Africa to London to found the brand that brought curry to the people of the UK — Patak’s. She took over as brand ambassador, having trained at Leiths School of Food and Wine and taught at one of Jamie Oliver’s schools in London. What’s more, Pathak is also the author of Secrets From My Indian Family Kitchen, a cookbook comprising 120 Indian recipes, published last year in the UK.

Most successful experiment

“When I was writing recipes for my cookbook, I had to test some more than once to ensure they were perfect and foolproof. One of my favourites was my slow-cooked tamarind-glazed pork. I must have trialled this recipe at least six times before publishing it, and after many tweaks I have got it to be truly sensational. It’s perfectly balanced with sweet and sour both.”

Future fantasy

“As strange as it sounds, I’d love to cater my own wedding. You want all your favourite recipes and you want to share this with your guests. I could hire a caterer to create my ideal menu, but I’d much prefer to finalise and finish all the dishes myself so that I’m supremely happy with the flavours I’m serving to my loved ones.”

Fresh elegance

“I’m in love with microgreens for entertaining and events…although not a new trend, they still carry the delicate wow factor and are wonderfully subtle when used well. I’m not into using foams and gels and much prefer to use ingredients that are fuss-free.”

This advertising professional first tested her one-of-a-kind amalgams at The Lil Flea, a popular local market in BKC, Mumbai. Her Indian fusion hot dogs, named Amar (vegetarian), Akbar (chicken) and Anthony (pork), sold out quickly and were a hit. Today, these ‘desi dogs’ are the signature at the affable home-chef-turned-businesswoman’s cafe-***-diner in Bandra, alongside juicy burgers, a fantastic indigenous crème brûlée, and an exciting range of drinks and Sikkim-sourced teas.

Loving the journey

“The best part of the job is the people I meet; the joy I get to see on their faces as they take the first bite. The fact that this is across all ages and social or cultural backgrounds makes it even better. Also, I can indulge a whim — whether it is about the menu or what I can do for a guest — without having to ask anyone. On the flip side, I have no one to blame but myself if the decision goes wrong. And, of course, I can’t apply for leave!”

Go-to comfort meal

“A well-made Bengali khichri or a good light meat curry with super-soft chapattis.”

What’s ‘happening’

“This is a very exciting time in food and entertaining — the traditional and ultra-modern are moving forward together. Farm-to-fork is very big; food is also more cross-cultural, and there is a huge effort to make your guest feel special. Plus, ‘Instagram friendly’ has become key…if it’s not on Instagram, it never happened! But essentially, a party works when everyone is comfortable and happy.”

A word to brides

“Let others plan your menu. You relax and look gorgeous!”

This Le Cordon Bleu graduate really knows her way around aromas that warm the heart. On returning to Mumbai from London, she began to experiment with making small-batch ice creams for family and friends. Now she churns out those ‘cheeky’ creations from a tiny kitchen in Bandra, where customers must ring a bell to get a taste of dark chocolate with Italian truffle oil, salted caramel, milk chocolate and bacon and her signature (a must-try) — blue cheese and honey.

The extra mile

“I’ll never forget the time I created three massive croquembouche towers (choux buns filled with assorted flavours of pastry cream, held together with caramel) for a wedding, and had to deliver them to Thane!”

Menu vision

“For a wedding, I would want to serve something light and fresh to start with, like seared scallops with fresh oysters and uni (sea urchin). For mains, I would serve something hearty and warm — roast duck and foie gras in a red wine jus. Dessert would be individual mini croquembouche!”

Having been raised by big-time foodie parents, the strongest motivation for their decision to take to this path came from their mother, who had two much-loved restaurants of her own while the sisters were growing up — Vandana in Mahim and Bandra Fest on Carter Road. Following the success of the first MeSoHappi in Khar, Mumbai, the duo known for wholesome cooking opened another outlet of the quirky gastro-bar adjoining The Captain’s Table — one of the city’s favourite seafood haunts — in Bandra Kurla Complex.

Chef’s own

AA: “We were the pioneers of the South African bunny chow in Mumbai and, even now, it remains one of my all-time favourites.”

On wedding catering

PA: “The most memorable for me will always be Aarathi’s high-tea bridal shower. I planned a floral-themed sundowner at our home in Cumballa Hill; curtains of jasmine, rose-and-wisteria lanterns and marigold scallops engulfed the space. We served exotic teas, alcoholic popsicles of sangria and mojito, and dishes like seafood pani puri shots and Greek spanakopita with beetroot dip, while each table had bite-sized desserts like mango and butter cream tarts and rose panna cotta.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

At the bus stop on Praed Street
Just arrived on the train
Awaiting the  bus, in drizzly rain

On the opposite side
Outside Paddington station
Is the evidence that we are a fast food nation

Burger King, Le gourmet brasserie, Chelsea deli, KFC, Subway, La Taarza cafe, Bagel factory, Costa, Chicken cottage, Bonne Bouch, Victors cafe
I can't see much more
But there are further food stores

We must be obsessed
With coffee and food
Can this be good?

Our waist lines are growing
Our pockets are empty
Yet there's fast food a plenty

There must be a market
They are filling a need
Is it our laziness or greed?

The Quantum Poetry Theorem

from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.

Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.

Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped

sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you

Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,  
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations

a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically

Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble

mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and

no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload

The brain revels and reels from overload,  
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and

hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums

Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge  and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!

my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored

Ode to a High Road House
You are the lion
And I, the mouse
Back and forth I scurry
In constant hurry, as the clientele flurries

I change my hair for you
I worry about what to wear for you
It's for my success that I care for you


Ode to a mouse
I saw her in the High Road House
Skurtling across the the busy floor
She treats haste as a virtue, what for?
I understand the need to succeed
Appreciation is all she asks for
Tranquility is all that she needs

The world crouching at her feet
As a dog awaiting a treat
Patience
Patience, my friend,
Sit still for a while
And let the world revolve around you.

Gonna die broke.

Angst, not this man
That be his plan.
My treat.
Feed the world.
That be the word.

Why eat home tonite?

Get on a plane,
Be the plan.
Feed the world
Specifically,
You and me,
In NYC.

Brasserie,
Patisserie
Hot Dog Cart
Wine Bar
Chinese
Thai
Felafel
Haute Cuisine,
Street steak,
Lean and mean.

Pizza in between
All meals
With white cloth napkins,
Real silverware.

Need your help
To execute
The best laid plan.

But one thing you
You
Need to do,
Need to due.

Bring Milk Duds
For desert.

When the account says zero,
Some might say you're a hero,
Even tho can't afford a casket,
(Maybe just a picnic basket?)
I will be buried with taste!

The taste of you and NYC
Upon his smacking lips,
Une bonne mémoire,
C'est tout, au revoir!

There was none of your itsy-bitsy, teenie-****** bikinis at a fashion show of vintage swimwear in aid of the Cleveland Pools.

The costumes on show on the catwalk at Green Park Station were a much more modest affair, with a lot less flesh on view, and with some very interesting costumes which seemed to amuse the younger audience.

The Vintage Swimwear fashion show celebrated the last 200 years of bathing suits – the pools celebrate their 200th birthday next year.

Costumes from the last two centuries were modelled down the catwalk, with some interesting reactions from the audience, many of them design or fashion students from Bath Spa University.

It was a great turnout according to Sally Helvey from the Cleveland Pools Trust.

"We had a great night, and it really was great fun," she said.

There was a bar and barbecue hosted by Green Park Brasserie, and ice cream from a vintage Humphry van.

The audience also enjoyed a photography booth, and picture and video slideshows.

The Cleveland Pools is the only surviving Georgian Lido in the country, with a beautiful outdoor pool nestling in the back woods by the River Avon near the Bathwick estate.

But it is very derelict and will need millions spent on it before it can be re-opened again to the public. Last summer the trust received the welcome news the amenity is to be granted more than £4 million from the Heritage Lottery Fund, so plans are in place to have the pools restored and open for use again possibly as early as 2017.

A lot more funding needs to be raised to try and match the funds given by the HLF, and the fashion show, organised by Bath Spa student Jenny Brown, was just one of many events being organised over the summer.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

Arriving, I find her briefing three press assistants on her upcoming catwalk show while simultaneously rifling through her closet — a dressing-up box filled with animal print and lacy confections — to choose her outfit for our shoot, while Desert Island Discs plays in the background.

Tucked at the end of a row of terraced houses close to London’s Portobello Road, Temperley discovered the six-bedroom property was on the market two years ago through her close friend, the designer Jasmine Guinness. The unique two-storey villa has a studio-style extension on the back of the property designed by the Victorian architect, Richard Norman Shaw.

She moved in 18 months ago with her son, Fox, 7, and her boyfriend, Greg Williams, 43, a portrait photographer, along with his two children from a previous relationship. ‘I’ve always been a Notting Hill girl at heart. I love that it’s so green, I love the market and my offices are around the corner.’

Temperley cites the interior designer Rose Uniacke (the creative genius behind the Beckham’s Holland Park home) as inspiration for fashioning her own interiors: ‘Rose has beautiful taste, sleek, clean but still really soft.’

The house’s all-white interior provides the perfect backdrop for Temperley to hang her beloved antique cut-crystal chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling mirrors sourced from Golborne Road’s Les Couilles du Chien — famous for its historic bric-a-brac — and the Clignancourt flea market in Paris. The most striking of these is an intricately etched diptych of French brasserie mirrors that sits proudly over her living room sofa.

For colourful accents, she looked to her archive of textiles, which ranges from heirlooms from her great-grandmother’s travels around the Orient to remnants of past fashion collections: ‘I have big haberdashery drawers, which are used for storing my collection in a warehouse in Greenford,’ she says. Having such a vast collection gives her the chance to indulge in some serious upcycling; a Mexican rainbow throw livens up a plain cream sofa while a wedding cloak from Turkmenistan makes a quirky wall-hanging.

Despite the global influences, the Union Jack is a recurrent motif: ‘When I worked in New York [in the mid-Noughties] I was called ‘Little Miss English’. I loved using materials such as lace and lots of references to Victoriana — all very British.’ Look closely, and you’ll find red, white and blue accents everywhere — on teacups, Roberts radios and on silk cushions.

‘To me, being British represents being able to be individual, eccentric and not taking yourself too seriously.’

Temperley was born and grew up in Somerset on her family’s cider farm in Martock, before moving to London aged 18 to study fine art at the Royal College of Art. The countryside has an ineluctable pull for Temperley and she carves her time between her office — ‘probably 80 per cent of the time, 10 per cent of the time here, 5 per cent in Somerset at the moment, and 5 per cent everywhere else’.

But if her west London home is all breathy shades of Farrow and Ball, Temperley’s country pile — a sublime 5.6-acre regency property called Cricket Court that was once the media magnate Lord Beaverbrook’s home — is the opposite: ‘In Somerset my sitting room is dark burgundy, we’ve got black bedrooms and an ochre-coloured library.’

To bring a little of the country back to the capital, Temperley peppers her house with beautiful bunches of wild flowers, sourced from florist Juliet Glaves, who grows her own blooms in Shropshire: ‘I always loved The Secret Garden and as a child I spent hours collecting flowers and drying rose petals on every surface. I am a hopeless romantic at heart and I love British country gardens and their flowers.’

Another great passion of Temperley’s is reading and no corner, staircase or table in the house is complete without stacks of books and fashion magazines: ‘Sally Tuffin [the British fashion designer-turned-ceramicist] has got an incredible fashion library at her home in Somerset and my dream one day is to have a room lined in books.’

As for the rest of the London house? It’s very much a work in progress, ‘especially being a working mum. It’s more collecting things and putting them together in a very relaxed way. Like in fashion design, when it comes to interiors things either work together or they don’t. I have a good eye and don’t like to be constricted to just doing clothes — I’d like to go into interiors. That’s the next chapter’.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

His herd trudge in binary directions.
Faceless they march to their fraudulent feed
Opposing the one, their ransom, his seed.
False food disguised as noble inflections.

The truth shrouded from all inspections
With frivolity from who need pay heed.
To words of the one, through him that did bleed
As payment for the herd’s imperfections.

Not for them but for him, the one, the all,
For their actions would tarnish his clean name
Should his creation lay under a pall,
His perfection it would only defame.
When he takes a stand, upon him they call
It is written he’ll win the wicked game.

For many chasing jenny, a short shrift
For lack of atonement for losing tone,
Their restitution shan’t come from that throne.
Their heart’s reticence sends love far adrift.

Truth can mend Lucifer’s damage, the rift
In their hearts instilled by stealth from day one.
To hear the word, the onus is their own.
To hear the truth is to receive its gift.

With wisdom, utilise our time we must.
Escape the herd in their binary trudge.
Basing beliefs on knowledge we can trust
They know to do but continue the drudge.
Heads hung with disgust they’ll return to dust
To dust, they he will adjudge.

The canvas currently clean as satin,
Upon which, with their freedom, they may paint
That which their hearts desire, but not to taint
Or tarnish the words before that Latin.

A bastardisation was that Latin,
Wringing and wrangling till the truth grew faint.
Questions unasked as questioner’s constraint
Set in motion the persistent pattern.

Little with distance between are those eyes
Open and receptive to deviate.
Blindly open and blinkered by the lies
For their daily drudge down the wide road, fate.
No hope for what awaits beyond the fires
When they see will it all be but too late?

Je connais un charmant ivrogne,
Autant vous le nommer, ma foi !
Dire que vous avez la trogne,
Ce serait mentir sans vergogne.
Pourtant, un soir, écoutez-moi !

Vous aviez bu trop de champagne,
Ça se lisait dans vos yeux pers.
Vous battiez un peu la campagne,
Sans feuille de figuier ni pagne
À votre esprit, vraiment, sans pairs.

Et vous me dérouliez le thème
De tous les jolis mouvements
Que votre corps sait bien que j'aime.
J'étais, d'ailleurs, ivre moi-même,
Au Bon-Bock, tu vois si je mens.

La brasserie était houleuse,
On aurait dit, sur l'Hellespont,
D'une cabine nuageuse,
Quand l'eau, changée en Maufrigneuse,
Choque les gens dans l'entrepont.

Vous aviez l'air *** d'une chatte
Qui joue et sent son ongle armé,
Forte, ambigüe, et délicate,
Comme une rime sous la patte
Magistrale de Mallarmé !

Je flottais comme la moustache
De Paul Verlaine au plectre d'or,
Je voyais couleur de pistache ;
Camille agitait sa cravache,
Sur je ne sais plus quel butor ;

Si bien qu'au milieu des querelles
Je vous retrouvai sur un banc,
Dans l'attitude de ces Belles
Que Forain, dans ses aquarelles,
Habille d'un bout de ruban.

Tu t'endormais sur mon épaule.
Alors, je fis signe au cocher.
Ces choses-là, c'est toujours drôle !
J'entrais d'autant mieux dans ce rôle
Que j'aurais eu peine à marcher ;

Quand on nous déposa sur terre,
Vous fîtes un léger faux pas,
Le seul qu'on vous vit jamais faire ;
Encor, même à l'œil trop sévère,
Peut-être ne l'était-il pas ?

Car, dans l'ombre où s'éteint le rêve
De mes désirs réalisés,
Ton ivresse que l'Art relève
Ouvrait, ô noble Fille d'Ève,
La volière à tous les baisers !