Honest Reviews

A Chimbel House, Panaji – Goa review

There are some restaurants that you visit once and instantly know you’ll be back—because the food is divine, the service impeccable, and the whole evening feels like a warm hug with a side of burrata. And then there are others you’ll return to simply because the setting is so absurdly gorgeous, you’re prepared to forgive them the odd culinary wobble. This new restaurant on the Kadamba Plateau, I suspect, belongs squarely in the second camp.

Getting there is an adventure in itself. Let’s just say Google Maps doesn’t quite capture the nuances of Panjim’s Ribander junction, and one missed turn can feel like you’re heading for a quiet life in Old Goa. But persevere. Because once you arrive, you’re rewarded with one of the most atmospheric dining rooms in town: a sleek indoor space that unfolds into private nooks, airy in-between spaces, and finally an outdoor deck by the water that looks like it was designed for couples to propose over dinner. The view alone could sell the place. I’ve yet to see night dining in Goa this romantic.

We began with cocktails—or rather, mocktails with a wink and a splash of gin. We ordered the Basil Mirage and the Coastal Bloom, both advertised with the sort of florid ingredient lists that could double as perfume copy.

Basil Mirage, with cucumber, basil, elderflower and fizz, actually turned out rather good—crisp, refreshing, the kind of thing that makes you believe you’re 20% more attractive just for holding the glass.

Coastal Bloom, on the other hand, was a shade too sweet for me. It tasted like it wanted to be both a beach holiday and a mocktail at a child’s birthday party.

Starters arrived, and with them, my hopes of culinary fireworks. The Burrata Tomat Caponata was first up, and as someone who has ordered burrata in more countries than I care to admit, I can say with confidence: this one was merely serviceable. The cheese was fine, the caponata was there, the spiced honey did its best—but the whole thing lacked a certain sparkle. Presentation too could have been more inspired.

Next was Lady—togarashi-spiced bhindi with a yogurt-parmesan dip and nori. A dish with promise, certainly, but one that landed firmly in the “just okay” zone. It’s hard to go wrong with fried okra, and indeed they didn’t—but nor did they wow.

Then, salvation: Drunk Night in Bhutan. Roasted leeks with datshi, smoked cheddar sauce, samosa, mirchi, and toast. This was bold, messy, fun—a dish that flirted with chaos but somehow pulled it off. It’s exactly the sort of invention a new restaurant needs: quirky, memorable, and moreish. If I had to put money on their future signature, it’d be this.

For dessert, we went with Forgotten Fruit, a poetic name that turned out to be prophetic. Pomegranate consommé, poached apple, honey-cream, tuille—all the right words, none of the right feelings.

It was my least favourite plate of the night. The fruit was too sour, the flavours didn’t harmonise, and halfway through I found myself wishing I’d ordered literally anything else. Forgotten Fruit, indeed—best forbidden.

So, what’s the verdict? The ambience is a 10. The view is a 12. The interiors are stylish, the lighting flattering, and the whole setup is special enough to warrant a visit. As for the food—there’s work to be done. Maybe other dishes on the menu hit higher notes; maybe the kitchen is still finding its rhythm. I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt, because a restaurant with this much heart in its design deserves time to grow into its own menu.

The service was really nice too—everyone was obliging and smiley, and they made us feel at ease without hovering too much. It just added to the relaxed vibe of the evening.

This is a restaurant where the setting whispers “special occasion” while the food mutters “work in progress.” Still, sometimes a glorious backdrop is all you need. The kitchen can catch up later.

For now, go for the romance, go for the water views, go for that one dish that might just make you grin. And if you order the Forgotten Fruit, well—don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Maa : Netflix Movie Review

Kajol is back on the big screen, and that’s always… an experience. She has this knack for commanding attention—loud, brash, occasionally abrasive—but undeniably watchable. Even if you don’t always love the way she plays her characters, you end up glued to her performance because she brings a certain intensity that refuses to be ignored.

In Maa, she plays mother to a young daughter, married to a man who’s long since cut ties with his family and their “cursed” village. The curse, as the legend goes, demands every girl child as a sacrifice to a demon. Subtle? Not really. Understandably, Kajol’s husband has chosen to live far, far away in a nuclear setup. But duty calls when his father dies, and he heads back to the village—only to wind up dead himself. (Not much of a spoiler, the movie telegraphs it from miles away.)

Kajol, now widowed and left to deal with the ancestral home that’s being sold, is pulled back into the village and its messy, sinister folklore. From there, things unravel fast: daughters behaving strangely, one girl vanishing only to reappear mysteriously, and an atmosphere thick with dread. The village revolves around Durga Puja, with a locked temple of Durga Maa that only opens when someone dreams of Kali Maa. Of course, that dream lands on Kajol’s shoulders, because who else is going to save the day?

The plot leans heavily on familiar horror tropes—creepy children, family secrets, sudden vanishings—but spices it with a mythological angle. There are definitely gripping moments where you sit up straighter, but just as often, the tension fizzles out thanks to clunky dialogue or horror beats that feel a little too reheated. It’s engaging enough to keep you watching, but not groundbreaking.

As for performances: Kajol holds the film together, though not flawlessly. Her larger-than-life style sometimes works, sometimes overwhelms, but she gives the role conviction. The husband, for the brief time he’s alive, plays his estranged-son act decently before being written out. The daughter has her moments of wide-eyed terror, and the villagers do their job of looking suitably haunted by both demons and family politics.

Ronit Roy plays the elder in the family, but the way his character is written and staged robs the arc of real suspense. From early on, it feels fairly obvious where his character is headed. That said, Roy still brings weight to the role—his restrained menace, the slow hardening of his presence, and the way he carries himself gives the character some bite. Even if the twist isn’t suspenseful, his performance is fairly decent.

The emotional beats hit hard at times—loss, motherhood, the weight of tradition—but they’re also laid on thick. The film wants to be about good versus evil, faith versus fear, but it can’t always decide whether it’s horror, family drama, or mythological thriller. The result is uneven: moments of suspense followed by stretches of melodrama that drag.

So, is it worth watching? Once, yes. It’s not among Kajol’s strongest outings, but she’s compelling enough to make it serviceable. The movie is gripping in parts, flawed in many, and ultimately lands in that murky middle ground of “watchable but not memorable.”

Final Word: Maa is a one-time watch—part horror, part mythology, part melodrama, with Kajol powering through a shaky script. It’s neither a disaster nor a masterpiece, but it’s got enough to keep you from turning it off halfway.

The Thursday Murder Club – Netflix, Movie Review

First, let’s talk cast. Helen Mirren. Pierce Brosnan. Celia Imrie. Ben Kingsley, a smattering of other “I-know-that-face” actors who’ve been on posters, marquees, and award podiums. You’d think with that lineup, we’d be signing up for a cinematic feast. Instead, what we get is more like a lukewarm buffet at a retirement home. Edible, sure. Memorable? Not really.

The film, adapted from Richard Osman’s bestselling book, clearly knows its audience: pensioners with a nice cup of tea, a warm blanket, and a fondness for saying, “Well, wasn’t that lovely?” The rest of us? We’re left wondering if Netflix mistook “murder mystery” for “Sunday nap special.”

Performances:

Helen Mirren, ever the queen, glides through her role with such effortlessness that you almost forgive the fact that her character doesn’t really do much. She delivers lines with a sparkle, but sparkle alone doesn’t solve plot inertia. Pierce Brosnan plays his part as if James Bond were given a membership card at the local golf club. He’s charming, but in that “let’s wrap this up before the early bird dinner” way.

And then we have Celia Imrie—delightful as always, sharp as a tack, with a knack for delivering lines like she’s winking at the audience. She brings warmth and wit, but it’s almost tragic watching her energy bounce off such a tepid script.

And Sir Ben Kingsley. A man who once transformed into Gandhi and had us all riveted. Here, he’s… fine. Respectable. Professional. But when you hire Ben Kingsley, you don’t want fine—you want spine-tingling brilliance. Instead, it’s as if the film told him: “Sir Ben, could you tone it down? We don’t want to outshine the custard.”

The supporting cast gives “fair” performances—competent, professional, but nothing you’ll be quoting at dinner parties unless your dinner parties involve crosswords and chamomile.

The Plot (or, The Lack Thereof):

Now, about that story. A group of retirees in a posh retirement village solve murders. On paper, it’s Agatha Christie meets The Golden Girls. On screen, it’s more “Agatha Christie… if she’d been sedated.” The twists are mild, the suspense flatter than week-old soda, and the emotional beats so syrupy that you’ll be checking your insulin levels.

Yes, there are “emotional” moments—tear-jerker scenes clearly engineered to tug at your heartstrings. And for the right audience, they work. But for anyone under 60, it feels less like heartfelt drama and more like being force-fed nostalgia.

The Appeal Question:

Here’s the rub: does this movie work for all ages? Not really. If you’re in your twenties or thirties, you’ll probably watch with the same detached fascination you reserve for your grandparents’ stories about ration cards. The writing is pitched squarely at a certain age group—one that enjoys bingo more than binge-worthy thrills.

Final Verdict:

With such a powerhouse cast, The Thursday Murder Club had the potential to be a witty, gripping, star-studded caper. Instead, it’s a polite shrug of a film. Average. Mediocre. Comfortably forgettable. A one-time watch if you’re feeling charitable, or maybe not at all if your Netflix algorithm has blessed you with literally anything else.

To sum it up, it’s like going to a five-star restaurant, ordering the chef’s special, and being served plain oatmeal. Perfectly fine, but why bother when the world is full of spice?

Metro… In Dino, Netflix ; Movie Review

First of all, the fact that I survived Metro… In Dino deserves a medal, or at the very least, a lifetime supply of aspirin. This wasn’t a movie. This was an endurance test disguised as cinema. From the opening frame to the final, merciful credit roll, it went from one nonsensical situation to another, like a drunk autorickshaw weaving its way through traffic with no brakes.

And then there was the music. Oh, the music. Not just bad—godawful. Imagine if someone handed Pritam a guitar and said, “Now play in every single scene, whether it makes sense or not.” He and his merry band appeared so often I started wondering if I had wandered into a bloated MTV Unplugged session. By the end, their random pop-ups were so unintentionally hilarious that the movie could’ve been rebranded as Pritam and Friends: The Musical That Nobody Asked For.

Plot-wise, where do we even begin? Apparently, men are mostly cheaters, but don’t worry—women can teach them a lesson before inevitably circling back to them. The script couldn’t decide if it wanted to be feminist, anti-feminist, or just plain farcical, so it chose all three and tied itself into knots.

There’s Sara Ali Khan, the quintessential nerdy girl with a reliable fiancé. Naturally, she tosses him aside to pursue the “travel blogger who has commitment issues.” Groundbreaking stuff. I mean, who could have seen that plot twist coming… except literally anyone who has ever seen a romcom in their life?

Then there’s the struggling musician and his ever-sacrificing girlfriend. Their scenes felt like the writer Googled “tragic subplot ideas” and just copy-pasted.

Not to forget, there’s also a weird dynamic between Anupam Kher and his daughter/daughter-in-law. I got bored trying to guess which one it was.

Meanwhile, the cheating husbands float in and out, cartoonishly convenient, like props wheeled in whenever the script needed a jolt of drama.

Performances? Hard to comment when the characters themselves were flattened into cardboard cutouts of clichés. “The cheating husband.” “The long-suffering girlfriend.” “The unpredictable guy who can’t commit.” It’s like the casting director was playing stereotype bingo.

The film wanted to be deep, modern, feminist, musical, socially relevant—pick a lane, any lane—but instead crashed spectacularly into all of them. It ended up feeling more aggressive and chaotic than if they’d just stuck to a simple “boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy finds girl again” formula.

Now, here’s the real heartbreak: the cast. Neena Gupta, Anupam Kher, Konkona Sen Sharma, Pankaj Tripathi, Sara Ali Khan, Ali Fazal, Fatima Sana Shaikh, Aditya Roy Kapur—an ensemble so talented you’d expect fireworks. On paper, this could have been the big urban epic, a multi-threaded story for the ages. Instead, the script and direction reduce these brilliant performers into caricatures. It’s like watching world-class chefs forced to cook instant noodles. Individually, each actor has the chops to hold a film together. Collectively, they deserved better than this half-baked mess.

In the end, Metro… In Dino is overly long, wildly far-fetched, and unintentionally comedic every time Pritam and his band popped up like unwanted wedding guests. Forget “In Dino”—this was In Denial.

Verdict: The cast deserved a masterpiece. They got a musical circus. And we, the audience, got three hours we’ll never get back.

Fika Coffee Co., Panjim : Review

We set out on a Sunday morning in search of brunch, lured by the siren song of high Zomato ratings and glowing Swiggy reviews. Fika, they said. A name whispered with reverence, as if brunching there would instantly elevate us into Goa’s café-hopping elite.

What we found, however, was… well, less divine revelation, more extension of hotel lobby. Fika lives inside Minimalist Hotels, and it does exactly what it says on the tin: minimalist to the point of feeling a bit like a sterilized lounge.

There’s an upper deck with a few tables and executive chairs, and downstairs a “Last Supper” style bench arrangement in the centre that screams communal dining, except no one’s sharing secrets of betrayal—just omelettes and beers. The rest of the seating sits groups of fours and sixes.

Still, optimism intact, we gave it a fair shot. The Fika Full House Brekkie landed with two chicken sausages, mushrooms, hash browns, some veggies, and an omelette. Perfectly decent.

The omelette and bread did their job without fuss, and that was that.

The Greek Souvlaki Chicken pizza followed, which, to be fair, was rather good—crispy, balanced, and the sort of thing you’d happily polish off without complaint. The Vanilla affogato was brisk and efficient, though not quite the soul-lifting espresso-meets-ice-cream collision you dream about.

Then came the bill. And here, dear reader, is where one’s eyebrows begin their northward ascent. Three hundred+ for a pint of Budweiser beer, at a coffee shop no less. Outlandish doesn’t even begin to cover it. Somewhere in Scandinavia, a minimalist architect probably smiled smugly, but my wallet did not.

The saving grace? Maya. The server with the kind of warmth, grace, and natural charm that money can’t buy. She glides about with an infectious smile, making you feel less like you’re in a clinical lobby and more like you’re welcome in her own living room. In truth, she’s the sort of person who keeps places like this alive.

So yes, Fika is… fine. Average in food, slightly shocking in pricing. But it has Maya, and for that reason alone, I’ll give it a cautious yes—with the hope that one day the seating softens, the prices loosen, and Fika finally lives up to its glowing reputation.

Hotel Review: Moustache Luxuria Goa, Vagator

When someone first whispered the words “Moustache Luxuria” into my ear, I thought they were taking the mickey. Moustache? Really? It sounded less like a hotel and more like a men’s grooming parlour on a discount app. Luxuria, meanwhile, sounded like a perfume your aunt buys in duty-free at the airport. So, naturally, my expectations were… subterranean.

The run up to the hotel is disarmingly ordinary, the kind of arrival that lowers your expectations just enough to make what comes next feel like sorcery.

The exterior, let’s just say, won’t be appearing on a glossy travel mag anytime soon. It’s more “blink and you’ll miss it” than “grand reveal.” And yet, once your room door opens—oh, sweet baby Ganesh—it’s as though your senses have been strapped to a rocket and fired directly into nirvana.

Now, to be clear, we weren’t just staying anywhere. We had booked the Presidential Suite. And thank heavens we did, because what awaited us was less a hotel room and more an entire lifestyle.

The suite is, to put it bluntly, ridiculous. Ridiculous in the way only the best boutique hotels can be. Every corner screams, “Please take a photo of me. Please.” It’s boho-chic with Zen undertones, done entirely in whites and light greys that make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a curated Instagram grid. The kind of place where you imagine wellness influencers casually sipping matcha and talking about “alignment.”

Seating area at the entrance of thr Presidential Suite

And then there’s the plunge pool. Inside the suite. Yes, inside. And because someone clearly woke up one morning and thought, “plunge pool? Cute. But what if it had… a fountain?”—well, now it has one. I stood staring at it like a confused cat. Do I swim in it? Photograph it? Sit beside it and sigh dramatically while pretending to be in a Dolce & Gabbana advert? I did all three, obviously.

The layout is borderline decadent. A little seating nook faces the outside pool area—perfect for mornings spent pretending you’re too intellectual for the water, before inevitably diving in.

There’s also a private patio with sunbeds, which is basically code for: “Here’s where you’ll pretend to read a novel while doomscrolling Instagram in your sunglasses.”

The bed itself deserves its own fanfare. Big, pillowy, the kind of bed that swallows you whole. The sort where you think, “Yes, I could live here. I could quit my job, renounce society, and simply exist in this bed.” Around it, sofas and seating areas appear like bonus levels in a video game. Every time you think you’ve explored the suite fully, you stumble upon yet another corner that makes you think, “Oh good lord, this, too?”

And the bathroom. Honestly, the bathroom deserves a Netflix special of its own. Enormous, with a big bath tub in the corner, facing lush greens. They’ve thrown in everything—candles, shower, utility bath accessories—like someone in charge simply muttered: “Let’s just throw heaven into this room and see what happens.” It works. It really, really works.

Outside of the private indulgence, the hotel offers communal joys too. The common pool is not one of those insulting little puddles masquerading as a pool in most modern hotels. No, this one is proper. It looks like it was designed for people who genuinely enjoy swimming, not just bobbing around for Instagram likes.

There’s a small clubhouse with a pool table, a carrom board, a table tennis set and a few books.

What’s more, the hotel is full of quiet corners, and endless little nooks and crannies where you can lose hours simply watching the day go by. Just like the resident cat, who is now my role model, just for the number of winks she catches in a day.

And for those who prefer more communal vibes, Mustache Luxuria remembers its hostel roots. There are well-appointed dormitories for hostel-style living, plus a handful of Superior rooms for those who want comfort without Presidential excess. It’s a clever mix: luxe indulgence at one end, budget-friendly camaraderie at the other.

And the food? Day one: Paneer Lababdar with roti and veg fried rice. Simple, yes, but delicious. The breakfast buffet is less “groaning table in Vegas” and more “sensible but satisfying.” Omelettes, masala dosa, a rotation of Indian vegetarian dishes, brown and white bread, cornflakes, juice, tea, coffee, and a bakery item of the day. It’s not excess. It’s enough. Enough to fuel you until your next plunge pool session.

The staff deserve a shoutout. Piya, Norbert, Aman were genuinely gracious, and helpful.

And then, of course, there’s the location. Moustache Luxuria is well-positioned in Vagator near restaurants and bars, making it easy to slip out for a night of fun before slinking back into your grey-and-white cocoon of bliss. The previous evening we wandered off to Nama, a buzzing local spot—though that’s another review altogether.

When it finally came time to leave, I was gutted. You know that heavy, feeling you get when you’re dragged away from somewhere you’ve grown irrationally attached to? That was me. Sulking in the car like a child being taken home from Disneyland.

So yes, Moustache Luxuria. Ridiculous name. Modest approach. But once you’re inside—especially in the Presidential Suite—it’s sensory overload, Instagram heaven, and luxury without the pomp. One of those rare places that makes you feel smug for discovering it—until you immediately tell everyone else about it.

Like a good moustache, this place grows on you fast—and once it does, you can’t imagine life without it.

Book Review: She Didn’t See It Coming by Shari Lapena

I’ve always had a soft spot for Shari Lapena’s books. She has this uncanny knack for taking seemingly ordinary lives and quietly perfect households, then shattering them into a tangle of suspicion, lies, and secrets. She Didn’t See It Coming is another classic Lapena page-turner, and once again she had me hooked from the first chapter until the very last page.

The story revolves around Bryden, a married woman with a young child, who lives with her husband Sam. On the surface, she seems like any other woman juggling motherhood, marriage, and the invisible weights of everyday life. But then she’s murdered — brutally, shockingly, and suddenly the cracks in her world burst wide open. The police, naturally, look at the husband. After all, isn’t it always the husband? But there’s also another man in the picture, someone who might have been closer to her than anyone realized. And from there, the story expands outward, pulling in Bryden’s sister, her parents, her friends, and an entire cast of people from her building — many of whom turn out to be far seedier and more complicated than they first appear.

What I’ve always loved most about Lapena is the way she sets her scenes. She doesn’t just hand you a lineup of suspects; she breathes life into them. You can picture the weary set of Sam’s shoulders, the nervous glances of neighbors who know more than they should, the tired smile of Bryden’s sister who may be hiding secrets of her own. You see the drab hallways of the apartment building, hear the buzz of gossip behind closed doors, feel the unease of being in a community where everyone looks a little too closely at everyone else. It’s like watching a drama unfold in real time — the people are so real you almost expect to find them arguing in your own stairwell.

Now, I’ll confess: I had my suspicions fairly early on about who the murderer was. And yes, I guessed correctly. But here’s the thing — that didn’t lessen the thrill. Because with Lapena, the “who” is only half the fun. The real draw is the “how” and the “why,” and the deliciously messy way she reveals the cracks in every character. Even when you think you know the ending, you want to watch every thread unravel, every mask slip, every relationship disintegrate under the pressure of suspicion.

The pacing is, as always, one of her greatest strengths. Short, sharp chapters keep you flying through the pages. You tell yourself “just one more” and suddenly it’s two in the morning, your tea has gone cold, and you’re still wide-eyed, muttering, “Just one more.”

At its heart, She Didn’t See It Coming is a murder mystery, yes, but also a story about family, loyalty, and the things we keep hidden — even from those closest to us. It’s tense, atmospheric, and compulsively readable. Shari Lapena has once again delivered what she does best: a story that keeps you reading, keeps you guessing, and above all, keeps you entertained.

Even if you think you see it coming, trust me — you’ll want to stay for the ride.

Bar Outrigger Review – Dona Paula, Panaji- Goa

It was Independence Day, and like any self-respecting Goan resident who takes public holidays as a personal challenge to eat and drink well, I set off in search of Bar Outrigger in Dona Paula. Now, I’ve attempted this before, but the place is tucked away in such a spot that Google Maps starts to get nervous. Today, however, I was blessed with daylight, and as it turns out, it’s not that hard to find—just a 5 minutes walk from the parking zone, albeit through a tiny lane flanked by little cottages.

The bar sits right next to a charming little chapel, the kind that makes you want to hum hymns while clutching a gin cocktail (I resisted, but only just). In the afternoon, it offers an enviable sea view—rain dancing off the water like a Bollywood dance sequence filmed during a monsoon.

Come nighttime, though, the view is less “sparkling ocean” and more “impenetrable inky abyss.” Still, with the right drink in hand, who cares if you can’t see the sea?

Inside, the décor is pure seafaring fantasy. Hardwood floors, thick ropes wound around posts, and the kind of marine detailing that makes you half-expect a pirate to wander in and order a mojito.

There’s a bookshelf tucked in the corner, board games scattered about—UNO, chess, and a Game of Thrones board game that we didn’t fully decode but admired nonetheless.

But let’s be honest, you don’t come to Bar Outrigger for the ropework or the bishop’s gambit. You come for the cocktails. With a seafaring theme and a bar that practically smells of molasses and mischief, Outrigger lives by one creed—it’s in rum we trust.

Yes, it’s a rum-forward bar, but in true contrarian spirit we veered starboard into gin territory with a Punk’s Not Dead and a classic dry martini—proof that Outrigger’s cocktail game sails smoothly well beyond rum.

I began the Punk’s Not Dead—a gorgeous blend of Punk gin, Mastiha honey, and lemon juice that was so smooth and crisp it could have been served to me by a debonair spy. In fact, so good we ordered it twice, once with ice and once without. Both versions passed muster.

My companion ordered a dry martini—classic, unfussy, and absolutely on point.

Food-wise, we dipped into the “Bar Bites” menu, starting with fries that were better than ordinary, but best when dunked in the accompanying sauces.

Then came a turnip-based dish (unusual, intriguing, and surprisingly tasty) called Turnip the Bass followed by the Crispy Korean style fried chicken sandwich. The latter was more “good solid lunch” than “life-changing epiphany,” but it hit the spot.

Crispy Korean style Fried Chicken Sandwich

For dessert, we went for a Crepe Suzette which, while not the most flamboyant version I’ve ever encountered, delivered enough orangey warmth to end the meal on a sweet note.

The service was spot-on—shout out to the bartender, who clearly understands that cocktails are an art form, and to the manager on duty, who floated around with the kind of charm and attentiveness that makes you feel you’re in the right place. I didn’t catch his name, mostly because I was too busy gazing at the horizon and plotting my second gin.

As for the atmosphere, it struck a perfect balance: enough people to give the place a buzz, but not so many that you had to elbow strangers just to order a drink. It was laid-back, unpretentious, and the kind of place you could happily lose a whole afternoon in—particularly if you’re a fan of good drinks and coastal breezes.

Will I be going back? Oh, without a doubt. In fact, I’ve already booked a table for Saturday night. There are still cocktails on that menu I haven’t tried, and frankly, I see it as my patriotic duty to get through them all.

Final verdict: Bar Outrigger isn’t just worth the five-minute walk—it’s worth plotting your entire day around. Come for the rum or gin, stay for the view, and leave with the smug glow of someone who’s just found one of Goa’s not so best-kept secrets.

Jaaran – A Twisted Little Gem that Hooks You and Won’t Let Go

Last Saturday, I walked into Jaaran at the Goa Marathi Film Festival with all the enthusiasm of someone about to sit through a film in a language they don’t speak. My inner voice was already prepping for polite nods and vague “It was nice” reviews afterwards. But here’s the thing — Jaaran didn’t just change my mind, it grabbed it, shook it, and then whispered, “Sit down, you’re not going anywhere.”

From the very first frame, director and writers know exactly what they’re doing — weaving a taut psychological thriller that manages to be both rooted and unflinchingly gripping. And at the centre of this storm is Amruta Subhash, who doesn’t just act in the movie, she is the movie. This is a performance that could have easily gone over the top — the kind where every emotion is dialed up to 12 just to make sure the audience gets it. But Amruta plays it with exquisite control, slipping between vulnerability, doubt, and quiet menace with an ease that’s almost unsettling. You can’t look away, not because you don’t want to miss her, but because you’re afraid you might miss something.

The rest of the cast doesn’t just play support — they stand their ground. The lady who plays Ganguti delivers the sort of raw, lived-in performance that stays with you. The father, the parents, every supporting role — they’re all believable, textured, and vital to the world of Jaaran. In thrillers, side characters are often reduced to cardboard cutouts who exist solely to deliver exposition or be suspicious for no reason. Not here. Everyone matters. Everyone adds a sliver of truth or doubt.

Now, let’s talk plot. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a Marathi film — or frankly any film — that nails the psychological thriller space so well. The writing is tight without being stingy, the suspense builds without ever getting gimmicky, and the twists… oh, the twists. They’re the kind you don’t see coming, but when they arrive, you smack your forehead thinking, “Of course!” The pacing is spot-on — never dragging, never rushing — letting the tension breathe just long enough before it snaps again.

One of the things I loved most is how Jaaran refuses to spoon-feed you. There are no booming musical cues telling you how to feel, no clunky monologues explaining the “truth.” Instead, you’re left to do the mental gymnastics yourself. And then there’s that ending. A cliffhanger so sly you’ll walk out of the theatre debating with yourself: Was it all in her head? Or did something… otherworldly just happen? The film leaves you dangling in that delicious uncertainty, and honestly, that’s half the fun.

Stylistically, the film’s tone is pitch-perfect for its genre. Shadows, silences, and the occasional sharp cut work together to keep you slightly off-balance. It’s immersive without ever feeling like it’s trying too hard to be “cinematic.” It’s just the right amount of unsettling.

Jaaran also reminded me how thrilling it is to watch a film that trusts its audience. Even as someone who doesn’t speak Marathi fluently, I never once felt out of the loop — that’s how universal the visual storytelling and emotional beats are. The subtitles were there, sure, but half the time I didn’t need them. A glance, a pause, a smirk from Amruta told me everything.

In the end, Jaaran is that rare find — a film that hooks you instantly, keeps you second-guessing every step, and leaves you talking about it long after the credits roll. It’s smart without being smug, tense without being exhausting, and emotional without being sappy. For a psychological thriller fan, it’s a feast. For someone hesitant about diving into a language they don’t speak, it’s proof that good storytelling really doesn’t need translation.

So, if you get the chance, watch it. And then call me — we need to talk about that ending.

Yaki Zushi, Goa, Restaurant Review: Snazzy Sushi and Soju Shenanigans

So, for our second jaunt to Yaki Zushi, we walked in expecting the usual cozy familiarity — but lo and behold, the place has had what I can only describe as a glow-up. Think less “Japanese hole-in-the-wall” and more “Tokyo got bored and moved to Goa.” The walls? Chic. The chairs? Cushy. The vibe? Energetic, bright, and very family-friendly — though a slightly softer lighting setup could really add that warm, intimate touch for those secretly pretending they’re on a date with someone from a K-drama.

Look, I get it — lighting is tricky. Too dim and you’re squinting at the menu like it’s the Dead Sea Scrolls; too bright and it feels like your sushi’s under interrogation. Yaki Zushi’s currently leaning cheerful and lively — not a bad thing at all — but with interiors this stylish, a little ambient mood lighting could take the whole experience from “fun outing” to “ooh, this feels fancy.”

Anyway, soju was our opening act. Smooth, sweet, and a little dangerous — like that one friend who insists they’ll “just have one drink” and ends up in a karaoke bar belting out ABBA.

To start, we summoned the Chicken Katsu Sushi Roll, which was exactly what we expected — crispy chicken tucked in a tight little seaweed blanket, rice behaving itself for once, and a tangy sauce that made you feel a bit smug about your ordering choices.

This was followed by Exotic Vegetables Gyoza — decent little parcels of veggies, steamed and slightly pan-seared, like they had a minor spa treatment before arriving at the table. Not mind-blowing, but I’ve had worse dumplings in places that charged me twice as much and judged me for asking for more soy sauce.

For mains, we moved into the ‘seriously hungry’ territory with Devil Chicken and Veg Thai Basil Rice. Now the Devil Chicken came sizzling in all its saucy glory — sticky, sweet, spicy and unapologetically red. It clung to the fork like it knew it was the star of the evening.

The Thai Basil Rice was exactly as promised. It was suitably pleasant and a great accompaniment for the Devil Chicken. Vegetables? Present and contributing. Not the main event, but like a good supporting actor in a Netflix series.

We ended with a Japanese Cheesecake — wobbly, delicate, and as light as a compliment from your in-laws. It didn’t knock our socks off, but it did leave a sweet impression, which, to be fair, is what most desserts should aim for.

Verdict? Yaki Zushi isn’t trying to reinvent Asian cuisine — and thank goodness for that. It’s giving Goa a dependable, no-nonsense spot to indulge in comforting Asian fare with a side of sleek interiors. Maybe just a gentle dimming of the lights could add a bit more romance to match the revamped space — but honestly, it’s already a place you’ll want to come back to.

Would I go back? In a heartbeat. Would I recommend it? Already have — and probably while waving chopsticks in excitement.