Across the open-kitchen counter, attired in his chef’s uniform, Dino Martelli tosses a salad whilst keeping a stern eye on the baked brie with olive oil and capers. I close my eyes and am immediately in Capri.

Metrosexuals mush over Moshe’s. Men and women. Dressed in pink and orange, ladies who lunch pat their Vichy-ed cheeks and pout if they don’t get a table. At the last minute. Unannounced. It’s such a thrill, dollinks, the prelude to the drama. Drop in without a reservation on a featureless Monday afternoon (or a Tuesday) and twinkle those grey-green lenses. Moshe Shek will oblige. With a table, I mean. He hasn’t arrived without knowing the recipe for puff pastry. Knowwhatimean? Yet and this must be said, in all the years that I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him suck up to a Lady Lollipop. Luckily, he’s got beautiful sister Rifka who greets you with disarming charm. So what’s drawing in the ones who descend from chauffeured Limos in the après-midi or the soir? The food. Even without a liquor or wine licence. Good food. At prices that won’t dent dear hubby’s gift of a credit card.

Just 44 covers in an European ambience satisfy two seatings for lunch and two for dinner (8 pm and 10 pm). For the early risers, there’s breakfast (muesli, French toast, waffles, rosti, calzones Shakshoukas, salmon on bagels from 7.30 am to 10.30 am. A wider choice for lunch and dinner runs the gamut of soups, salads, starters, sandwiches, grills, pastas, tagines. I loved the tangy bouillabaisse. Charmoula-basted prawns on cracked wheat and parsley salad. Ditto the Hameem, a traditional Sabbath pot roast. But why on earth did the Lamb Chatternee (a Baghdadi Jewish lamb curry), remind me of Sindhi mutton? As for Moshe’s signature brand of desserts, let moi remind you that calories is finally not such a bad word. Look at Moshe’s lithe figure for vindication.

Look also enviously at business partners Sabina Chopra and Dino Martelli’s physiques. Taut bodies that work out to a regimented rhythm. Importing the same ethos to Sex. Which is what Sesso means in Italian. Wicked, wot? Set in the fashion-conscious The Courtyard, Café Sesso is a day-long casual bistro. In an airy space, very vermillion walls look down on functional no-frills off-grey tables. Both lunch and dinner cartes offer easy, non-fussy dishes, all written on a blackboard. So very Eye-tie. Enhancing the Italian motif are pastas with the ubiquitous pesto/garlic and basil/olive and thyme/Cypriani Tonardo sauces (my particular favourite). Love dips but not in a pool? Chef Martelli, (OK, OK, née-Deepak Malhotra) makes your palate swim with red jalapeno and cheese, olive butter, smoked salmon mousse, blue cheese walnut dips (all very yummm).

The Delicatessen@Café-Sesso offers a selection of the best imported and Indian products, including flavoured olive oils, pates, breads, chocolates and cookies for take-out. Types who come here? Trousseau-hunting tigresses doing the rounds of all the haute couture boutiques, arty-smarties, models, past present and future, ladies-who-lunch (may their tribe increase). An eclectic mix that is spreading the good word. “Tapas rules, OK?” quips the irrepressible Dino. Then, in case you don’t know it does, he’ll tell you it’s Spanish finger food. All the rage in the city’s ‘wanna come over for tequilas and tapas’ Sunday brunch circuit. Across the open-kitchen counter, attired in his chef’s uniform, Dino tosses a salad whilst keeping a stern eye on the baked brie with olive oil and capers. I close my eyes and am immediately in Capri. If and when Café Sesso introduces a lunchtime buffet, the kitty party crowd will swoop down with glee. As for Sabina and Dino’s mountain-climbing bodies, they are happy to share their motto. Eat your heart out.

Meet your chef tonight. Farrokh Khambatta. Who has also climbed mountains. Metaphorical mountains. To arrive at Joss. And he hasn’t done it by burning incense sticks or turning Zen Buddist à la mode. Starting life as a small party catering unit to designing dinner soirées for those who lick cream off their whiskers to now his own restaurant. Snap. Crackle. Farrokh remains humble in the face of fortune and happy at his achievements. Think of Joss as a temple of fine dining. Without five-star prices. Without pretensions of haute cuisine. Without a daunting ambience.

Farrokh’s immense experience derived from this demanding city’s cocktail circuit has fine-tuned the menu. Joss offers Japanese (sushi and teppenyaki), Malaysian, Indonesian, Korean and Balinese dishes. All cooked in a modern style. Like internationally acclaimed restaurants Tetsuyas, Nobu and Noble House. Cleverly combining the known and the unknown, every dish has a twist to it. Like the water chestnut with corn curd and lemon chilli drip. Served on a Chinese soup spoon. Open your mouth wide, pop it in and close your eyes. You’ll ‘lurve’ that riot of ‘flovours’ on your palate. Like the smoked salmon nori rolls enveloping the softest Mascarpone. Like the Mekong whisky flambéed prawns (I’ve never seen happier looking prawns). As an entretemps, between the substantial starters and the main courses, we asked for the Oriental Crab Bisque in small teacups. Accompanied by a Jacobs Creek wine, I found my senses slowly drifting heavenwards. It’s not just me waxing eloquent. The city’s cognoscenti are happily stuffing their faces at Joss. Farrokh’s weekly chef’s table dinner invitations are knocking everyone’s socks off. Don’t forget to round off with Chocolate Cigar in Prune and Armagnac. And the divine Strawberry and Mascarpone Napoleon in blueberry and cinnamon soup. You won’t even need candy floss for a toss.

If you don’t like purple (or is it dark lilac?) you’re in trouble. Imagine a long, rectangular dining room, drenched from top to toe in this startling colour, with mobile carved screens running along its width, lit up as if you were in a playful playboy lounge and you’ve begun to get the picture. Mimosa joins Athena, Sin and Zaha Bar as Indage Hotel’s latest nosh nugget.

I just love its surreal décor. It makes me feel like a voyeur, when I’m at my least energetic. A long delish dinner later, I start fantasising about mirrors on the ceiling, pink champagne on ice and becoming a prisoner of my own device. I don’t know if that’s the end result which Vikrant Chougule imagined when he approved the ambience design. But there you go. Mimosa is the latest avatar of a long line of restaurants (Nish, Ai Trulli) that dismally failed as a culinary magnet. Maybe it’s got to do with its location and obvious lack of parking space. Mimosa has overcome that disadvantage by appointing parking valets. Once inside, a small but well-appointed bar greets you. Top-of-the-line Chateau Indage wines (Viognier, Chenin Blanc Muscat, White Zinfandel, Shiraz and my favourite Sauvignon Semillion) are both preludes and accompaniments to what you will eat. So what will you eat? Expert chef, Chi Lee An has foraged amongst South East Asian cuisines. To assemble a menu that is a traditional and contemporary mix : Siu Mai, Lumbia rolls, prawn fritters, tofu stuffed with crab meat, stir fried shitake with cashewnuts, Oseng Oseng Warlet, Gaeng Phed Kai, Sumay pomfret. To match the dish to the country, the options are simple. Search the web. Or go dine at Mimosa. You won’t regret it. Just don’t wear purple or lilac.