Some recipes you
can't write down.
So in Morbi, my great-grandfather stopped trying.
He just kept cooking them. Four generations later, we still are.
"My great-grandfather started a kitchen with his wife Lilavantiben.
Four generations later, I'm still cooking her food."
The chulha was lit
before sunrise.
Every single day. Since 1967.
Karunashankar Thakar — our Dada — was a headmaster by day. A cook by devotion. Before the school bell rang, before Morbi woke up, he was at the wood-fire chulha making undhiyu and Gujarati dal the only way he knew — slowly, with intention.
Lilavanti Thakar — our Dadi, our Ba — pressed bajra rotla on a clay tawa so every guest could eat it warm. Not reheated. Warm.
They had four children. A small city. A smaller space where people sat on the ground to eat. No restaurant. No brand. Just two people who believed that a meal made with care tastes different.
It did.
Four pairs of hands.
One pot.
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Gen 01 સ્થાપક
Bapuji & Lilavantiben
The founders — started by cooking for neighbours. Sunday undhiyu, on a wood chulha.
-
Gen 02 દાદા
Bhupatrai Thakar
The grandfather — with his brothers, took the doorway and made it a kitchen.
-
Gen 03 પપ્પા
My father
The keeper — kept it running, exactly the way Ba would have.
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Gen 04 કેત્વિક
Ketvik Thakar
That's me — took Ba's hand into a pouch that travels.
Dear friend,
When you open one of our pouches, you're not opening a "product."
You're opening a Sunday in 1967.
You're tasting Ba Lilavantiben's hand, my Dada Bhupatrai's patience, my father's stubbornness about the muthia — and my obsession with making it travel without losing a single note. Four generations of one family that never quite figured out how to do anything else.
Whether you're in Mumbai, Morbi, or Massachusetts —
come hungry. We'll be here.
MORBI
One pouch.
Four generations of cooking.
Taste what four generations have been keeping warm for you.
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