You’ve heard about the Bengal renaissance and you’ve been told Kolkata was the axle in the wheel that spun from India colonized to India shining.

 

But the Victoria Memorial Hall still seems to be commemorating dusty watercolors by dead white guys and St. Paul’s Cathedral has better iterations in Europe. So where do you go to eavesdrop on the intelligentsia you just know is absentmindedly stirring too many sugar cubes into their coffee cups as they passionately argue about Trotsky’s relevance to absurdist theatre? 

Flurys. The name has the floral essence of vanilla with a dusting of all-purpose flour kneaded together. For the prosaic, it happens to be the name of the British couple who established it as a Swiss confectionery in 1927. It’s the cubbyhole where the hoi polloi, the bourgeoisie, the proletariat, and the junta gather for the taking of a toast and tea. 

The recent renovations have amplified its pre-colonial idiosyncrasies. Parquet floorings, wainscoted walls, coved ceilings, and a theatrical chandelier dominate. Glass fronted armoires crammed with curios offer piquant punctuation to the reasonably utilitarian art deco chairs and tables. The ambience is sepia toned – the linseed polished dark wood absorbs the glare of the track lighting. But the tinkle of cutlery doesn’t muffle those impassioned conversations that are happening around you. 

If you think the word ‘iconic’ is bandied about too loosely and the hype of history can be underwhelming you may find Flurys disappointing (long waits, indifferent menu). But – perhaps like much of India – the diktat is to immerse and embrace.  For Kolkotans, Flurys is bona fide, and bon appétit be darned.