Blue cheese ice-cream, duck stroopwafel, Sichuan chocolate fondant—are these reimagined desserts all about drama or the right balance?

The line between dessert and dinner? It didn’t fade. It caramelised. Somewhere between blue cheese ice cream and soy-dusted cashews, sweet and savoury called a truce—and then teamed up. It slipped into date cake, tucked itself into a doughnut, and crisped up inside a stroopwafel you thought you understood. In India’s most quietly radical kitchens, chefs aren’t just rewriting dessert—they’re rethinking flavour itself.

And mind you, this isn’t about serving shock value or Instagram theatre; it’s about curiosity, contrast, and a deeper kind of balance. Sugar isn’t dead, but it’s being questioned. Salt is no longer the villain. And umami—elusive and addictive—has become the secret weapon that binds it all together.

From Spain to Bandra

Chef Gresham Fernandes, partner at Bandra Born, traces the roots of this shift back to El Bulli. "The Adrià brothers were making savoury ice creams before anyone else," he says. "They broke the idea that ingredients had fixed roles. That’s the real inspiration." For chef Fernandes, sweet and savoury have always been collaborators, not rivals.

At Bandra Born, that philosophy slips onto the plate in quiet, clever ways. There’s the duck stroopwafel—thinly sliced meat layered inside a crisp shell, equal parts nostalgic and unexpected. But it doesn’t stop there. Chef Fernandes has turned onions into custards, served glazed cabbage with caramel, and finished cashew sauces with soy and sugar. Nothing is where it’s supposed to be—and that’s the point.

"You can’t fake balance," he says. "Sweetness and umami enhance each other, but only if they’re in sync. It’s about tasting as you go, not building backwards from an idea." But Chef Fernandes isn’t trying to lead a movement. He’s following his instinct. "In Asia, sweet and savoury have always co-existed—in Thai cuisine, Chinese barbecue, even the use of jaggery in Indian dals. We’re just finally giving it a name."

Spice in the shadows

At The Dimsum Room, Chef Malavika Pratap explores the quieter side of sweet-savoury play. She favours elements that linger rather than announce themselves—like sesame oil in mousse that adds an earthy, almost unplaceable complexity. "It’s not overt," she says. "But it rounds out the sweetness. People feel it before they taste it."

Her Sichuan chocolate fondant is built on that same idea, a familiar form that hides a flicker of spice. "It doesn’t hit you. It warms you," she says. "That balance between comfort and surprise, that’s what makes a dessert stick."

She doesn’t believe sugar is the villain, or that it’s going anywhere. "There’s too much love tied to it. But the way we use it can evolve. We can fold in heat, herbs, oil, bitterness—all these subtle cues that keep it interesting." For her, it’s less about the wow moment and more about the echo, the way a flavour stays with you when it’s not what you expected.

Mashed potato, please

For Chef Eliyaz, executive chef at Conrad Bengaluru, the only rule is respect—for the ingredient, not its reputation. In his hands, mashed potato has become dessert. "We kept the velvety texture but added sweet piping and a brittle for crunch," he says. "It surprised people. But it worked."

Another hit from his kitchen: an asparagus panna cotta. Delicate, vegetal, and slightly sweet, it was initially met with hesitation, but quickly became one of the most-ordered items on the menu. "People are open," he says. "They just need to trust that you’ve thought it through."

That trust comes from technique. He borrows French crème caramel techniques for savoury pâté and draws on pastry’s structure to inspire his plating. But now his focus is on lightness, dishes that whisper rather than shout. "There’s a shift toward clarity," he says. "Let the ingredient shine. Don’t bury it in sugar." He believes sugar-heavy desserts are already fading and are being replaced by earthier, lower-sugar creations using sweet potato, fermentation, or fruit-forward reductions. "Sugar isn’t gone," he adds, "but it’s no longer the headline."

Doughnuts and doubters

At Olive Qutub and The Grammar Room in Delhi, Chef Dhruv Oberoi has made a habit of turning hesitation into pleasure. One of his most talked-about dishes is a salad featuring fermented amla—sweetened with a honey brine, paired with green mango chutney, and dressed in Amada ginger. "People make faces when they hear it," he laughs. "But the moment they taste it, it clicks."

That moment of surprise is what he works toward. It’s why he cooked down blue cheese into an ice cream and served it with vanilla-poached pear and candied almonds. This way, he preserves the essence of the cheese while softening its punch. It is also why he created a holiday doughnut filled with XO-flavoured cream cheese and carrot pastrami. The doughnut is lightly sweet, but the umami-laced filling keeps it from tipping over into indulgence. "We don’t position it as ‘experimental’," he says. "It just belongs on the menu. If people love it, they’ll come back for it."

Chef Oberoi’s approach isn’t just creative, it’s cautious. "You can’t do something strange just for the sake of it. If I am turning a tomato into dessert, I’ll poach it in vanilla or coffee. It still needs to make sense on the plate."

Truffle toffee and brain games

Over at Slink & Bardot, Chef Ali Akbar Baldiwala delivers contrast with confidence. His Porcini Toffee Pudding—a sticky date cake with a mushroomy, truffle-dusted upgrade—is his top-selling dessert. "It’s like salted caramel, but smarter," he says. "The umami offsets the sweetness. Your brain gets tricked into wanting more."

Chef Ali plays on expectation, layering in tension and relief. In Idukki Gold, a dessert inspired by Kerala, a coconut ice cream and banana cake meet fermented banana honey—tangy, floral, and just a little funky. A grind of black pepper adds texture and heat, but only enough to surprise, never overwhelm. "That little spike of spice resets your palate," he explains. "It’s not about drama—it’s about rhythm."

What ties his dishes together is restraint. "You have to portion flavours like you portion ingredients. If sweetness is the lead, give it a supporting cast—fat, salt, funk, something bitter. That’s when it becomes memorable."

What connects these chefs isn’t a shared aesthetic or technique—it’s a mindset. A quiet defiance of rules, the trust in the diner’s palate, and an ability to turn doubt into delight, bite by bite. They’re not making savoury desserts or sweet mains. They’re making food that feels right—layered, thoughtful, maybe a little weird, but unmistakably delicious.

Because once you’ve tasted sesame in a mousse or felt that little crackle of Sichuan heat in your chocolate cake, the old definitions start to feel a little… dated. Why go back, when flavour’s finally free?

Lead image: Slink and Bardot

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