Is It Mundhe Approved?
State food regulators are walking unannounced into Irani cafés in Mumbai and five-star kitchens in Bengaluru, while Telangana is mounting its own enforcement drive. Inspired by Maharashtra FDA Commissioner Tukaram Mundhe, this crackdown on unhygienic restaurants may do more for Indian tourism than any glossy campaign.
By Deepali Nandwani
In July, Matt Damon, Tom Holland and Christopher Nolan stopped at Olympia Coffee House for tea and bun maska, a 15-minute detour before the Mumbai premiere of The Odyssey. Two months later, the 108-year-old Irani café was in the news for very different reasons. Maharashtra's Food and Drug Administration (FDA) had suspended its licence after inspectors found a urinal in its food-storage area, cockroaches and flies, unclean water and food being handled on the floor.
For anyone who grew up on Mumbai's Irani cafés, it made for hard reading. For Tukaram Mundhe, IAS officer and Maharashtra's FDA Commissioner, it was further proof of what he has argued all year: India has a food safety problem it has never taken seriously, and we are paying for it in public health as well as in reputation.
Under Mundhe, inspection has stopped being an occasional ritual. In July, the FDA suspended the licences of Shalimar, Noor Mohammadi Hotel and Rehmania, three of south Mumbai's most storied eateries around Bhendi Bazaar. An August drive across the state covered 89 establishments and suspended 13 licences. This month, 17 more food businesses in the Mumbai division lost licences or registrations, among them three Domino's outlets, Carnival by Trèsind, Hundo Pizza and quick-commerce operator Instakart, with inspectors reporting pest infestation, rat-gnawed food packets and missing records. Heritage café and global chain are held to the same rules. In Maharashtra's restaurant trade his name is now shorthand for a surprise visit, and people talk about 'Mundhe-approved' rather than 'Michelin-approved'.
His argument begins with the law. India has had a food safety framework under the Food Safety and Standards Act since 2006, with regulations in place since 2011; what has been missing is compliance. Every food business must be licensed or registered, and that comes with obligations. Speaking at Karnavati University in Gandhinagar last month, he warned that lapses in food safety were creating a public health crisis people had yet to recognise. “Rules do exist, acts do exist,” he said.
Mundhe ties all of this to India's ambition of becoming a developed nation. Tourism is central to that ambition, he says, and the biggest obstacle to inviting the world is cleanliness in our meals. A traveller who falls ill is unlikely to return, or to recommend India to friends. "India mein khana nahi kha sakte, yeh nahi hona chahiye," he says. ("That you cannot eat in India: this should not happen.") For him, food safety is a pillar of tourism.
Hoteliers have long acknowledged this in private. Upset stomachs are a fixture of travel forums and guidebooks on India, and many foreign visitors arrive braced for 'Delhi belly' before they have eaten a single meal. Mundhe also makes a pointed case on price: a fine-dining meal in a top Indian restaurant now costs about what €200 buys in Europe, and guests paying European prices are entitled to European standards in the kitchen. India is selling its gastronomy to the world, with chefs reviving forgotten local ingredients and states building food trails around them. That story falls apart if the kitchen behind it fails a basic inspection.
Karnataka has moved too, and its inspectors started at the top. In August, on the direction of Health Minister U.T. Khader, the state sent 30 teams of food safety officers into star hotels after a stream of public complaints. In Bengaluru, the first sweep took in 26 top-tier hotels. Expired and substandard stock was ordered destroyed, samples went to labs, and the three-day drive eventually seized more than a tonne of food and other products. The kitchen at Skyye Lounge in UB City was sealed. Several hotels, however, contested reports. Khader’s reasoning was that once five-star hotels are held to account, everyone else will fall in line.
A fine-dining meal in a top Indian restaurant now costs about what €200 buys in Europe, and guests paying European prices are entitled to European standards in the kitchen. India is selling its gastronomy to the world, with chefs reviving forgotten local ingredients and states building food trails around them. That story falls apart if the kitchen behind its fails a basic inspection.
Telangana has gone further still, sending food safety officers out with police. Its regulator, TG SAFE, suspended the licence of Hyderabad’s much-loved Shadab Hotel in September, and in mid-October took action against restaurants along the Hyderabad-Vijayawada highway, where officials found rodent infestations, rotten vegetables and raw meat stored alongside edible ice.
Thailand offers a useful lesson. Bangkok’s street food and restaurants have become a national calling card, recognised by Michelin, while food-safety standards are explicitly designed to build confidence among tourists. India’s street food and restaurants are every bit as good, but travellers have yet to extend them the same trust.
Some restaurateurs call these drives heavy-handed, and the loss of a beloved institution, even temporarily, stings. Mundhe and his counterparts in other states argue that regulation feels onerous only until it becomes routine. Inspect often enough and hotels and restaurants fall in line, until hygiene is part of the system rather than something enforced once in a while. Now that the Michelin Guide is set to make its way to India, the industry wants the world at its table, and cleaning up its act is a favour worth having.
