I arrive at Naar with a thin shimmer of anticipation lining every breath. The altitude has a way of slowing the world down — or perhaps it’s simply the mountains asserting their quiet authority. The long drive itself becomes a gradual decompression: hour after hour of ascending curves, the landscape shifting from dense pine groves to rugged, open valleys, the air growing drier, cleaner, thinner.
By the time the car halts outside Chef Prateek Sadhu’s remote 16-seater Himalayan eatery nestling inside Amaya, a sustainable boutique hotel in Darwa village of Solan, a stillness settles over me. It’s not silence exactly, but an orchestral hush of wind, rustle, and distance that city life rarely permits.
Naar, as it is called — the name means “fire” in Kashmiri — is the brainchild of the Kashmir-born Sadhu who, up until not too long ago, managed the spiffiest table in Mumbai, Masque. Naar, is a different beast entirely, though, like chalk to Masque’s cheese. It appears as though it materialised naturally from the mountainside — its stone, wood, and glass merging into the contours of the land rather than attempting to dominate it.
Inside, the dining room radiates warmth: amber light, natural textures, and large windows framing the sculpted ridges beyond. The scent of woodfire mingles with something herbaceous and intriguing. I peel off my jacket, my fingers tingling from the altitude, and there he is — Chef Prateek Sadhu, 41, emerging from behind the open kitchen with an easy, unhurried smile.
He looks wholly at home here, far removed from the sleek glamour and high-pressure energy of Masque. His body language feels softer, unburdened, shaped by mountain rhythms. “Welcome to Naar,” he says smilingly, gesturing to the room with an understated pride. “You’ll see the mountains do most of the work here.” That sentence settles into my thoughts like a seed.
The winter tasting menu — 14 carefully choreographed courses — begins with a foraged herb broth. The aroma alone feels like a prelude to a story. The first sip is unexpected: delicate yet grounding, carrying notes of piney freshness and an elusive floral hint.
It tastes like the landscape distilled. He tells me the herbs grow in pockets around the property — hardy clusters that thrive in this climate, often hiding between rocks, waiting to be discovered by his team of foragers. The terrain, he explains, dictates what’s available, not convenience.
Next, a plate of wild mushrooms arrives, each variety prepared differently to amplify its unique texture. Some are kissed by the hiss of smoke, some sautéed just enough to release their inherent earthiness. The plate evokes the forest floor — deep, aromatic, alive. “These mushrooms,” Sadhu says, “are some of our most expressive ingredients. They tell us exactly how the season is progressing.”
As he moves between tables, it’s clear Sadhu is not merely serving food — he’s interpreting his environment. “Everything you’re tasting tonight,” he tells me, sweeping his hand toward the window and the looming mountains beyond, “comes from around us. Within walking distance, in many cases.”
The fermented grains course is a masterclass in patience and quiet innovation. Nutty, complex, layered with a tanginess that dances between earthy and bright, the dish embodies the essence of slow food. It reminds me that fermentation is not a trend here — it is tradition, necessity, and philosophy combined. Inside Naar’s food lab — a tucked-away chamber of culinary experiments — jars bubble quietly, vessels hold ageing grains, shelves are filled with drying herbs, and notebooks capture weeks of R&D. “Research is constant,” informs the chef. “We’re working with ingredients that have their own mind. You have to understand what they want to be.”
Then comes the smoked river trout — a dish that feels like the narrative heart of the meal. Sadhu talks about his fishing expeditions with the devotion of someone who sees cooking as an extension of landscape study. “When you fish at dawn, you learn the river,” he says. “You understand its movement, its temperament.” The trout is soft, clean, gently smoky, its flavour carrying the unmistakable clarity of mountain water.
Between courses, I find myself drifting — my gaze fixed on the mountains outside. The sky gradually shifts from gold to indigo. The sun disappears slowly, stretching shadows across the slopes. Time loosens its grip. Everyone in the dining room seems to be eating with unusual intention — slower bites, longer pauses, quieter conversations. The room feels suspended between breath and wonder.A charred root vegetable course brings me back with a jolt of warmth and sweetness. These vegetables, grown in tough soil on Sadhu’s organic farm, are elevated through fire and instinct. “People underestimate roots,” he says. “They survive everything. Weather, altitude, neglect. They’re warriors.”
He takes me later to peek into his R&D zone, located inside the kitchen—a place filled with glass jars, trays, dried grains, and hanging herbs. “This is where we play,” he says. “Sometimes things fail. Often, actually. But the failures teach us more than the successes.”
As the courses progress, a larger picture begins to take shape in my mind: Naar is not just a fine-dining establishment. It is an ecosystem. It is a conversation — between chef and mountain, team and terrain, ingredient and instinct. A dish of fermented greens is bitter, bright, and oddly soothing. A dumpling filled with smoky vegetables carries a familiar comfort but is reframed with finesse. A plate built around Himalayan grains boasts the precision of haute cuisine yet retains a rural soul.
And then, slowly, I realise the subtle transformation happening within me. In the absence of distractions, I am entirely present. I savour each bite, each sip, each pause. I notice details: the crackle from the open kitchen fire, the soft clink of pottery, the quiet concentration of Sadhu’s team.
The dessert course is a gentle release — grains softened with wild honey, hints of juniper whispering through, herbs lending complexity. It’s sweet but never cloying, mindful of balance, faithful to place.
Roots and Resilience
After the meal, Sadhu sits with me, not as a chef defending his craft but as a storyteller, an enthusiast, an explorer. He speaks about sustainability with humility — about how Naar’s intention is not to reinvent Himalayan food but to reinterpret it respectfully. “We’re part of something bigger here,” he says. “The traditions, the terrain, the people who’ve lived with this food long before we did.”
When I step outside, the night has painted the mountains in deep blue layers. The air is crisp, sharp with altitude. The stars scatter across the sky with startling clarity. It feels like standing at the edge of a world older than imagination.
Naar, I realise as I inhale the mountain air, is not a restaurant you visit. It is a journey you undertake — one that lingers long after the last bite, long after the final warm glow of light dissolves behind you. It is a pilgrimage into the Himalayas through food, fire, earth, craft, and connection woven into its every course.
