20 Best Foods to Eat in Karnataka

Bisi bele bath arrives steaming, a loose, glossy mound of rice and lentils the colour of old brick, with a spoon of ghee sliding down its slope. The name means "hot lentil rice", and the dish earns every word. Toor dal, rice and vegetables such as carrots, peas, beans and potatoes are cooked together until they surrender into one soft, spoonable mass, then lifted by a masala called huliyanna, which tastes of roasted coriander, red chilli, fenugreek, cinnamon, clove, tamarind, curry leaves and a whisper of asafoetida and nutmeg. Some home recipes call for as many as thirty ingredients, which explains why families guard their spice blends like heirlooms and why ready-made masala sits on kitchen shelves across Bengaluru.

Food writers usually trace the dish to the Mysore Palace kitchens, where the recipe is said to have been closely guarded for generations before it escaped into wedding feasts and restaurant menus. Eat it fast and hot, the way locals do. Scatter crunchy boondi over the top, keep a papad or a few potato chips on the side, and use a spoonful of raita or coconut chutney to calm the heat. The texture should be porridge-like, never dry; if it stands up stiffly on the plate, ask for another dab of ghee and a splash of hot water to loosen it. In some homes it is breakfast, in others a Sunday lunch, and at weddings it is practically a ceremonial dish. For a first-time visitor it is also the fastest way to understand what Karnataka's cooks do best: turning a humble pot of rice and dal into something that tastes like a celebration.

The sound comes first: batter hissing on a hot iron griddle, a ladle spiralling it thin, a metal spatula scraping the edges free. A good masala dosa is a study in contrast, with a lacquered, deep-gold shell that shatters at the edge and a soft, steamy centre wrapped around a spiced potato filling of onion, mustard seed, turmeric and curry leaves. It comes with coconut chutney and a bowl of sambar, and the correct order of operations is to tear, dip, repeat, rather than cut it with a spoon. The dosa itself is a fermented batter of rice and urad dal, and the fermentation is what gives it that faint, pleasing sourness.

Bengaluru has made the dish its own, and two names come up in almost every conversation. Vidyarthi Bhavan on Gandhi Bazar Main Road in Basavanagudi has been serving crowds since 1938, and its signature masala dosa is worth the wait that regulars treat as part of the ritual. CTR, short for Central Tiffin Room, sits at the corner of 7th Cross and Margosa Road in Malleshwaram and is famous for its benne masala dosa, which is cooked with generous butter so the surface turns crisp and fragrant. Travel to Mysuru and you will meet a different version, the Mysore masala dosa, where a layer of fiery red garlic chutney is smeared inside before the potato goes in. Order it with a tumbler of filter coffee and you have the full Karnataka breakfast.

Rava idli is a dish with a story that sounds like folklore but is repeated by the restaurant itself. MTR, the Bengaluru institution founded in 1924 as the Brahmin's Coffee Club by the Maiya brothers from Parampalli near Udupi, says the dish was born during the Second World War, when rice was scarce and the kitchen turned to semolina instead. Whatever the exact truth, the result was a keeper. Where an ordinary idli is made from a fermented rice and urad batter, rava idli uses coarse semolina, curd, cashews, mustard seeds, curry leaves and green chilli, so each pale, pillowy cake arrives studded with little crunchy and fragrant surprises.

It is traditionally eaten hot, with a ladle of sambar, a spoonful of coconut chutney and, if you are lucky, a dab of ghee melting into the top. The texture is lighter and more granular than a regular idli, a little like a savoury sponge cake, and it holds up better to sambar without collapsing into mush. MTR moved to its present location in 1960 and was renamed Mavalli Tiffin Rooms, and it remains famous not just for rava idli but also for masala dosa, kharabath and its signature coffee. Expect queues at peak breakfast hours, especially on weekends, and expect the service to be brisk, the portions modest and the flavours exactly what they were when your grandparents came here. It is vegetarian only, and a perfect first stop on a Bengaluru food walk.

Ragi mudde looks like a smooth, dark ball of dough sitting in a bowl, and the first lesson for a newcomer is that you do not chew it. Finger millet flour is stirred into boiling water until it thickens, then rolled into spheres. You tear off a small piece, make a dent with your thumb, dip it into a thin, peppery curry called saaru, and swallow it almost whole. Chewing it, locals will tell you, spoils the point; the ball is meant to slide down, carrying the flavour of the curry with it. It is hearty, rich in fibre and calcium, and for generations it powered farmers through long days in the fields of Mandya, Mysuru and Ramanagara.

The classic partner for the non-vegetarian is nati koli saaru, a country chicken curry that is thin, aromatic and unapologetically hot. Nati koli is free-range village chicken, leaner and chewier than the broiler birds in the supermarket, and it gives the broth a deeper, almost smoky flavour that no shortcut can reproduce. Vegetarians are well served too, with a lentil or vegetable saaru and a side of fresh greens. Many Old Mysore households eat mudde on special occasions or as the main meal of the week, and the old-school restaurants that serve it, often called military hotels, treat the combination as a proper feast. Come hungry, eat with your right hand, and do not be shy about asking for a second ball. It will sit comfortably, and warmly, for hours.

Every road trip between Bengaluru and Mysuru has a natural pause, and for generations it has been Maddur. The town gave its name to a fritter that is crisp at the rim, soft in the middle and flecked with onion, curry leaves, chilli and coconut. The story told about its origin has the charm of a happy accident. Ramachandra Budhya ran a vegetarian tiffin room at Maddur railway station, the Vegetarian Tiffin Room, set up to sell pakoras and idlis. One morning an early train rolled in before his pakoras were ready. He flattened the dough between his palms, dropped the discs into hot oil, and the vada was born. The date usually given for that tiffin room is 1917, and Maddur vada was celebrated as a hundred years old in 2017. HD Hebbar later managed the station tiffin room from 1948 to 1973, keeping the tradition alive.

What sets a good Maddur vada apart is texture. The batter combines flour with semolina, so the surface fries to a crackling, almost lacy crunch, while the onion releases enough moisture to keep the centre tender. It is shaped flat rather than round, which means more edge, and more edge means more crunch. Eat it hot, straight from the kadai, with coconut chutney or just on its own with a hot glass of coffee. Several highway restaurants now serve it, including Maddur Tiffany's, which sits on the Bengaluru–Mysuru highway and does a brisk trade in travellers who stop for the vada and keep driving with a paper bag of extras on the dashboard. It is the simplest, happiest snack stop in the state.

Few sweets in India carry their birthplace so proudly in their name. Mysore Pak is made from just three things, gram flour, sugar and a startling amount of ghee, and its magic lies in how those three behave when they meet in a hot pan. According to the account given by the creator's family, it began in the royal kitchens of Mysuru, where a cook named Kakasura Madappa was asked to create something different and named after the kingdom. The "pak" in the name is said to come from the Kannada word for the person who prepares the sugar syrup. The maharaja was reportedly so pleased that he encouraged Madappa to open a shop outside the palace grounds, and that shop survives today as Guru Sweet Mart on Sayyaji Rao Road, run by Madappa's descendants.

There are two schools of Mysore Pak, and every household has an opinion. One is soft, dense and fudge-like, a smooth, dark-golden block that melts on the tongue and leaves a buttery film on the palate. The other is crumbly and porous, riddled with tiny holes where ghee bubbled up as it set, and it breaks into sandy, sweet shards. Neither is wrong. The soft version suits those who love richness, while the porous one feels lighter and less cloying. Buy a small box to eat on the spot, then buy a bigger one to take home, because it travels well and stays good for days. Pair it with a hot cup of coffee or tea, and let it dissolve slowly rather than chewing it through. It is the sweet that outlived a kingdom, and still tastes like one.

Benne means butter, and Davanagere does not apologise for using it. The benne dose is a rice and urad dal dosa cooked on a hot griddle with a very generous smear of white butter, which melts into ghee as it hits the metal and fries the surface into something both crisp and almost lacy. The result is soft and tender in the middle, shatteringly crisp at the rim, and fragrant in a way that a plain dosa never manages. It comes in two forms: the plain benne khali dose, or the benne masala dose with a potato filling, and either is served with coconut chutney and sambar, and many Davanagere hotels pair it with a pale, almost white potato sabzi that is quite different from the usual yellow-green filling.

The town of Davanagere sits roughly 260 km north of Bengaluru, and the dish has travelled well beyond it, so you can find versions in Bengaluru, Mysuru and Mangaluru. But local wisdom says it tastes best at its source, in a no-frills tiffin hotel where the cook works three griddles at once and the butter is applied by the spoonful, not the teaspoon. Some places go further and serve enormous versions, three to four feet long, meant to be shared by a family. Tear off a crisp corner, drag it through the chutney and the sambar, and notice how the butter slows everything down in the best way. It is rich, so one is often enough for breakfast, and it pairs best with a small, strong cup of coffee to cut through the cream. Order it hot, eat it right away, and do not let it sit; the crunch is fleeting.

If bhel puri is the puffed-rice snack the world knows, girmit is the one Karnataka keeps for itself. In Hubballi and Dharwad, street vendors toss crisp mandakki, or puffed rice, with a thick, glossy masala made by cooking mustard seed, cumin, curry leaves, onion and green chilli with tamarind and jaggery until it reduces to a sticky, sweet-sour sauce. The mixture is finished with a dusting of roasted gram powder, then tossed with fresh chopped onion, tomato and coriander, and topped with sev or farsan. The key is to mix it gently and serve at once, so the rice stays crunchy instead of turning to paste.

The flavour is tangy, sweet, salty and mildly hot all at once, and the roasted gram gives it a nutty depth that makes it more satisfying than its airy appearance suggests. On many stalls the standard companion is the mirchi bajji, a long green chilli dipped in gram flour batter and fried until golden, which is sold hot and split open so you can stuff the girmit inside. Locals eat the two together, alternating a spoonful of cool, tangy puffed rice with a bite of hot fritter, and it makes an excellent mid-afternoon fuel stop. The snack is usually served in a paper cone or a small steel plate, costs very little, and is made fresh to order. If you are travelling through north Karnataka, ask for it extra spicy only if you are ready; local versions can be fierce, and the green chillies on the side are not decoration. Cool it down with a glass of buttermilk.

A close cousin is mandakki oggarane, the puffed rice tempered with mustard and curry leaves that is just as popular for breakfast across North Karnataka. Locals like it best with a ladle of thin, tangy tili saaru poured over it, a dusting of roasted gram powder on top and a hot menasinakai bajji alongside. In Davanagere the favourite version is nargis mandakki, which is soft, spiced and eaten at any time of day.

Neer means water, and the name tells you most of what you need to know. The batter for neer dosa is made from soaked rice ground with coconut into something thin enough to pour like milk, and it is swirled across a hot griddle to form a pale, lacy, almost translucent crepe. There is no fermentation, no crisp edge and no filling; the dosa is soft, delicate and slightly sweet, folded into quarters like a napkin. It is a dish that belongs to the Udupi and Mangalorean kitchens, and it does its best work as a carrier for something rich.

That something is usually kori gassi, a chicken curry cooked in a roasted red chilli and coconut gravy. Kori means chicken in Tulu, and gassi is the dark, aromatic gravy built from dry red chillies, coriander seed, cumin and fresh coconut, finished with tamarind for a gentle sourness. The combination is a study in opposites: the neer dosa is mild and soft, the gassi is deep red and deeply spiced, and you tear a piece of the dosa, sweep it through the gravy and taste both at once. Vegetarians are not left out, because the same dosa goes beautifully with coconut chutney, a vegetable gassi or a simple sweet-and-sour jaggery curry. Many families make neer dosa for Sunday breakfast, and it is a staple at weddings and festivals. Order a stack, because one is never enough, and use your hand to eat it the way the locals do. It disappears quickly.

Kori rotti is one of the signature dishes of the Tuluva people of Tulunadu, and in many homes it is a Sunday and special-occasion meal. The curry itself is a chicken preparation made with red chilli and coconut milk, with a creamy body and a dark-orange sheen. What sets it apart is what it is served with. Instead of bread or rice, it arrives with dry, crisp rice wafers, the rotti, made from boiled rice that has been rolled, dried and toasted until brittle. The wafers are not meant to be eaten dry; they are broken into the plate and ladled with hot gravy, and the point is to catch them at the moment they are half soft and half crunchy.

The result is unlike any other curry-and-bread pairing in India. The top layer of rotti softens and drinks up the chicken gravy, becoming almost like a dumpling, while the layer underneath keeps a faint crispness. Each mouthful is different, and the dish is eaten fast because the texture changes with every passing minute. The gravy is creamy, mildly sweet from coconut and rich with the heat of roasted red chillies, and a squeeze of lime is sometimes added at the table. It is a dish that rewards patience in the kitchen and speed at the table, and it is easily the best-known way to taste what makes Tulu cooking distinct. If you see it on a coastal menu, order it, and eat it before it cools. Pair it with a glass of solkadhi or a cold drink to balance the richness.

On Car Street in Mangaluru, a narrow lane where parking is a negotiation, one small restaurant has turned a simple idea into a reputation. Giri Manja's was founded in 1984 by Giri Pai, and for roughly its first decade it had no name at all. His son Manjunath eventually named it by joining his own name to his father's. The restaurant's most famous dish is the fish tawa fry, and its menu changes daily according to what the boats bring in, with as many as fifteen varieties of fried fish on offer, plus a single chicken dish for those who want one.

The technique is straightforward and the results are anything but. A fillet or a whole fish is marinated in a thick red masala of Mangalorean chillies, garlic and tamarind, then pressed onto a hot tawa with a little oil until the outside forms a deep, spicy crust and the flesh inside stays moist and flaky. It is served with rice and fish curry, sliced onion and a wedge of lime, and the best way to eat it is to lift the crust with a fork and take it together with the soft flesh underneath. The flavour is sharp, salty and bright, with a long chilli finish that lingers. Ask the server which fish is freshest that day, and go for it. Come early or expect to wait, because word of this place has spread far beyond the lane. If you eat only one seafood lunch in Karnataka, this is a very good candidate.

Bhatkal is a small port town on the Uttara Kannada coast, and it is home to the Navayath community, whose name means "newcomers". Between the 8th and 15th centuries, traders from Iran, Iraq and Yemen reached this stretch of the west coast and settled, and over time their cooking mixed with local ingredients and customs, particularly through interaction with the town's Jains. The result is a cuisine that has drifted away from its Arabic and Persian roots while keeping a distinct identity, and its most famous export is the Bhatkali biryani.

This is not the heavily spiced, dark and oily biryani of other cities. Bhatkali biryani is often described as lighter and more fragrant, built on a base of slowly cooked onions, green chillies and a tangy chicken layer, with rice that is paler and less coloured than elsewhere. It is usually made with basmati rice, though there is also a lesser-known version made with vermicelli, called shayya biryani. The flavour is clean, savoury and gently hot, and the meat is tender enough to fall from the bone. Bhatkal's food does not stop at biryani. Fish is part of lunch at least five days a week, with prawns, mussels, clams and squid cooked in pounded chilli and garlic pastes, and breakfast is an event in its own right, with many varieties of appo, or pancakes, including versions made with ragi, cashew apple, jackfruit and banana. If you are travelling the coast, Bhatkal is worth a stop for this meal alone. Ask locally for a home-style table, because the best versions are cooked for family first.

Patrode is the kind of dish that makes you appreciate how inventive a kitchen can be with a leaf. Large colocasia leaves, which grow wild across the Western Ghats in the monsoon, are spread with a thick, spicy paste of rice, coconut and chillies, layered on top of each other, rolled tightly and steamed. When the roll cools, it is sliced into thick spirals, and each slice shows a pinwheel of green leaf and orange-red masala. It is eaten as it comes, with a little butter, or, in the more indulgent version, shallow-fried in coconut oil until the edges turn crisp and slightly smoky.

The flavour is tangy and spicy, with an earthy, faintly bitter note from the leaf that makes it more interesting than a plain steamed snack. Cooks use a little tamarind and jaggery in the paste to balance the heat, and the texture is soft and slightly chewy, almost like a savoury pudding. Care is taken to prepare the leaf properly, because colocasia can irritate the throat if it is not cooked with something sour and handled correctly, which is why the tamarind in the paste matters. Patrode is seasonal, and the best time to eat it is during the rains, from June to September, when the leaves are tender and fresh. Because it is made mostly in homes rather than restaurants, the easiest way to taste it is to stay at a Malnad homestay and ask what the cook is making that evening. Eat it with a hot cup of tea and a view of the rain, and you will understand why people talk about this food with such affection.

When jackfruit season arrives in the Malnad hills, the fruit seems to appear in every kitchen at once, and the kadubu is one of the best things that happens to it. Halasina hannina kadubu is a steamed sweet made from ripe jackfruit pulp, rice rava and jaggery, a combination that sounds simple but delivers something deeply fragrant. The ripe pulp is mashed and blended with the coarse rice semolina and jaggery to make a thick, sticky batter, spooned into banana leaves, wrapped into parcels and steamed until set. When you open the leaf, the aroma of jackfruit and warm banana leaf comes out together, and it is very hard to be patient.

The texture is soft and slightly springy, somewhere between a steamed cake and a pudding, and the flavour is sweet, floral and lightly caramelised from the jaggery. Many families eat it warm with a spoonful of ghee or a smear of fresh butter, and some add grated coconut inside for a little texture. It is a seasonal treat, so you will rarely find it on a restaurant menu. Jackfruit is a staple in this part of Karnataka, and cooks in the region turn it into idli, fritters called halasina hannina mulka, and even dried and fried chips made from the raw fruit. Of all those preparations, the kadubu is the gentlest and the most comforting. If you are lucky enough to stay at a Malnad homestay during the summer months, ask your hosts if it is being made. A good host will usually say yes, and a good guest will say yes in return.

Jolada rotti is the daily bread of North Karnataka, a thin, unleavened flatbread made from sorghum flour and warm water. There is no gluten to hold the dough together, so the cook has to work quickly: the dough is patted or rolled thin while it is still warm, then cooked on a hot tawa, and in some traditional homes finished directly over flame or hot coals. It is made without oil, which makes it light, nutty and slightly sweet, and it is best eaten fresh and hot, while it is still soft enough to fold. A harder, crisper cousin called kadak rotti keeps for days and is the travelling version.

The classic accompaniment is yennegai, small brinjals slit open and stuffed with a spicy masala of groundnut, sesame and chilli, then cooked in their own juices until the skin turns glossy and the flesh melts. A proper meal is a banana-leaf spread built around the rotti: chutney powders made from groundnut, sesame or garlic, mixed with ghee or curd; a raw salad of onion and cucumber; spiced vegetable palya; methi dal; and often a sweet like shenga holige, a flatbread stuffed with peanut and jaggery. Restaurants that specialise in this style are called khanavalis, and the one at Basaveshwar Khanavali in Vidya Nagar, Hubballi, is a well-known name. In Bengaluru, the neighbourhoods of Basaveshwaranagar and Rajajinagar have eateries devoted to the same meal.

The flavours are robust and the portions generous, so go hungry and take your time.

A Dharwad peda is a round, slightly flattened sweet the colour of toasted caramel, dusted with fine caster sugar and faintly grainy on the tongue. The grain is the secret. Milk is boiled down slowly, and the sugar is carefully caramelised in it until the khoa forms tiny crystals, giving the peda a texture that is neither smooth like a fudge nor dry like a cookie. It has a deep, slightly toasted dairy flavour and a mellow sweetness that lasts. The sweet carries a Geographical Indication tag, which formally recognises it as a product of the Dharwad region.

The tradition is said to go back about 175 years, to a family named Thakur that migrated to Dharwad from Unnao in Uttar Pradesh and began making the sweet there. Today it has become the unofficial welcome gift of North Karnataka, sold in cardboard boxes at every railway station and bus stand in the area, and no visit to Dharwad feels complete without carrying one home. The best ones are fresh, made that morning, and soft enough to press lightly with a thumb. Eat one slowly with a cup of tea, and notice how the flavour changes from sweet milk at the start to a toasted, almost nutty finish. If you plan to carry them home, buy them in a sturdy box, because they are tender, and keep them in a cool place. They also make a very good last stop on a trip, because the smell of a freshly opened box will remind you of the journey for days. Dharwad itself is also a lovely town for strolling.

Karadantu is a sweet from another age, and eating it feels a little like biting into history. It is made from jaggery, dry fruits, nuts and antu, the edible gum that gives the sweet its name and its chew. The ingredients are cooked together until they bind, then spread, set and cut into squares. It is dark, dense and firm, a snack designed for working people who needed energy that lasted through the day, which is why many visitors call it the original energy bar. The flavour is deep and caramelised, with the sweetness of jaggery, the nuttiness of roasted almonds, cashews and dates, and a faint bitterness at the edges that stops it from being cloying.

The story of its origin is told with local pride. A man named Savaligappa Aiholli of Amingad is said to have made the first one, and because the sweet was sold at Gokak, it became known as Gokak karadantu. Today the town of Gokak in the Belagavi district is the place to buy it, and stalls sell it by weight, wrapped in paper. Eat it in small pieces, because it is rich and chewy, and let each one soften in your mouth rather than biting hard. It is traditionally a teatime snack, and it goes very well with a strong cup of chai. It also travels well, keeps for weeks and makes a thoughtful gift. If you are interested in old sweets, the Belagavi and Kalaburagi region has others worth seeking out, from soft Belgaum kunda to Mandige, a crepe-like sweet cooked on an upturned tava.

Pandi curry is the dish that defines Kodava cooking, and it is deliberately different from the coconut-heavy curries of the coast. Pork, pandi in the Kodava language, is marinated and then simmered with roasted black pepper, coriander and a blend of Kodava spices until the meat is tender and coated in a thick, dark gravy. Traditionally the dish was made with wild boar, and many households still prepare it for festivals and special occasions. What gives it its character is kachampuli, the Coorg black vinegar, which adds a sharp, fruity, slightly smoky sourness and gives the gravy its deep, almost purple colour.

The flavour is peppery, sour and savoury all at once, with no sweetness from coconut to soften it, and the heat is a slow glow rather than a burn. The fat from the pork melts into the gravy, which is why the curry is so satisfying with plain rice, kadambuttu or akki roti, which soak up every drop. In the Kodava kitchen it is rarely eaten alone; it is usually part of a larger meal with sides of vegetables, chutney and sometimes bamboo shoot, and it is the centrepiece of any celebration. To eat it properly, take a piece of meat with a little gravy, mash it into the rice with your fingers, and eat slowly, because the pepper builds. Vegetarians are not left out of Kodava cooking, but this is a meat-lover's dish through and through. The best versions are made in homes, so a homestay with a Kodava host is the most rewarding way to try it, and the gravy often tastes better the next day.

Beside every great curry there is a quiet partner, and in Coorg that partner is kadambuttu. These are steamed rice balls, round and pale and about the size of a lime, made by cooking coarse rice flour and pressing it into smooth dumplings. They look plain, but they are the reason a bowl of pandi curry is so satisfying. The rice dumplings are soft, slightly sticky and mild, with almost no flavour of their own, which is exactly what is needed when the gravy is dark, peppery and sour. They are a variety of puttu, the steamed rice dishes that Kodava cooks make in many shapes, and the round kadambuttu is the most popular one at celebratory meals.

The way to eat them is to break one in half with your fingers, press it into the curry and let it soak, then lift it to your mouth with a piece of meat. The balls absorb the pork gravy and the kachampuli without becoming mushy, which makes every bite a mix of soft rice, tangy sauce and tender meat. Many cooks serve them still warm from the steamer, and they are best in the first ten minutes before they firm up. They also make a good breakfast on a cold hill morning, with a little ghee or a spoonful of coconut chutney, and some families eat them with vegetable curries too. If you are curious about how Kodavas eat, ask for kadambuttu with your first plate, and you will find that the simplest part of the meal is often the part you remember. It is humble, comforting food, and it carries the entire tradition of the hills in a single round dumpling.

Pork is the hero of nearly every Kodava meal, and smoking it is one of the oldest ways the community prepares it. In traditional kitchens, meat is hung above the hearth, where heat and woodsmoke work on it slowly, drying and flavouring it long before refrigerators existed. When the cook is ready, the meat is cut up and cooked with a few spices, and what reaches the plate has a firm, chewy bite and a smoky, savoury depth that fresh pork does not have. It is the kind of cooking that teaches you to taste time, and it reflects a world in which hunting, farming and the seasons set the menu.

Restaurants and chefs interested in preserving Kodava cuisine now serve smoked pork on their menus, often roasted and paired with kachampuli, the dark vinegar that adds a sour, smoky tang and a deep colour. The combination is powerful: the fat of the pork, the smoke from the hearth and the acidity from the vinegar balance one another, and each bite tastes both rustic and refined. It is typically eaten with rice or kadambuttu, along with a side of greens or a simple chutney, and sometimes a little roasted pepper at the table. Because it is a dish tied to home kitchens, the most authentic versions are found in Kodava homes and homestays, where the cooks follow family methods. If you are staying in Coorg, ask your host whether they can arrange a Kodava meal, and be ready to try something new. It is a taste of the hills that no other region of Karnataka can offer.