The first thing that hits you isn't the color or the noise — it's the smell. Cumin seeds crackling in hot oil. Tamarind chutney drizzled over crisp pani puri shells. Smoke curling off a tandoor at five in the morning. India's food markets don't introduce themselves politely. They grab you by the collar. I've eaten in Michelin-starred restaurants across four continents, and none of them taught me as much about food as squatting on a plastic stool in a Delhi bazaar, watching a man make pa...
