Of course, I have come here with dreams of the fabled french cuisine and spicy local curries. Reality is quite different. I try and detest the faux continental stuff, but unleash myself on the more desi side of the stove.

I have a melting, stunning, best-ever pork kosha made by Arnab. His chef skills are delightful and the outcome delicious ( he only makes the one pork kosha, one time). I spend a happy morning watching and filming as Arnab cooks fluidly, with an economy of movement and precision that I envy. He is tidy and yet enjoying the whole process and commandeers me into stirring and sauteeing. I oblige, happy to inhale the most delicious caramelised onions I have ever seen. Perfectly sliced and evenly browned and not one scorch mark on the pan. I am entranced. I need to master this. I have to remember to stir, stir, stir and be patient, letting it all sit together with a sigh once all the hissing and spitting is complete. I watch, fascinated, as he turns cubes of marinated pork into the most luscious – licious curry.

I cannot wait to taste the kosha and the three hours spent slow cooking it ( my kind of guy, no pressure cooking) leave me in a delirium of sensory overload, rich colour in the pot, heavenly aromas all over the kitchen. The Crab never smelled as good as it does with a pot of kosha on the fire. I try convincing the Chef to make this a special but he demurs.

Everyone gathers around the table: news has spread that there is Kosha to be had and it is a merry meal with friends and family, and I feel totally lucky to have been included.

Adjectives apart, the pork is tender and succulent, gently slow cooked and barely stirred after the first one hour of work. It has turned into a beautiful, beautiful deep rust and is a joy to bite into. Heaven.

If I had known before, I would have begged a portion to freeze and carry home. Oh well, another one for next time. Maybe I will try this at home in the coming winter months and have my own merry meal.

The night ends late with everyone hanging together to laugh and exchange stories. This is an old band of schoolmates and their camaraderie is infectious. We are accompanied by the dogs, Siri and Alexa. I sleep deeply content and am grateful for being so included.

The next most memorable lunch is at the seaside. On the tiny causeway at Serenity Beach, to be precise.

Each weekend, the local fisherwomen have designated stalls where they serve fresh catch of day and various homemade and very simple fish curry rice preparations. This is absolutely safe but not really for the faint hearted, this is the real deal, the real local and I loved it. Ate it. Survived it, and lived to tell the tale.

Yes, they exist, these legendary boast-worthy shacks. When friends told me about local seafood in Kochi, I envied them for this experience: to be able to eat fresh sea food, home recipes, made right before you in a little shack seemed unreal. But here I am. Here we are. And this is another experience that happened without any plan, serendipity again.

(the entire trip has only been serendipitous)

I have heard so much about Serenity Beach and the weekend fish and I am so glad I have two full days to spend on fish! Yes, we dine there for two days and stuff ourselves!

The shack is tiny. Unpretentious. And has a long line extending, cars keep arriving with more people joining the queue. We have gone early and reserved a place and our meal, the shack is close to the Crab.

I dig in. Steel plates heaped with rice and thin curry of small, whole fish. Masala prawns. Huge steaks of local masala fish fry. I am dazed, unable to get over the simplicity and taste of the food, the freshness, the spice and the Amma standing over a giant tava and deftly serving fresh hot masala sea food in turns as the line gets longer.

Bhuvaneshwara is the name of this shack. I wish I had more place in my tummy to eat more of those prawns. It is muggy and the waves are breaking behind rows of colourful fishing boats and heaps of netting on the golden sands. The sun is hot. My mouth is hot from the spice. I am instantly taken back to a childhood of Sundays spent lunching at Souza Lobo in Calangute, long, lazy-hazy lunches watching the waves as we ate prawns and drank colas. Here I am, decades later, in Pondicherry.

I can barely walk home after this splendid meal, crawling into bed and passing out for siesta.

You make me SO hungry, Pondicherry!