The Himalayan Cafe is the kind of place you want more of. Small room, soft lighting, a menu that knows exactly what it is, and no attempt whatsoever to perform for anyone. You walk in, someone welcomes you like a cousin, and then the kitchen quietly shames restaurants three times the price.
Momos first, because the momo is the whole point. The dumpling wrapper was fine enough to see the filling through, pleated properly, and dressed in a sauce that was spicy, tangy, and very much wanting to live on the top of a plate of rice afterwards. Then bakhara himalayan and the chilli bread, which earned its name with the kind of heat that builds rather than ambushes. Phali to balance it out.
The soul here is in the way nothing is fussed over. The staff are warm, the plates arrive when they're ready, and the bill feels like an apology.
Why this is a 9 on soul
Soul doesn't come from a chef's story, it comes from the feeling of a room that was built for the cooking, not the other way around. You can taste the generations at The Himalayan Cafe. Dishes aren't engineered for a Sunday brunch crowd; they're the version you'd be served in someone's home, scaled up just enough to cover the rent. That's rare, and it's why I'd send anyone here who asks for a hidden gem in New Farm.
Would I go back?
Often. For the momos alone. And I'd tell friends before I told the internet.