On a pleasant Friday afternoon, Mumbai’s iconic Souk at Taj Mahal Palace feels unhurried; calm, lingering, and perfectly attuned to the mood of the meal to follow.
Copenhagen-based, Michelin-trained chef Henrik Jyrk is in the city for one of Taj's specially curated Rendezvous by The Chambers, alongside his wife, a singer and self-confessed foodie of Malaysian descent, preparing to present a menu shaped by his long-standing engagement with Nordic and Southeast Asian cuisines.
At the heart of Jyrk’s cooking is a conversation between geographies that feels lived-in rather than curated; his food carries the warmth and intuition of Southeast Asian kitchens, shaped as much by personal history as by professional training.
Married to a Malaysian-Indian partner and long immersed in Asian food cultures, Jyrk’s approach resists the theatrics of fusion, choosing instead a quieter overlap of influences. “I don’t think of it as blending cuisines,” he says. “It’s about balance, that is, letting ingredients speak, and using spice, fermentation, and technique to deepen what’s already there.”
In India, that sensibility translates into food that feels familiar without being predictable.
After years spent navigating global kitchens from fine-dining institutions to Asian street food cultures, Jyrk, known for his restraint-first approach, begins with produce and builds outward, allowing technique and spice to deepen flavour.
A prime example of this philosophy is the plate of white and green asparagus he serves, a dish that quietly underscores Jyrk’s commitment to produce-led cooking. Though not in season, the asparagus arrives remarkably fresh, its natural sweetness intact, the stalks yielding easily with each bite. Beautifully plated without excess, the dish allows texture to take centre stage: crisp at the edges, juicy at the core. It showed how, when good ingredients are handled with restraint, they need little embellishment.
Jyrk came down briefly to India, and having worked in some of Denmark’s renowned Michelin kitchens, he is now looking at experimenting with Indian flavours and spices to recreate a fusion that is yet to take-off globally. “My creative process always begins with the produce, what’s in season, what’s local, and what feels alive right now. I layer Indian influences carefully, not to overpower the ingredients, but to enhance what’s already there,” he tells THE WEEK.
The meal opens with a scallop paired with ginger and caviar, a deceptively simple plate that sets the tone for what follows. The scallop is clean and sweet, cooked just enough to retain its translucence, while ginger adds a gentle heat rather than an aggressive bite. The caviar isn’t there for drama; it lends salinity and depth.
But for me, the most intriguing plate of the evening is the Nordic curry with goat and peas, where Jyrk’s philosophy becomes clearest. This is not curry as we recognise it in an Indian context, nor is it a Nordic dish masquerading as one. The goat is slow-cooked to tenderness, carrying an earthiness that anchors the dish, while the peas add freshness and a subtle sweetness. The curry itself is gently spiced, neither broth nor a gravy, it sits closer to a sookha, masaledaar preparation, deeply seasoned, and intensely flavoured without being heavy.
What stands out across the menu is Jyrk’s restraint with Indian flavours. This makes the food feel thoughtful rather than theatrical, though it may leave diners expecting bolder punches slightly underwhelmed. That said, the clarity of flavours, something rooted in Nordic cooking, keeps the plates grounded and elegant.
Dessert, dark berries with vanilla ice cream, brings the meal full circle. The berries offer sharpness and depth, cutting through the richness of the vanilla, while staying true to the Nordic emphasis on seasonal produce. It’s a quiet ending rather than a dramatic one. The dish exists to cleanse and leaves you with a sense of completeness.
The overall experience feels cohesive and well-paced, reflecting a chef comfortable enough with his craft to step back and let the ingredients lead. There are no unnecessary flourishes, no overworked plates, and no moments that feel engineered for applause.
“I’m not trying to recreate Indian or Southeast Asian dishes as they are,” Jyrk says. “What interests me is the way spices stay with you. I adapt that sensibility to Nordic ingredients and techniques, so the food feels familiar, but still a little unexpected.”
As I sit down with the couple for a tête-à-tête after the meal, their chemistry is immediately apparent. She often completes his sentences, stepping in effortlessly, offering context or clarity, hinting at a creative partnership that extends well beyond the table.
It’s easy to imagine these culinary ideas taking shape in shared domestic moments, flavours tested and refined long before they reach the plate.
On a lighter note, she laughs and admits that at home, it is she who does most of the cooking—not him—puncturing the seriousness of the chef’s persona and adding a human, disarming endnote to the conversation.