Keep Chaating made this carnivore eat his words
Many people, I regret to admit I’ve long been one of them, view vegetarian restaurants the way most Brits regard a wet bank holiday: something to be endured rather than enjoyed. My experiences with vegetarian cuisine have historically formed a dismal parade of disappointments, starting with what I can only describe as gruel masquerading as lentil stew and careening downhill from there.
We arrive at these establishments expecting virtuous blandness: stuffed peppers filled with the excitement of a doctor’s appointment, grilled halloumi squeaking like tortured hamsters, and mushroom risottos so earnest they practically lecture you about composting while tasting of damp cardboard. The “chef’s special” invariably turns out to be a beetroot burger bleeding crimson falsehood onto an artisanal bun, desperately pretending to be something it’s not. Vegetable lasagnes slumber in silent, watery protest. All the while, we carnivores secretly plot our escape to the nearest purveyor of aged beef, dreaming of marbling patterns the way normal people fantasise about winning a lottery.
Keep Chaating, tucked away in Covent Garden, has forced me into a reckoning with this prejudice. The restaurant’s name plays on the Indian word ‘chaat’, those glorious street food concoctions of potato pieces, crisp fried bread, chickpeas and tangy-salty spices with sour chili and sweet tamarind chutney – and practically dares you to resist its charms. I could not.
I arrived on a Wednesday evening, with a vegetarian friend who has suffered my meat-centric dining choices with the patience of a saint. This expedition wasn’t merely about expanding my culinary horizons; it was an act of friendship. Dining out with a vegetarian when you’re a committed carnivore typically involves one of two scenarios: either they pick sadly at the lone meat-free option while you tuck into something properly considered, or you dine at a vegetarian restaurant and spend the evening mourning the absence of protein that once had a face.
But there’s something fundamental about breaking bread together – the shared experience, the passing of plates, the “you must try this” moments that constitute half the joy of dining with someone you actually like. I wanted an evening where neither of us had to compromise, where every dish could be placed in the middle of the table and attacked with equal enthusiasm, where “Can I taste that?” never had to be followed by “Oh wait, I can’t.”
I arrived pleasantly lubricated after a decent pint at “The Craft Beer Company” nearby, a pub positioned above what appears to be the useful floors of a leisure centre – a preparatory measure I’ve found useful before any new dining venture, vegetarian or otherwise. I strongly recommend others do the same: The drinks menu at Keep Chaating is shorter than a politician’s apology.
Booking is essential – a fact that should have been my first clue that Covent Garden’s discerning diners already knew what I was about to discover. The place, whilst inviting, was cozy and packed.
We began with puchkas/pani puri, sublime little crisp shells that perform a magic trick few other dishes can manage. These are hollow crisp spheres, designed to be filled with spiced water, tamarind chutney, and various fillings just before consumption. They arrived perched atop shot glasses like overdressed party guests – some holding vivid green chutneys flecked with coriander, others containing russet-coloured tamarind waters that promised both sweetness and tang.
The ceremony of eating them requires you to pop the entire thing into your mouth at once, a culinary trust exercise that rewards you with an explosion that would put the most ambitious molecular gastronomy to shame. One moment you’re holding something that resembles a tiny, edible Christmas bauble, the next your mouth is awash with spices, sweetness, and textures that ought to be incompatible but somehow form a perfect union.
The puchkas were served on a tiered wooden stand that wouldn’t have looked out of place at an upmarket afternoon tea, save for the riot of colours and the fact that no cucumber sandwich has ever caused such immediate, audible pleasure from diners. At £8 for six, they deliver more bang-for-buck than most West End theatrical productions.
The main courses continued this theme of conversion. A mixed vegetable curry arrived on a metal thali plate that looked deceptively simple – the sort of thing you’d expect to be a mere supporting act. Instead, it delivered a masterclass in balance. Sweet chunks of butternut squash, carrots that had clearly been introduced to spices through a long, meaningful relationship rather than a hasty speed-date, and a sauce that managed to be both comforting and exciting. Tiny pieces of ginger appeared unexpectedly, like plot twists in a well-crafted novel. Each dish had been transformed into something worth fighting over, glazed in a sauce that made me forget my usual carnivorous tendencies.
What’s remarkable is the kitchen’s understanding that flavour needn’t be bludgeoned into submission with heavy spicing. There’s a subtlety here that reveals itself gradually, like a slow-burning TV drama rather than a Michael Bay explosion. The sweetness of the vegetables is allowed to speak, with spices serving as clever interlocutors rather than domineering overlords.
The restaurant itself matches this approach – warm-hued, faux wood-panelled walls, copper accents, and comfortable seating that encourages lingering rather than the rapid turnover favoured by some establishments. Service strikes that difficult balance between attentiveness and invisibility, materialising precisely when needed and evaporating when not.
What Keep Chaating ultimately proves is that vegetarian cooking, when approached with creativity and respect rather than as a compromised alternative, doesn’t merely compete with meat-focused establishments – it can surpass them. The dishes here aren’t apologetically vegetarian; they’re triumphantly so.
4/5 for Keep Chaating in Covent Garden, I wouldn't hesitate to return.