Meghana HarikumarBengaluru: The Garden City’s food scene is a relentless churn. Every week, a new sign goes up, a new concept is hyped, and another “it” spot commands my attention. As a diner in this city, I’ve become a culinary nomad, forever chasing the next big flavour, the most Instagrammable plate. But amidst this frantic quest for the novel, there’s a deeper, more resonant craving: a desire for food that feels like a homecoming. This is the quiet, profound promise of Bao To Me, a new Pan-Asian eatery in Koramangala 1st Block, and I’m here to tell you, it delivers on that promise with more heart and soul than any restaurant I’ve visited this year.
The gram spoke of homegrown stories and comfort, a narrative spun by food bloggers. It’s a beautiful story, but one I’ve heard before. The real test, as always, is whether that story translates from the curated feeds to the actual table.
Stepping into Bao To Me is an immediate exercise in decompression. The chaos of Koramangala melts away, replaced by a serene, minimalist warmth. It’s a small, intimate 26-seater space, but it doesn’t feel cramped. Instead, it feels intentional. Light wood furniture, subtle bamboo accents, and soft, low-hanging lanterns create a space that feels more like a contemporary Japanese teahouse than a bustling city restaurant. There’s a distinct lack of pretension. I could see a slice of the kitchen, where Head Chef Wan Ming Li moves with the focused grace of someone who has, as the story goes, found their true calling after leaving a tech job. The “Bangalore vibe” they mention isn’t about being loud or trendy; it’s about this effortless, welcoming quietude.
The menu is a tightly curated love letter to Asian comfort food. It’s not an encyclopaedic tome trying to be everything to everyone. It’s a focused collection of dishes that evidently mean something to the people who created them. I began, of course, with the dish that started it all: the bao.
The Char Siu Bao arrived in a bamboo steamer, releasing a plume of fragrant steam as the lid was lifted. The bun itself was a work of art—impossibly white, pillowy, and tender, with a gentle give that spoke of a perfectly proofed dough. This wasn’t the dense, bready bao you often find. This was a cloud. Inside, the caramelised pork belly was a masterclass in Cantonese barbecue. Each morsel was sticky, smoky, and deeply savoury, with just enough sweetness from the glaze to create a flavour profile that was both bold and comforting. It was a single bite that managed to encapsulate decades of family tradition.
Next, I ventured into more modern territory with the Truffle Cream Cheese Dimsum. This could have easily been a gimmicky dish, a lazy attempt to elevate a classic with a luxury ingredient. Instead, it was a revelation. The dumpling wrappers were silky and translucent, cradling a filling that was an earthy, umami-rich medley of finely chopped mushrooms and luscious cream cheese, all perfumed with the unmistakable aroma of truffle oil. What truly elevated it, however, were the house-made sauces. The fried garlic sauce provided a crunchy, pungent counterpoint, while the scallion coriander sauce cut through the richness with a burst of herbaceous freshness.
My journey through the small plates continued with the Prawn Hargao which was a masterpiece of dim sum. The very soul of the dumpling was its delicate, translucent skin, steamed so perfectly it was almost ethereal. It gave way to a generous filling of juicy, succulent prawn, its natural sweetness locked in and bursting forth with every bite. Each piece was a complex, layered experience of texture and flavor, a simple dish executed flawlessly that, when paired with its dipping sauces, felt both light and deeply satisfying..
For the main course, I was torn. The Tori Katsu Curry Rice I saw being served at a neighbouring table looked like the very definition of comfort—a picturesque landscape of glistening Japanese rice, a pool of thick, dark curry, and a perfectly cooked, panko-crusted chicken thigh. It was tempting, but the promise of a truly great rice bowl in this city is a siren song I can’t ignore.
I chose the Tori Yaki Udon, and I’m so glad I did. The very soul of the dish, the thick, springy udon noodles, were perfectly stir-fried with tender chicken and fresh vegetables. Each strand was beautifully coated in a savoury, smoky soy-based glaze, offering a hearty and satisfying experience that, even without broth, was both restorative and invigorating.
I was told I couldn’t leave without trying the desserts, which carry the same theme of nostalgia and surprise. The Mizu Shingen Mochi, or raindrop cake, was an ethereal spectacle. A perfectly clear, quivering dome of jelly that looked like a captured drop of water. On its own, it tastes of little, but when paired with the nutty, roasted kinako (soybean flour) and the deep, molasses-like sweetness of the kuromitsu (black sugar syrup), it transformed into a delicate, sophisticated dessert that was as much about texture as it was about taste.
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For a final, comforting note, I ordered a Custard Bao. This was pure, unadulterated childhood joy. Biting into the soft bun released a flow of warm, sweet, golden egg custard that was nostalgic in the best possible way. It wasn’t overly sweet or cloying; it was just right.
Bao To Me is a testament to the idea that the best food is born from passion and personal history. Wan Ming Li, Foo Ming Li, and Vishwa Teja haven’t just opened another restaurant; they have opened a window into their kitchens, their memories, and their hearts. The “story” isn’t a marketing gimmick; you can taste it in the perfect fold of a dimsum, the rich depth of a ramen broth, and the cloud-like softness of a bao. This is a brand built to last not because it’s trendy, but because it’s genuine. In a city saturated with options, Bao To Me stands out by looking inward, offering Bengaluru a soulful, delicious, and deeply personal dining experience. It’s a place I’ll remember, and a place I will return to, whenever I’m in need of a little comfort.
Editor
Meghana Harikumar
