Est. 1962 · Bengaluru
Degree coffee,
done properly.
Peaberry from Chikmagalur, roasted in-house each dawn, brewed in brass and poured a metre high — the way Thatha did it, in a room your laptop also loves.
Peaberry from Chikmagalur, roasted in-house each dawn, brewed in brass and poured a metre high — the way Thatha did it, in a room your laptop also loves.
Degree coffee isn't a recipe — it's a small ceremony. We kept every step and skipped none.
Chikmagalur peaberry, roasted to a deep umber every dawn, ground coarse with 18% chicory for that unmistakable backbone.
The two-chamber brass filter drips for twenty patient minutes. First decoction only — that's what "degree" means, and we don't cheat it.
Decoction meets boiled milk in the davara-tumbler and travels a full metre, again and again, until the froth stands proud.
Pick a style, set the strength, choose your milk. The counter prices it live and the kitchen gets it exactly right.
Stone-ground batters, ghee that we're not shy with, chutneys made twice a day. Served till 4 pm.
Paper-crisp, painted with gunpowder and slow ghee.
The classic — potato palya, three chutneys, sambar.
Cloud-soft trio with saagu and coconut chutney.
Davanagere-style, butter-laced, impossibly golden.
Old canteen bones, new light. Brass on the counter, Rexine long gone, filter drip you can hear when the room goes quiet.
The counter, 7 am
Window seats
Since 1962"They rebuilt my grandfather's canteen without losing a single decibel of the morning din. The coffee is exactly as loud."
— Meera R., third-generation regularNo app, no points math, no expiry sermons. A card, a brass stamp at the till, and a house that remembers your order by your second visit.
Walk in for the pour, stay for the din. Both houses brew the same batch, roasted in Indiranagar each dawn.