Story spotting in McLeodganj is a bit like the scenery of the place. One moment it is clear and resplendent with terrific colours. The next moment you are covered in a cloud, and everything from your underwear to your notebook is damp. It is still beautiful, in a different sort of way, if you get me.

When that happens — the sudden soaking — Ama’s momos will help you warm up enough to want to rework copy, if you are a journalist on assignment. There is not much place to sit in her eatery, but her food is a chisel to a writer’s block and adrenaline to a person who has not slept the previous night.

For breakfast, Ama will serve you Lowa Khatsa or sheep lungs. “Go to the theka and get a bottle. Iske saath achcha lagega,” she says. Our exchange goes somewhat like this. Me: “But it is still morning.” Ama: “So what?”

Down the road there are all kinds of Tibetan food on sale. Some call it Chinese food, although it tastes like neither. The Tibetans don’t fuss about the nomenclature; if food must be ruined, let it be called Chinese.

It is at McLeodganj that I learnt that chicken can be neon and still taste good. The Special Tibet Manchurian is made by a jolly Nepali at a stall on Temple Road called Punjabi Dhaba. He uses a ladle that could well have been a rod of radium, for it seemed to glow in the dark night, its light reflected on the raindrops clinging to the faces of the tourists gathered around.

The locals at McLeodganj didn’t seem to care about the rain. Elderly Tibetan and Himachali women and men with prayer beads in their hands chatted away. I listened in.

“You have soda?” an Australian woman exclaimed at an elderly Buddhist monk. Earlier, the woman had tried to impress upon him how sincere a devotee she is, how keen she is to learn his ways, and how the teachings of the Buddha inspire her.

The monk remained silent and nodded as he meditated upon his Chicken Butter Masala at Bhimsen’s Punjabi Dhaba next to Ama’s. After his meal, he asked for a plain soda, which seemed out of place in the picture the devotee had painted of the monk.

“Soda good for stomach after meals,” replied the monk in halting English. That was his sermon for the day.

McLeodganj is best savoured in groups, by those who are not on a diet. Servings are huge and there are no half-plates. Chillies are served on the side, because the food is as bland as a monk’s sermon.

The best chilli is at Norling’s. If Ama’s Kitchen peps you up before an assignment, Norling’s Restaurant will help you gather your thoughts before you file copy. This restaurant at Dolma Chowk is out of a play.

It has it all — a grumpy waiter who is actually a nice guy, a feisty lady proprietor, her friendly son or nephew, the Tibetan aunties whose meals begin with a discussion of a marriage proposal and end with how tough marriage is, the young devotee who watches the Dalai Lama’s speeches on YouTube, the elderly man who reads the newspapers and exclaims to himself that the world is going to the dogs. Before it does, do have their non-veg momo platter.

Mutton here means sheep meat. It has a smell which, once you get used to, is comforting. The pork is generally good in McLeodganj, finely cut, and cooked perfectly at Norling’s and Norwang’s — the Santorini-themed restaurant facing the valley, where the cool kids hang out.

But if you want it all — the neon chicken, the cheesy Ema Datshi gravy with Tingmo bread, the Calcutta-style chowmein et al — have the Tibetan thali at Tibet Kitchen located on the main square. Everyone is here — the cool kids, local shopkeepers, the boisterous tourists, families on a budget holiday and the drunks who are unable to choose from the menu.

Go there after you have filed your story or you don’t have one to file. Go there to celebrate or mope, to make friends or find solitude in the dingy chatter, or stand in the rain outside and patronise the hawkers selling Siddu — the poor man’s momo made of fermented steamed bread, usually stuffed with potato and coated in oil.

Siddu was here before the Tibetans or the British. The Siddu keeps you calm enough to carry on until you find the pot of gold under the rainbow over the Bhagsu Falls. The Bhagsu is a waterfall that has eateries practically in the plunge pool serving pahadon wali Maggi.

Once you find that gold, which could well be company travel allowance, blow it up at Jimmy’s Italian Kitchen on Bhagsunag Road. You only live once and if there should be a pahadon-wali-anything, it should be Jimmy’s pizzas. They are to be had only on the terrace, gazing at the Himalayan peaks, with your head in the clouds.