
From a courtyard in Old Delhi, to a corner in Mitte.
Haus of Chai began as a memory: rain on a tin roof, the hiss of milk meeting cardamom, a grandmother's hand pulling a kettle off the flame. We built this house to hold that memory in Berlin — between the tram lines and the late, soft dusk.
Every blend is hand-ground each morning. Every pot is brewed slowly, in copper, by people who care how long a cinnamon stick should bloom. Nothing is rushed. Nothing is imitated.






