The character of this story was born in India, weighs 350 kilos, and is known for its fiery temperament. Usually confined to the kitchen, hidden from customers’ eyes, this tandoor oven has taken center stage in a Nepalese restaurant in downtown Lisbon. Its presence is so strong that it inspired the restaurant’s name: Oven.
“The decor was designed to highlight the oven so that it could be seen from anywhere in the room,” explains Hari Chapagain, the 29-year-old Nepalese chef who runs Oven – “forno” in Portuguese – a restaurant that had to summon plenty of Eastern patience to wait for the pandemic to cool off before opening its doors.
Between finishing renovations on the ground floor of Rua dos Fanqueiros 232, in 2019, and beginning operations in June 2021, there was a long 15-month wait. But not all the delay can be blamed on the virus.
The star of the show, the tandoor oven, also played a role, as it had to travel around the world before landing in downtown Lisbon.
The odyssey was worth it: today, Oven appears on the list of Lisbon’s Top 101 Restaurants, compiled by ImmigrantFoodie.
A 40,000-kilometer journey
Hari learned to cook as a teenager, at age 13, with his parents in Kathmandu. In the hierarchy of the home kitchen, he first took on the simplest tasks—preparing masala tea with milk and cardamom—then moved on to basmati rice, later to lentils and beans, and so on.
With spices and the distinctive note of curry, it was only natural that, when opening his first restaurant, Hari would bring back from the mists of memory the beating heart of his childhood kitchen: the oven.
“I wanted something special, custom-made, different from the commercial ovens used in most restaurants,” says the chef, showing a photo of the chaotic workshop of the Indian artisan on his phone.
Hari hand-drew a sketch of the model he wanted and sent it to the craftsman, along with €400.
“I didn’t know him and had no references. It was a transaction based on trust,” he recalls. Luckily so—because that trust kept his hope alive.
After four months of torturous silence from the artisan—and with the restaurant already decorated, except for the custom-built space for the jewel of the house—Hari finally received news from India: the tandoor was ready and would be shipped from a remote village near New Delhi to Lisbon.
Eagerly awaiting the oven’s arrival, like a child waiting for a long-desired toy, the chef decided to have it flown by plane. That’s when the oven’s pilgrimage began.
The first leg was from New Delhi to Lisbon—about 7,700 kilometers. But Hari soon got entangled in Portuguese customs bureaucracy.
“They said they didn’t know how to classify the import and sent the tandoor back to India,” he says—another 7,700 kilometers in the opposite direction.
Today, the absurdity of the situation makes the chef laugh, but at the time it almost drove him to despair. “I found out that going through Germany would be easier,” he recalls. So he shipped the tandoor to Frankfurt—another 6,000 kilometers.
But again, it was held up in German customs, for the same reason, and once more had to make the 6,000-kilometer return trip to New Delhi.
The Kafkaesque ordeal made Hari consider giving up and settling for a standard oven.
However, the custom-built space at the restaurant counter—made especially for this tandoor and meant to be the restaurant’s namesake—inspired one last attempt.
“Some friends suggested trying England,” he says.
Another passport stamp for the oven, and another 6,000 kilometers in the cargo hold of a plane.
This time, the trip had a happy ending. “I could hardly believe it when they finally cleared it to come to Lisbon,” Hari recalls.
One last leg to the Portuguese capital—after 40,000 kilometers traveled and the initial cost multiplied by several zeros—and the tandoor was finally ready to take its rightful place.
A perfectionist in the kitchen
The oven’s epic journey is proof of the perfectionism of a self-taught chef who has managed to blend the traditions of Asian cuisine with the aesthetics of Western gastronomy. The result is small works of art served at the table—rich in color, aroma, and flavor—so beautiful that you hesitate to disturb them with a fork.
Hari Chapagain’s professional formation can be divided into two stages, both centered in Lisbon. “My first job was in a restaurant in Alfama. I started where everyone starts—washing dishes,” he recalls.
That experience became almost epiphanic, marking his first contact with a profession he hadn’t known existed: the chef en cuisine. “I was fascinated. I thought it was an important job, one that could bring respect and prestige. I decided I wanted to be a chef.”
To achieve that, Hari had to leave behind cutlery, plates, pots, and soap—and walk the fine edge of a knife blade. “One day, the chef saw me chopping onions, garlic, and other ingredients and thought I deserved a chance at food prep,” he recalls.
Hari’s knife skills cut a path that would eventually lead him to open his own restaurant. Along the way, he also befriended a legend of Portuguese gastronomy.
“After the restaurant in Alfama, I had the chance to work with Olivier in two of his restaurants—the Petit Palais and Yakuza,” he says, remembering the test he had to pass to be admitted to the kitchen. “I had to cut potatoes into strips, which were then measured with a steel mold—the ‘magic cube.’”
What seemed like a rookie prank turned out to be a lesson: the “magic cube” wasn’t just a measure for potatoes, but a symbol of the precision and respect for proportions required for culinary perfection.
“I realized that the beauty of a dish can stimulate appetite just as much as aroma—and even influence the final taste,” he believes.
That explains, in part, the sensory experience of dining at Oven—especially the sections devoted exclusively to Nepalese cuisine, which set it apart.
“There are other good Nepalese restaurants in Lisbon, but most serve Nepalese dishes based on Indian variations, since those are better known internationally. Oven is the only one offering truly traditional Nepalese food—the food my parents cooked at home in Kathmandu,” he says.
The return to his family kitchen was the final step before opening his own restaurant—not in Kathmandu, but in Spain, where his sister, three years older and considered the family’s culinary reference, runs a restaurant in Alicante.
“I needed to learn how to make my own food.”
The tandoor as the heart of the kitchen
Hari’s immersion in his family’s culinary culture can now be seen—and tasted—in the dishes he prepares beside the tandoor oven, in full view of customers. The open-kitchen design gives the restaurant the feel of a classic pizzeria, letting guests watch each step of the cooking process.
That’s how one discovers, for instance, that the naan breads—the famous “Indian flatbreads”—are prepared much like pizzas: the dough is hand-kneaded, dusted with flour, and rolled out. The baking, however, is unique—the naan are literally stuck to the wall of the oven.
“If it doesn’t stick, it means the dough isn’t right,” teaches the chef.
At peak hours, the inner walls of the tandoor are covered with small discs of dough. When they reach the ideal point—quickly, at nearly 400°C—the breads are “fished” off the oven wall with a hook.
Meat dishes, such as the classic chicken tandoori, are also cooked without pots or grills—on skewers lowered into the tandoor. “We usually prepare all the starters first, then the main dishes,” Hari explains.
Watching the preparation process gives you a true sense of how central the traditional oven is to Asian culinary ritual—and why Chef Hari Chapagain went to such lengths to have one.
An oven that traveled around the world to make real the dream of a boy from Kathmandu—to become a chef in Lisbon.
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