In a small eatery tucked behind a bustling Chennai street, the aroma of freshly ground spices floats through muggy air as cooks in white caps banter over steaming pots.
Their laughter masks quieter worries—a growing restlessness about the silent presence shaping their fates: the food delivery apps that once brought them customers in droves, and now, seem to be moving the goalposts with every passing quarter.
These days, restaurateurs like Raghavan*, who once found new hope with the dawn of Swiggy and Zomato, find themselves tallying fresh anxieties each time a new fee is announced. The recent hikes, namely a platform fee up to ₹15, commissions pushing 30%, and another cryptic add-on for “distance delivery”, land less like routine business adjustments and more like salt atop an old wound. “What sense does it make to list online when these platform fees reduce our profit to nothing?,” he laments.
His story is not a unique one. The story of India’s food delivery revolution has long teetered between optimism and unease. Swiggy and Zomato, now ubiquitous across Indian metros and small towns, were once harbingers of a seamless, digitized food culture—connecting hole-in-the-wall kitchens to urban professionals and students perched in gated colonies. In those years of breakneck growth, restaurants welcomed these new partnerships with open arms, grateful for a wider audience and the gleam of high-tech discovery. Doubling orders was just a notification away. It seemed everyone would win.
But as the sheen wore off and pandemic turmoil upended restaurant economics, the cracks in this alliance grew vivid. Swiggy and Zomato faced their own existential reckoning, pressing for profitability in an era where capital was no longer cheap.
Platform fees, once nominal, were hiked persistently. Recent months saw these charges ramped up once again; Swiggy raised its platform fee to ₹15, Zomato to ₹12, marking several sharp escalations in less than a year. The rationale emerged as business logic: delivery costs are rising, demand for temporary workers surges with every festival, and companies must assure both quality and investor confidence.
Yet, for Raghavan and thousands like him, these numbers translate to leaner margins and painful choices. The average restaurant’s income, after commissions, marketing spend, discounts, and platform fees, can leave them with less than half the value of each order—a reality documented by the National Restaurant Association of India, and echoed in kitchens from Mumbai to Madurai. Visibility on the apps requires deductions for marketing, and long-distance service fees add to the mounting frustrations. Meanwhile, restaurants lament the lack of meaningful customer data, feeling shut out of insights that would let them build loyalty outside the aggregator’s algorithms.
Friction between restaurants and platforms has become a defining tension of the industry. Owners recount “opt-out” emails for discount schemes they never approved; some chains are stung by the platforms’ in-house brands, which compete with them on the same grid, promising somber meals delivered in fifteen minutes from ghost kitchens no customer can ever visit. The very partners who once enabled restaurant growth now feel like competitors, wielding the power of data, delivery fleets, and perpetual convenience. National chains may shrug and absorb the cost—with the scale to negotiate and survive. But for local establishments, each rupee squeezed feels like an existential question.
As the power struggle intensifies, cracks are finally starting to show in the near-monopoly of the big two. While alternatives like Thrive rose and fell—done in by a resource war they could scarcely afford—new local platforms have started to emerge. Tamil Nadu’s Zaaroz, for example, caught national attention as hundreds of eateries shifted away from the Swiggy-Zomato duopoly.
Charging a flat monthly subscription fee instead of varying per-order commissions, and offering restaurateurs control over delivery choices and customer relationships, such upstarts are reminding market leaders that their grip is not unbreakable.
Elsewhere, players like Peppo and Rapido’s Ownly experiment with different fee models and pro-local messaging, hoping to attract restaurateurs weary of the old bargains. Some chains double down on direct ordering via WhatsApp, their own apps, or even retro phone calls—outside the aggregator’s grasp, beyond the moonlit glow of “order again” buttons. And for customers who once believed convenience was only an app away, nostalgia is leading many back to the simple satisfaction of calling the neighbourhood biryani joint and enjoying an extra freebie from the owner, gratis.
Despite these signs, breaking the duopoly’s grip isn’t easy. Restaurants complain, resist, and regroup—but Swiggy and Zomato continue to report growth in partner listings and transactions. India’s food tech dream is still powered by the engines of scale, efficiency, and investor belief. Yet as regulatory scrutiny rises and a more activist NRAI pushes for fairer terms, the political winds around platform economics are shifting. With each fee hike, the murmur grows: how much convenience is too much? At what point does a partnership turn into a shackle?
Raghavan’s story is far from unique—but it is meaningful. He still remembers his first order notification, the way his kitchen staff cheered, and the promise the digital age seemed to bring. Now, he keeps a close eye on every deduction, and an even closer ear to the ground for the alternatives budding around him. He’s optimistic—cynical, perhaps, but not defeated. “We have survived every wave,” he shrugs, “If our food is good, people will find a way.”
For a nation whose culinary landscape is shaped by both invention and tradition, the next chapter in India’s food delivery saga won’t be written solely by tech platforms or regulatory reforms. It will be found in countless kitchens—where resilience, creativity, and a yearning to reclaim customer relationships persist against all odds.
The stranglehold is not yet broken. But as cracks appear and restaurants rewrite their own playbooks, India’s great dining experiment seems poised for its next, most human turn.
*Name changed to protect anonnymity
