Pravasi Bharatiya Divas: NRI chefs tell stories of foreign-Indian cuisine

"When you crave home food in a foreign land, it’s not just food that you’re missing, it’s a place in your head, a feeling, that you’re struggling to recreate,” says food blogger Sayantani Mahapatra, originally from West Bengal, of her time in Japan, where she lived from 2012-13. Much like one of Jhumpa Lahiri’s diasporic protagonists trying to rustle up a makeshift snack of jhalmuri (spicy puffed rice) with Rice Krispies, Planters peanuts, chopped red onions and a dash of mourning in the place of mustard oil, Mahapatra relieved herself of this constant state of nostalgia by giving in to experimentation.

Soon, Japanese amberjack, a fish locally known as buri, replaced baby katlas in gravies, as homemade wasabi made sure she never missed the wicked bite of mustard. Mizuna (Japanese mustard greens) and kobocha (winter squash) found their way into the Bengali classic of chorchori, and mochar ghonto (banana blossom curry) found an ally in finely chopped bean sprouts. A boiled-and-caramelised concoction of brown sugar, dates and maple syrup masked the absence of nolen gur (date-palm jaggery). Mahapatra even proceeded to substitute the sacred hilsa with a bigger variety of mackerel, which when cooked well with black cumin seeds, “tastes a lot like the real jhol (curry)”. This new culinary index depended on Mahapatra’s willingness to dive under the racks of an alien supermarket and walking past “dubious ice-block fish, sold in the name of Bangladeshi maach” to create dishes “that were fair equivalents in taste, and not ingredients”. But it’s not always as simple.

Restaurateur Nikhil Merchant, whose partner venture Imli hopes to flip the “cut-copy-paste menu” in LA’s Indian eateries, reveals the struggles of foreign-Indian cuisine in a different part of the world. “While procuring ingredients isn’t a trouble in Indian-populated American cities like New York, New Jersey or Chicago, pricing and sustainability get in the way of homecooks looking to reprise dishes with elements that, due to their exotic status, cost more in the US. When you have to spend $4 on a carton of cream for your murgh makhani, which is available at a restaurant for $12+, it’s easy to be discouraged.” Merchant blames the American wariness of stocking up on separate spices for a veritable invasion of packaged garam masala. It has wiped out the complexities offered by red chilli, coriander, turmeric and a whole gamut of Indian spices, he complains. “Which is strange, because the leftovers can easily be used in the manner of American spice rubs, which are so popular with meat preparations,” he reasons.

Letting go of recipes in favour of improvisation, it would seem, is the key to success in the nostalgic NRI kitchen. Don’t have Kashmiri laal mirch at hand? Rope in the familiar smokey-sweetness of Guajillo chillies, and trade sultry-red tomatoes in cans for the fresh umami of the Roma variety. But for all the extemporisation, remember to tell your chicken vindaalo-eating non-Indian friend about its pork parentage — and the story of its Goan coastal origin — for historicity is integral to the process. “Chicken tikka masala and murgh makhani were never meant to be the same dish. And if kale and arugula are going to be used as greens in saag paneer, the original should be out there as well,” reckons Merchant.

History, however, seems to be self-referencing, especially when it comes to food travelling across oceans and continents in spontaneous migration. Britain-based chef and restaurateur Atul Kochhar says, “In the evolution of flavours, some give in and make way for others, but the dishes carry with them their own story.” So should you eat the Johnny Roti in the Caribbean, you have a chance to trace your way back to its original nomenclature of ‘Journey Roti’, a handy meal for migrant labourers headed for the fields. Don’t be incredulous, as Kochhar was, if an Ugandan street food vendor offers you a Rolex — not the watch, but a distant cousin of ‘rolled-egg’, the very egg-roll Kolkatans wear as their culinary badge of honour.

Kochhar offers the example of the bunny chow, a staple at NRI (Not Really Indian), his diaspora food station at Mumbai's Bandra Kurla Complex. The bunny chow travelled to Durban from India as a basic bean curry around the mid 19th century, reformatted itself into a bread bowl stuffed with beans or meat, and in recent years, returned to the country of its origin as a gourmet dish. When you bite into pork/lamb/soya bean-wedged belly of the bread, you are a part of the dish’s incredible journey, which saw non-white labourers in South Africa fashioning a bowl out of bread in the discriminatory environment of apartheid.

How’s that for a taste of the foreign-Indian?

(Atul Kochhar, Sayantani Mahapatra and Nikhil Merchant)