My printer, also my cousin, Ali, who has been in the business for 40+ years, has been patient. We have had long conversations over the phone, and I have looked through my cookbook library and understanding paper.

Sheen, matte, silky, rough-finished, glossy, smooth, the choices are endless. But the page itself says so much about the book and, in turn, about the topic it discusses.

This is a book on food, for sure, filled with about 100 recipes, but also about travel. Visits to known and some yet-to-be-discovered places in India and abroad. But this is a book about people, the communities that cook the food, the people behind the history of these dishes, and the villages around the world.

The paper used should reflect this topic; it is a luxury book, but using shiny or glossy paper detracts from the communities portrayed, and we lose the impact of their stories.

Matte detracts from the fact that this is a coffee-table book, one to be cherished.

There are 650+ images; the paper matters most here; the colors need to pop. As I understand from Ali, the paper choice determines how the inks are absorbed and whether they are reflected or dulled. A glossy paper was not recommended, but rather one printed plain and coated with a film that makes the colors pop.

And there is the text, lots of it, spread out for easy reading. But the paper adds a subconscious value to the eye, making you want to read on, rather than tiring the retina. High gloss is best used for coffee-table books, where the images pop, but we read very little. Here we want to balance both aspects.

The feel between our fingers as we turn the pages. The tactile nature is important to us, traditional readers. Smooth is preferred for its feel; matte, most commonly used in paperbacks, is the most universal.

Finally, in terms of weight, the book is about 575 pages, so it should be easy to carry and read. The weight cannot be a burden for the reader. So, a dense paper is not a consideration.

These pages tell a story and engage your senses; texture, the ability to make colors pop, and readability are all important. Decisions need to be made, and hopefully the right ones.

I am lost in this world, so unfamiliar to me, and thankfully, I have excellent guidance. Your thoughts will be appreciated. Please leave a comment.

This article was written after conversations with Azmat Ali Mir, a cultural entrepreneur and founder of Sarposh Restaurant. She is building hospitality and cultural experiences rooted in memory, craft, and Kashmir. This series of articles on the cuisines of Kashmir is possible because of her deep knowledge and willingness to share her knowledge.

Flour, salt, and water are the essentials of bread, and some would say life. Bread is omnipresent in every culture worldwide. Leavened, risen, soured, flat, round, baked, cooked on a griddle, it does not matter; bread is one of the most universal foods on this planet. I am not a baker; every attempt I have made has spectacularly flopped, and so I am in complete awe of those of you who are wonderful at this craft, one of meticulous detail. I did invest in a bread machine, and the bread was average at best. I made polish, sourdough starters, and tried my hand at baguettes, and very occasionally they were edible. I must give credit to my family, who never complained, though occasionally we would switch to rice halfway through the meal. My daughter banned me from using homemade bread for her school sandwiches; they were less “tradeable,” if you will.

But I love bread, a warm slice of sourdough, rye, or a crunchy baguette, patted with butter, is heaven. Meant to be enjoyed slowly, as the cold butter melts on the warm bread, this is my idea of a good bite. What really fascinates me about this craft is the variety; it is almost mind-boggling. Every culture has a bread; every community does something different with just these three ingredients. You can add an almost limitless range of additional ingredients and play with the dough to achieve textures that no single set of ingredients can ever match.

This post has been influenced by the wonderful posts from Epicurean Dispatch, My Spicy Journal by Harshita Saxena, and Chutney Lovers by Annanda D. Rathi, all of whom share the most amazing stories about the food and breads of India.

I was standing in front of a local bakery in Srinagar, a Kandar waan, with the local breads on display, still warm from the ovens. Almost by instinct, I reached out for one to have a bite, the baker nodding approvingly. On the table was a small variety, with the tandoor still hot and fresh breads coming out every so often.

But before we bite into bread, we need to understand the culture of the tandoor. I have always considered the tandoor to be Indian, core to Mughal cuisine, used for kebabs, the famed tandoori chicken, and naan breads. But the word "tandoor” is derived from the Persian word “tanur”. The Persians brought with them yeast-leavened bread and clay-oven cooking. Layered breads, such as thinly stretched lavash and warq, and paratha-like pastries were common in Persia and Turkey for centuries. Through trade and conquest, these arrived in India and became an essential part of the Indian culinary landscape.

The Kashmiri Kandur waan established itself by transforming bread-making from a manual, time-consuming household task into a community hub. The tandoor required space, maintenance, and skill to operate, and bread-making was specialized; these were “outsourced,” if you will, to a community institution. Every neighborhood, called the Mohalla, had a baker, central to daily life. But this system was essential to the communities: a single wood-fired tandoor baked between 6 and 10 varieties of bread, creating a scale of efficiency that would be unmanageable in a single household.

The physics of the tandoor oven is really a feat of ancient engineering. The base is narrow; the tandoor balloons out into a huge bubble across the top 2/3rds and narrows down again. The fires are lit at the bottom; the heat rises, evenly heating the entire interior, and the upward draft warms the space. Within this space are zones, similar to those of a pizza oven, yet another old technology, with the hottest zone being in the round oval at the top. The oven is built to circulate air, hence the oval shape, keeping the air inside the oven, improving efficiency, and reducing heat loss. The clay is super hot, binding wet flour immediately as it sears the surface. As it cooks, the flour releases when the bread is ready. The tandoor is a masterpiece of ancient engineering and deserves its own post.

But the bakers of Kashmir understand this science, not the technical terms, but how to use the tandoor to make bread, after generations of baking it. They feel heat with the back of their hands, no thermometer, know when the breads are ready, and know this craft by instinct.

Subscribe now

They start at around 4:30 AM, with the first fires lit in the tandoor. The tandoor heats up as the flames roar. This is when the tandoor is at its hottest. The breads are kneaded and risen the night before, prepped ahead for when the fires in the tandoor are lit. The first breads were added, the ghee girda, a soft bread made for breakfast. The hot oven quickly bakes this round bread, leaving a light crunch on the crust and a soft interior. The Girda is indented with the baker’s thumb, so that vertical rows are processed to keep the bread from puffing up completely.

This was the most common bread in Srinagar; most hotels procure it from the bakery and serve it as the token bread on the breakfast buffet. The staff is instructed to tell you to lather this with butter and enjoy it, redolent of English toast, building familiarity with a foreign bread.

With this, lavasa is a thin, soft bread that bakes quickly. The lavash is baked early to be sent out to the city, the Tujj barbecue places, and restaurants. This is the only bread eaten with a meal; the rest are meant only for breakfast or tea.

By mid-morning, the tandoor is fed very little fuel; it needs to stay warm for the other breads: the Kulcha, the Tchotchowar, and, lastly, the Roath.

The Tchotchawar, or tscotwor, is a small bagel-shaped bread with a hole in the center. The bread is baked and sprinkled with either sesame or poppy seeds, savory and soft, with a stiff, crunchy outer layer. The contrast in texture is beautiful; the bread is perfect with a cup of Noon chai in the afternoons.

Subscribe now

The Kashmiri kulcha is a masterpiece of texture, hard and crumbly. This is the bread that will crumble all over the front of your shirt, but there is no way to escape its allure. There are two variations of this bread: the plain (also topped with sesame or poppy seeds) and the almond. The latter is mixed with almond flour and topped with an almond to indicate the variety. The baker offered me a piece of bread to taste. It crumbled as soon as I took a bite, the almond pronounced and still savory. These are baked at the end of the day, the tandoor slowly cooling down, more dried in residual heat than baked. The crumbly shory-bread-like texture achieved over time, a bread of patience. This bread is dry, always calls for Noon chai, to wet the palate.

The last variety is Roath, a hard bread and the only sweet variety made in the tandoor. The bread also crumbles, with a softer, cake-like texture, and is delicious. These are baked in tins, scented with fennel seeds, cardamom, and occasionally saffron, and studded with nuts. These are celebratory breads, baked for religious and other occasions. The Roath batter is more cake-like; the dough is not strong enough to hold together, hence it is baked in tins in the heat of the oven. Our baker had a few on his shelf, and they were added to the bag.

Subscribe now

We were also given some Bakarkhani, a rich, flaky bread similar to puff pastry. This is a traditional bread from Persian heritage, with thin layers of dough folded repeatedly to achieve a puff-pastry texture. The bread is often cooked in the tandoor, often to special order. The bread is served for tea, rich and delicate, and is a sign of hospitality.

The breads aside, the bakery is the center of life in the mohulla, or neighborhood. This is where, after morning prayers, the men emerge from the mosque and collect to take bread home. This is where the neighborhood says hello, exchanges news, and converses. Outside these bakeries, neighbors see extra bread being bought for guests, or less if folks are traveling, where life is discussed, and bonds that hold a community together are built, one loaf at a time. The community forum discusses politics, always a hot topic, local news, and family updates, especially the gossip of whose child has eloped with whose daughter.

But this relationship is deep and complex; the Kandurs maintain a sense of trust in the neighborhood, occasionally extending credit for bread, a place where families know they can get essential food without worry of starvation.

This is a deep culture of baking and a huge variety of breads, but then things changed. The British arrived in the late 19th century, and during the colonial occupation, the British made Srinagar a retreat for high-ranking officials. For the British, local baking was not palatable; the breads were mainly savory, and they were used to the so-called “refined” patisseries of Europe. However, they realized that the bakers had the skills and techniques, but the output was wrong for them. The British introduced traditional ovens and sugar, lots of sugar, a sign of wealth and power in those days.

An interesting mix of products emerged; some of the breads were kept and served; however, they were sweetened and baked in ovens. The British introduced the practice of high tea, an elaborate event featuring sandwiches and pastries. Local baking was, to some extent, sidelined in favor of European-style oven baking.

Some of the traditional breads were included in the high tea. These included the Bakarkhani since it resembled puff pastry. But these were adapted to local tastes mainly by adding sugar. The Tchotchawar was also plated because they could relate to the bagel-like shape. The Girda was also adapted, toasted and made into toasts, yet again familiarized, and served with butter and preserves. And the kulcha was occasionally served with tea for its shortbread-like consistency.

Most breads were adopted, but the manner of serving and the timing of their consumption were changed. This is evolution, and because of this adoption, the baking infrastructure was not lost completely.

But new desserts were also created, more akin to the European style. We crossed across the narrow lane to a more traditional bake shop, the display filled with cakes and cookies. Some of the most significant are the fish bread, called so because of its shape, as well as cookies and traditional cakes. The jelly roll is dominant, as is the cream puff, and tea cakes flood the shelves.

Subscribe now

The biggest change was the addition of sugar, lots of it, in the early days, a sign of wealth. Chocolate followed, and chocolate cakes and cookies were made abundantly available.

The most iconic cake is the famed Pineapple Pastry of Kashmir, and its story is fascinating. With the arrival of the British, followed by the European travelers in the 20th century, the cake culture boomed. Bakeries established themselves, Nedou’s Hotel Bakery in 1930, followed by Ahdoos Bakery; cakes became famous and sought after. These bakeries began to play with fruit flavors. Canned pineapples, not native to this region, were available. They had an exotic status and were expensive, considering the cost of bringing them from the southern coastal regions. These cakes were built in the British style, loaded with cream, white in color (this is important), and delicate sponge cake, highlighting European technique with an Oriental twist. They were marketed as symbols of exotic luxury, and this has stuck to this day. Every bakery has a version of this cake, usually their highest-selling item on the menu. It was made the centerpiece of birthdays, weddings, and other celebrations.

I had to try a piece, rich and surprisingly light; it was special. The pineapple was a hint, the soft cream dominating the cake. It was a lovely cake, enjoyed by both locals and tourists who flock to the bakeries for this dessert.

The second is a more modern Walnut fudge, a confection made by Moonlight Bakery. They are the creators of this dessert, and theirs was the best version in Srinagar. Kashmir is one of the largest walnut-growing regions in the country, and hence this local crop has been transformed into a modern dessert. A thin piece of fudge loaded with walnuts and a caramelized sugar base. They also have ice cream made from the fudge; it was superb. Fortunately, they have a store at the airport, and I loaded up on small boxes as gifts for folks back home.

This bakery culture in Kashmir is quite fascinating because of the story it tells. The breads and the tandoor oven arrived a century ago and were adopted. The bread culture grew, with a variety of breads shaped by the capacity of the tandoors and by how the temperature waned as the ovens cooled during the day. The breads changed texture; they were developed for a community that was frugal, did not waste, and managed their ingredients very carefully. These breads were adopted and integrated into a society that did not know them before, and over time became essential to the culture.

Then the arrival of the British further transformed this industry. The addition of sugar and chocolate, the use of ovens, and the adaptation of high tea changed how bread was consumed. In some cases, the traditional breads were adapted to suit new palates, but how and when they were consumed was new. The community now had two different styles, each surviving in parallel. The traditional breads were eaten at home for breakfast and at tea time. The second parallel culture of haute British-style high tea, the traditional breads joined with cakes and cookies, survived, adding a local and exotic bite to the platters.

Bread has always been, and continues to be, the lifeline of the community. Essential to the Kashmiri culture, the kandhar still binds the mohalla together. It is still where men gather to discuss world events; it knits the community together. Bread is still a sign of grace and welcome in any Kashmiri home, a platter full of it served as soon as you arrive. A sign of hospitalitya nd generosity.

On the other hand, the pineapple cakes, cookies, jelly rolls, and walnut fudge are signs of modernity, of a culture's ability to adapt and evolve. It caters to the modern tourist, the richer class, who tend to move toward more Eurocentric offerings as a sign of wealth. These worlds did not collide; they function in parallel, each surviving on its own path.

Share

This burger fits the looser definition of a burger. The bun is the same, but the meat is shredded and spiced. I have also defaulted to calling these burgers now.

I cannot find the soft pull-apart kubaneh bread here, so I opt for a very soft potato bun or brioche bun instead. These delicious slider buns are from Paris, My Love, in Delhi. I also like to serve these as sliders, smaller bites, so each slider can be customised differently. I serve these unassembled, part of the joy being loading the meat and accompaniments individually; the ritual creates a commitment to enjoying the dish.

This burger is work: slow-braised, a few accompaniments, and planning for marination and cooking. It is not something you can slap together at the last minute. But then on first bite you understand why: the flavours- tartness from the preserved lemon, the heat from the rose harissa, and more flood your palate. This burger is so worth the effort.

This is a wonderful cookbook that I don’t cook from often enough. The flavours are spectacular, and not all recipes are as demanding as this one. It highlights the region’s cuisine, featuring well-written recipes and stunning photographs. The Palomar restaurant in London is a go-to destination for modern Middle Eastern cuisine. It is on my bucket list.

For more recipes from this fantastic cookbook, click here.

Ingredients:

For the cured lemon paste:

1 Moroccan preserved lemon, or Hyderabadi dhoop limboo, minced, seeds removed

1 tablespoon smoked paprika

1 tablespoon red pepper flakes

1 teaspoon of ground cumin seeds

For the pulled lamb:

1 1/3 kg (3 lb) lamb shoulder, cut into three pieces

3 tablespoons of ground cumin seeds

3 tablespoons harissa paste

1 portion cured lemon paste (see recipe)

2 teaspoons of pepper

1 teaspoon of sugar

6 garlic cloves, minced

1 onion, sliced

2 carrots, diced

2 celery ribs, diced small

Salt, to taste

8 cups of water

Note: For rose harissa, I use Belazu rose harissa. For lamb, I substituted mutton, a much more common and significantly cheaper ingredient in India.

For the Hawaij spice mix:

4 tablespoons black peppercorns

4 tablespoons of cumin seeds

6 green cardamom pods

6 whole cloves

2 tablespoons coriander seeds

2 tablespoons turmeric

For the sumac onions:

2 onions, thinly sliced

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

1 tablespoon sumac

1 teaspoon zata’ar mix

1 teaspoon ground coriander seeds

Juice of 1 lime

Salt, to taste

A drizzle of olive oil

For the green zhug:

3 garlic cloves

3-4 green chillies, or to taste

1 large bunch of cilantro, washed well

Juice of 1 lime

1 teaspoon Hawaij spice mix

2 tablespoons olive oil

Salt, to taste

For the tzatziki sauce:

1 small cucumber

1 garlic clove, minced

4 tablespoons mint, minced

2 tablespoons parsley, minced

Juice of 1/2 lime

1/2 teaspoon ground coriander seeds

1/2 cup lebneh or Greek yoghurt

Salt, to taste

Olive oil, to drizzle

To serve:

The pulled lamb

Sumac Onions

Tzatziki sauce

Green zhug

Soft potato or brioche slider buns, cut in half

Method:

Day 1:

For the cured lemon paste:

Mix all the ingredients and set aside.

For the pulled lamb:

Mix all the ingredients. Make deep slits into the lamb meat and stuff with the marinade. Coat the meat well and marinate overnight.

For the Hawaij spice mix:

Dry roast all the ingredients individually in a frying pan over low heat until aromatic. Cool completely and grind to a fine powder. Store in a dry bottle.

For the sumac onions:

Mix all the ingredients and pickle overnight.

Day 2:

To cook the meat:

The next day, remove the meat and vegetables and lay them in a single layer in a roasting pan.

Preheat the oven to 400°C with the rack in the bottom 1/3 of the oven.

Roast the meat for 30 minutes, turning the pieces after 15 minutes. The meat should be charred in spots, and the spices should be roasted.

Remove the meat, vegetables, and juices to a pot. Add the water and bring to a boil on a stove. Keep at a very low simmer for 4 hours. Alternatively, turn the oven down to 350°C and braise for 4 hours. Check the pot periodically to ensure that water has not dried out.

At this point, the meat is completely shredded into the stew. Remove all the bones, if any. Taste for salt, tartness, and spice. The meat should have lots of flavour, with a strong tartness. Adjust with more harissa, salt, or preserved limes as needed. If the base flavour is not deep, add a teaspoon of Hawaij spice mix. Cook the meat on a slow simmer on the stove until you have a thick, saucy dish. The flavours from the braising liquids need to be absorbed into the meat again. You want to leave the meat sloppy; after all, what is a burger if it does not drip all over the front of your shirt?

While the meat is slowly braising, make the rest fo the sauces.

For the green zhug:

Add all the ingredients to a blender and blitz till smooth. Alternatively, I like a coarser zhug, so I pound the mix in a mortar until I have a rough paste. Taste for chilli, salt, and spice. The zhug should have a high spice profile. Set aside.

For the tzatziki sauce:

Grate the cucumber, with skin on if you like a bit of colour. Toss with 1/2 teaspoon salt and drain in a colander over the sink for 20 minutes.

Mix with the rest of the ingredients. Taste for salt. Set aside in the fridge.

To serve:

Load the heated meat into a bowl and serve alongside all the accompaniments. I usually serve these as sliders, smaller bites so folks can customise each bite to their tastes. I like each diner to make their own slider to suit their palate.

This article was written after conversations with Azmat Ali Mir, a cultural entrepreneur and founder of Sarposh Restaurant. She is building hospitality and cultural experiences rooted in memory, craft, and Kashmir. This series of articles on the cuisines of Kashmir is possible because of her deep knowledge and willingness to share her knowledge.

I love a good marketplace; it has a magical pull for me. I am not talking about upscale marketplaces curated for tourists, but the ones locals use, where the city's life revolves. This is where locals go for their everyday needs; where world news is exchanged, gossip starts, and life brings communities together. These markets are the heartbeat of the town; this is where you get to see people of the land and listen to the community.

I was fortunate to have Azmat take me, willingly, of course, to the Hazratbal Market in Srinagar. This is an old market, one with a deep history. The market sits on the northern shores of Dal Lake. Between 1623 and 1634, it was originally a pleasure garden and estate of the Subedar, or Governor, of the Mughal Emperor, Sadiq Khan. In 1634, he directed that the gardens be converted to a prayer space.

In 1699, the arrival and placement of the Moi-e-Muddadas, or the holy hair relic of Prophet Muhammad, transformed the location into a deeply religious site. Alongside this site, a market naturally developed. With the arrival of the hair relic, pilgrimages started, and the site and market grew in prominence. The functionality is simple: come for prayers and leave after you have picked up the essentials for the home. Fridays are the best time to visit, especially after the evening prayers; the market is bustling- another word for crowded- but the feel and vibe are different. The worshippers exit the mosque and flood the market for snacks and essentials.

The market is set up along the streets and onto the pavements, with some stalls temporary and most permanent. There is no logic to the system; the shops are set up randomly, with goods and food interspersed. The market sells everything from everyday plastic wares to food and bakery items (to be discussed separately), as well as some artisanal crafts.

Let’s start with the stalls; they're in random order, just like the market. The fishmongers can be smelled before you see them. Sitting on the roadside with buckets of fish, some in water, the fish still flopping around. The fish are all local, carp from the lakes in the region. The more prized river trout is not available; it commands a higher price and is sold separately to higher-end restaurants and Tujj barbecue stalls. This is a market for locals; trout, although local and plentiful, is too expensive for them and is sold mainly to tourist traffic. This is the first of the many ingredients that fall into this category.

Subscribe now

The vegetable section is vibrant; the colors pop, and the produce is surprisingly fresh. Azmat told me that freshness is important to local Kashmiri folks; they are extremely particular.

The main stall, always crowded, is for Pran (Allium scaloncium), a local shallot that is the base for all Kashmiri food. This bulb has a distinct garlic-like aroma and a lovely flavor. The pran is sold as is or cleaned. Processing pran is manual and tedious. The cleaned pran is thinly sliced and deep-fried, the onions caramelizing to a pale gold. This is then ground to a paste and set aside for use. This is the base of all Kashmiri cuisine; spoonfuls are added to dishes, adding a subtle, unmistakable flavor.

But the other vegetables also shine, bold and beautiful: cranberry beans, eggplants, limes, fresh taro roots, fresh greens of wide varieties, called haak, and more. The colors are vivid, and the freshness is evident. This section tells me of the lives of these communities; fresh produce is important to them, especially in the spring nd summer months. The harsh winter is cold; the fields are not workable, so in the summer they enjoy the bounty of the fertile valley, the plenty it has to offer.

The market definitely has seasonality: greens arrive for short periods, lotus root is harvested seasonally, fruits like apricots, peaches, and cherries are fleeting, and spring apples and pears take over during the warming months. But the system is built around preserving these seasonal crops for the bleaker months, so the community can still enjoy these flavors.

Subscribe now

The dried food section is scattered among everything else; lentils and beans dominate in their variety and color. Dried beans are staples for the year, cheap and plentiful. The varieties are all local: smaller red kidney beans, black turtle beans, scarlet beans, and more, available for local dishes. In addition, Kashmir has a number of vegetables that are also preserved: dried dandelion greens (see below), mawal flowers (also called cockscomb flowers), a natural dye that gives Kashmiri cuisine its bright red color, lotus stems, and more. Heaped into sacks and sold by the kilogram, volumes to feed a family for a season. Kashmiri chilies, prized across India for their bright color and mild heat, are piled high, flashing bright in the sunlight.

Subscribe now

A special mention to the pickle sellers, red, pungent, and so in demand. The most sought-after was lotus root pickle, but eggplant, turnip, and more were also on hand. These pickles are made from local crops, yet another way for the community to preserve vegetables for the leaner months. Traditionally, these are naturally fermented pickles, great for gut health. The vendor gave me a sample: bright chili, more colored than pungent; the pickle tart; and the lotus root, which maintained a crisp crunch. I now wish I had brought back some, but hindsight is such a bitch.

There were other wares too, a mallet called Gosht Phari, for pounding meat for the traditional dishes Rishta and Goshtaba (more on this later), hookahs, woven baskets, and plastic wares for the house. A hodgepodge of items, no logic, just a shop selling its products in a haphazard manner. The locals know the market; they follow their feet without thought, stopping to speak with vendors, now friends after years of business, and possibly neighbors.

Scattered throughout is a wide variety of food to please every palate. The more prevalent options are bakeries, local tandoor bakeries, and modern cake shops; we will discuss this separately. Also, masale roti stalls, puri halwa, and stalls that sold beans with chili and salt powder as snacks. For more serious eats, there are small stalls inspired by traditional Waza-wan-style dining, selling curries and other traditional fare. The shop sells small portions of the most common Wazwan dishes, always with rice, so locals and tourists can get a taste of the culture. These are simple stalls, unlike the fancy restaurants, with the taste of traditional dishes.

This is a superb market, located in a historic center and built by local artisans for locals. This is where the everyday shopping happens, the folks gather to meet after prayers, and talk. This is where the community comes together, where a store is not a place to shop, but where relationships have developed over generations. As Azmat told me, occasionally, some families have been buying from the same store for generations; this is no longer a monetary transaction, but a community that supports itself.

This is where I can feel the pulse of the land and talk to locals who are as curious about me as I am about them. This is where stories lie, hidden, available to those who take the time to walk these lanes, talk to the vendors, have a cup of tea slowly, savor the traditional breads, and talk to the baker who offered them out of goodwill. Your fancy gold card does not work here; it is mostly cash, old systems, managed by older folks, wary of change, knowing it is inevitable.

Subscribe now

X———-X———X———X———X———X———X———-X———X———X

A recipe for dried dandelion greens:

I was very pleasantly surprised to see dandelion greens on the hotel menu. I immediately ordered it, only to be told that it was no longer in season and they had run out. Imagine my disappointment.

I have been a huge fan of dandelion greens since my days in the Bay Area. I would seek them out at health food stores, usually Whole Foods or similar stores, and add them to salads or other recipes. I make a wonderful burrata salad with sautéed dandelion greens and raisins, the bitter leaves contrasting so beautifully with the sweet raisins and the creamy cheese. I am in no way an ultra-healthy eater, but this ingredient captured my palate; the bitterness and earthy green flavor were superb.

So seeing a dish in India was quite unexpected and pleasant. I have researched this ingredient and found a paucity of literature on its use across India. Kashmiri cuisine is the only place I have encountered it, and very sparingly. If you do know of any other culture or region in India that uses dandelion greens in their cuisine, please leave a comment on this post.

was at the market with Azmat and, lo and behold, a huge pile of dried dandelion greens. It was the motherlode. Of course, a hug bag was purchased, and I went back to the hotel in triumph. The chef smiled, almost exasperated at my determination, and we scheduled a time to cook these.

The chef brought me this dish at dinner, and we sat together and ate heartily. The dish was superb, the dried greens earthy, the chlorophylls strong. Though drying the leaves had softened the bitterness considerably. The meat was tender, the greens complementing it beautifully.

To me, eating locally means using ingredients grown seasonally in a region and used by the community. Dandelion greens have gone from weed to a cash crop in Kashmir. A weed that dominates the orchards is not wasted; it is consumed and prized for its nutrition. Today, these greens are cropped, imagine that, a weed cropped, for commercial use.

This dish highlights a community's resilience, its unwillingness to waste, and its creative use of the land's bounty.

Kashmiri curried dried dandelion greens with mutton (Dagith Handh):

Ingredients:

200 grams dried dandelion greens

6 + 1 cup of water

1/4 cup mustard oil

1 black cardamom pod

6 green cardamom pods

1-inch cinnamon stick

6 cloves

4 dried red chilies

2 onions, finely diced

2 tablespoons garlic paste

1 teaspoons turmeric

1 teaspoon ground anise seed (saunf)

1 teaspoon ginger powder

1 teaspoon of ground coriander seeds

1 teaspoon red chili powder

250 grams boneless mutton

Salt, to taste

3 cups of water or chicken stock

Method:

Soak the dried dandelion greens in 6 cups of water for at least 4 hours; longer is better. Drain out the water and squeeze the greens dry.

Add to a blender with the second batch of water and pulse to create a coarse mix. You do not want to make a smooth puree; you want the greens to maintain a good texture for the curry. Set aside.

Heat the mustard oil in a large pot until it smokes. Allow it to sit for 5 minutes; his step softens the mustard oil.

Temper the black cardamom, green cardamom, cinnamon stick, cloves, and red chilies in the oil until aromatic, about 30 seconds. Add the onions and sauté over medium heat until they are a light golden color.

Add the garlic paste and cook for 10 seconds, followed by the turmeric, anise, ginger, coriander, and chili powder. Give the mix a good stir, taking care not to burn the spices.

Add the meat and toss well to coat the pieces in the spice. Fry for 5 minutes until the meat is sealed. Add the salt and water and/or stock, then bring to a simmer. Seal and cook for 90 minutes. Test the meat; it should be very soft. Stir the pot occasionally and ensure the liquids do not dry out.

Add the dandelion puree and cook sealed for another 30 minutes. At this point, the meat should be very tender, and the greens should form a thick curry that clings heavily to the meat. The oils should have separated and be frying the curry.

Serve hot with rice.

Note: This dish can also be made with chicken (reduce cooking time to 45 minutes) or paneer (cooking time is 20 minutes), or as a plain curry.

Share

We would not have thought of Turkey as having a pancake culture, but I was surprised to find that it has deep roots in the region. There are numerous varieties: Akitama, a thin, crepe-like pancake brushed with butter and enjoyed with salty goat cheese, and Lalagna, an Ottoman dish made from a thick batter with cheese. Otlu, from the Black Sea region, transitions between a pancake and an omelet.

These pancakes, similar to the Otlu, are simple to make, really a no-effort dish. The vegetables add a texture to the soft pancake, with the flavor coming from the abundance of parsley. The side salad is lovely, adding freshness to the dish.

This is a fantastic cookbook by a British chef who specializes in Middle Eastern and Turkish cuisines. It is filled with recipes for kebabs, stews, other Turkish favourites, and some more contemporary dishes. Everything I have cooked from this book has been fantastic; it is one of my favorite Turkish cookbooks.

For more wonderful recipes from this cookbook, click here.

Ingredients:

For the pancakes:

1 cup all-purpose flour

2/3 cup full-fat milk

3 eggs

1 1/2 cups greens, baby spinach, or other, 1/2 cup parsley, minced

3 scallions, thinly sliced

3 tablespoons olive oil + to cook

Sea salt, to taste

For the salad:

1 1/2 cups greens, baby spinach, or other, 1/2 cup parsley, minced

3 scallions, thinly sliced

3 tablespoons olive oil

Drizzle of lemon/lime juice

Sea salt, to taste

Method:

For the pancakes:

Mix all the ingredients into a thin batter. Whisk well. Set aside until you are ready to make the pancakes.

For the salad:

Toss the ingredients well, except for the lime juice. Set aside.

To serve:

Heat a non-stick frying pan on a medium flame. Stir the batter well and pour a small ladle into the center of the pan. The batter should naturally spread out into a thin pancake. Spread out the vegetables and cook for 1- 1 1/2 minutes until the base is well caramelized. Flip and cook for another minute.

Serve immediately. Top the pancake with the salad with a squeeze of lime juice.

This is a simple stir-fry dish, but one that pops with spices. The dish has two textures, a soft tuber and a crunchy outer spice crust, the lentils and seeds cracking with each bite. The mellowness of the taro root is enhanced by the spices. This is a lovely side dish, one that is welcome on any table.

Southern Flavors is another cookbook from Chandra Padmanabhan that I adore. The recipes vary across the southern states of India, and each turns out very well. The recipes, like this one, are authentic and wonderfully flavored. This cookbook is for those who want to go beyond the ordinary and enjoy very localized cuisines from the South.

For more recipes from this cookbook, click here.

Ingredients:

For the colocasia:

1 lb colocasia root, peeled, cubed into bite-sized pieces, and submerged in water

6 cups of water

For the Spice powder:

1 tablespoon split, husked black gram (urad dal)

1 tablespoon split Bengal gram chana dal)

1 1/2 teaspoons coriander seeds

2 dried red chilies

A pinch of asafoetida

For the Temper:

4 tablespoons of oil

1 teaspoon mustard seeds

1 tablespoon split, husked black gram (urad dal)

1 tablespoon split Bengal gram chana dal)

2 dried red chilies

1 teaspoon of cumin seeds

A pinch asafoetida

15 curry leaves

Salt, to taste

Method:

For the colocassia:

Add the colocasia and water to a pot and bring to a boil. Simmer for 20-25 minutes until the colocasia is very soft. Drain and set aside to cool.

For the spice powder:

Dry-roast each ingredient separately in a dry frying pan. Cool completely. Grind to a fine powder in a spice mill. Set aside.

For the temper:

Heat the oil in a wok or wide pan on low heat. Add the mustard seeds; they will pop in 10 seconds. Add the black gram, Bengal gram, chilies, cumin seeds, asafoetida, and curry leaves, in order, and give the ingredients a quick stir. Add the Spice powder and salt and fry for 1 minute. The spices must be cooked to remove the raw flavor, but be careful not to burn them.

Add the colocasia root and toss well to coat it in the spices. The spices must form a crust around the pieces.

Serve immediately.

This article was written after conversations with Azmat Ali Mir, a cultural entrepreneur and founder of Sarposh Restaurant. She is building hospitality and cultural experiences rooted in memory, craft, and Kashmir. This series of articles on the cuisines of Kashmir is possible because of her deep knowledge and willingness to share her knowledge.

If I were forced to choose one culinary identity of Kashmir, it would be Noon chai, also called Pink tea. It is more than a standard cup of tea; it is a ritual that defines the region's social etiquette and serves as a central pillar of communal life. But be warned, this is a two-sided story. The tea translates to “salt tea,” with Noon meaning “salt” in Kashmiri.

While I was in Srinagar for 5 days, I heard about Noon chai, but to be honest, I couldn't find it anywhere. My hotel refused to serve it, tea shops didn't have it, and I finally found it at someone's home. As I sipped the salty brew, I was at first taken aback by its bold saltiness and realized it was an acquired taste. I am a sweet tea drinker; my morning cup has been described as syrup, but here I was sipping a tea on the other end of the flavor spectrum, my neurons firing to understand it, more to overcome the inbuilt biases on how tea should taste. The first few sips were enlightening for my palate, to say the least, but then the tea became more normal, and by the time I reached the end of the cup, I wanted another.

So, Noon tea is a pillar of society; it is talked about all the time, but why is it not available? This was immensely curious to me. The more I asked, the more folks flirted around with these questions, gave vague answers, and couldn't explain this trait.

This post comes from long conversations with Azmat and deep research into this topic. I never understood, at the start, the rabbit hole I was climbing into.

The history of salt tea:

Tea is one of the oldest drinks in the world, brewed for centuries. The first recorded instance of adding salt to tea dates back to the Tang Dynasty (618-907 CE), when the author Lu Yu, in his treatise on tea, The Classic of Tea, advocates adding a pinch of salt to the boiling water for steaming. The steamed leaves are packed into a brick and then powdered. The salt was added to offset the water's hardness and the tea liquor's bitterness.

During the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644 CE), loose-leaf tea was developed, and salt was regularly added to it. This salted tea was adapted along the Silk Route. It spread as the drink of choice, and even today, salted tea is found in cultures along this route in Tibet (Po Cha), Mongolia (Suutei Tsai), Uyghur and Kazakh cultures (Atkanchai), and Southwest China (Ma’ley).

The arrival of Noon Chai in Kashmir:

This same trade route brought Noon chai to Kashmir. The Silk Route brought traders, Tibetans, and Uyghurs who drank a rich tea with salt and animal fats. The tea was compressed into bricks and sent along the route to Kashmir.

Traders and Sufi saints traveled along this route, bringing with them the practice of drinking tea. The practice was at first limited to the campfires of the caravanserais, but slowly became more common in households as these saints and traders settled in the region.

The tea also adapted: the fat was replaced with cream, a fresh ingredient readily available in Kashmir, and the tea became saltier, a sign of generosity and welcome. The tea established itself and is now served in every household; it has become the cornerstone of the culture.

Importing the tea was not enough; the vessel, the samovar, was imported as well. More on this below.

In the late 19th century, the British established tea estates in the north, Darjeeling and Assam. The dependence on imported tea dropped. But the British changed how tea was consumed: a light infusion in a ceramic pot, with sugar. This is the first step in the decline of Noon chai as a cultural icon.

How is it made?

Green tea, commonly called “Gunpowder,” is boiled in water with a dash of cardamom and baking soda. The tea is cooked down into a thick concentrate, developing deep flavors. This liquor is strong and blood-red. This cooking-down process is part of the cultural ritual; it allows the tea to be made and preserved, occasionally for months, so that the final tea can be easily prepared on demand. This tea liquor, referred to as tyoth, is the basis for the tea served in every household.

To serve, the liquor is heated with milk and salt and served.

Why pink — the biochemistry:

Green tea leaves are boiled extensively to extract polyphenols, specifically catechins and related molecules, which give tea its characteristic taste. But given that this is green tea, the extracted liquid should be green, yellow, or orange, not pink.

The pink color is obtained from simple alchemy, the addition of baking soda. Baking soda (sodium bicarbonate) changes the pH of the solution from acidic to alkaline, to a pH between 8 and 9. The catechins that have been extracted immediately turn from green to a deep red. The green-colored pigments, in an alkaline solution, lose a hydrogen ion (a step called deprotonation) and change their chemical structure. These new molecules now reflect a different wavelength of light, red.

But the alchemy in the kitchen does not stop here; the old chefs recognized the reactions by intuition. The long boiling is essential; the deprotonation process is slow, and the longer the liquor is boiled, the more catechin is extracted and deprotonated, resulting in a deeper color.

Then there is the process for stabilizing the color, which, if allowed to cool down, will fade. The answer is an immediate flash cooling. The thermal shock makes these bright colors less soluble, freezing them in time, if you will, so the color remains a bold red.

Today, this is a scientific process documented as reactions in labs, but centuries ago, chefs did not have chemical labs; they had tea powder, water, baking soda, and salt. The chemical reactions were understood, and, as with most experiments, the tea was made repeatedly, becoming a ritual. This is how customs are formed, how communities come together to form culinary masterpieces, Pink tea in this case.

As I sipped Pink tea with Azmat, she mentioned the term, kotar rath hish, which can be translated as pigeon’s blood. This is the color of the tea, tied to yet another cultural identity, the role of carrier pigeons.

The tea is served with hot, full-fat milk, a nod to the lush lands and the community's cattle herding.

Pink tea is not a quick pour; it takes time, it is a ritual, and as a guest, I am always aware that I am being greeted and honored.

Why salt?

To understand the addition of salt to the tea, we need to understand this element. Salt is older, much older than sugar. It was valuable and often used as currency. This recorded history goes back to the Roman era, when soldiers guarding the Salt Route were paid an allowance, salarium, to buy salt. The origins of the word salary. In Africa, Amole blocks from the Dankali Depression in Ethiopia were considered currency until the late 20th century. The ancient Mayan populations along the coast traded salt bricks wrapped in palm leaves for obsidian and jade. Salt was extremely valuable and controlled; wars were fought over it, and it was rare and expensive.

Adding salt to tea was natural, but it served numerous purposes:

• Salt was available. This is the biggest reason.

• Salt worked wonders on hard water and on making the bitter compounds in tea palatable. Salt was added as a flavor component.

• Salt was a sign of grace and hospitality.

• Salt was added for nutrition. Traders along the Silk Route arrived after a long and arduous journey. The salt helped travelers maintain their electrolyte balance during the journey. Combined with animal fat or milk, it also provided a rich source of calories.

This was no accident, but a carefully thought-out addition to tea.

The Samovar:

The samovar originated in Russia and spread across Central Asia, including Kashmir, and is a masterpiece of engineering. The air is directed into the center, around a hollow tube filled with hot coals. The lid is left open for the coals to breathe and keep the tea hot; if closed, the coals go out.

The samoval was adopted willingly, and the local coppersmiths, known as kandkari, began producing them. The designs are hand-worked, elaborate, and distinctive. They have now become collector's items, and bringing back a hand-worked samovar is highly recommended.

A note on kahwa:

The more popular drink is kahwa, a light infusion of water with ground almonds and spices such as saffron (the most common and luxurious), cardamom, and cinnamon. The light infusion arrives with a few slivered almonds at the base of the cup, the tea poured in front of you as part of a ceremony. Kahwa was introduced by the Mughals and was the first documented drink to suppress the drinking of Noon chia in Kashmir. These have become the welcome drink in Kashmir, commonly available and highly marketed.

My experience at Chai Jaai tea room.

I have been called persistent. I wanted Noon chai; I wanted to experience what all this fuss was about. My 4-star hotel, or all three of them that I visited, refused to serve it to me. I got it quite accidentally at a store. My credit card was declined at the hotel, and so I was taken to the main office to have this processed. The owner of the store, as it so happens, the Hotel Nadis, started talking about my experience. The usual questions about how my stay was. I mentioned Noon chai and how disappointed I was not to have it. He paused, made a call on his phone, and 3 minutes later, a steaming cup was brought down from his home upstairs. I sipped the tea joyfully, my first state. The salt bold, the tea mild and milky, soothing and refreshing.

On another day, Azmat invited me to Chai Jaai, a small, elegant tea room in the town of Srinagar that makes an excellent Noon chai, apparently the only one. We ordered and waited, constantly chatting. The samovar arrived, the small porcelain cups, without handles, and the pink tea was poured with ceremony. Alongside were savory cookies from the local bakery.

The tea was delicious. My brain had processed the first taste from before, and this time I enjoyed it; I had definitely acquired a taste for it.

We followed this with a samovar of saffron kahwa, light and fragrant. Alongside was a small bowl of gulkandh, rose petal jam, to sweeten the kahwa, another local product from Kashmir.

A few days later, I took my father here for Noon chai. My dad has been a planter for 50 years, growing tea on the Southern slopes of India in Ootacamund and Anamallais. We sipped Noon chai, after 90 years, it was his birthday trip, he commented, “I have tasted somethng new with tea after all these decades. It is exquisite!”

Why is Noon chai being “whitewashed?”

This is the crux of this article, and all the conversations and research on this topic, some of them quite offensive, have led to this section. I am breaking this down into palatable sections.

• The most common answer from chefs and 5-star establishments was always, “It is hard to make!” This is the biggest cop out answer, but the easiest. But let’s look at the answer in detail. Most 5-star chefs are from Punjab, Delhi, and other regions; they are not local and hence not tied to local pride and culture. Most of them do not even understand how to make Noon chai. They are familiar with the Northern Indian sweet and masala teas and serve them with pride in a thin porcelain pot with a tea cozy, redolent of the British Raj era. To them, and the managers of these establishments, this is tea, not the brew served at home by the commoner. The influence of the British Raj is very strong, and in these establishments, tourists should be treated like royalty, so they institute the colonizing country's policies rather than promote the pride of a traditional culture.

• In addition, these huge establishments have kitchen staff numbering between 30 and 50, given that knowledge of the Noon chai may not be widespread, but making and storing the liquor is easy in these massive, well-staffed kitchens. The liquor keeps for months, so the answer that it is difficult to make is completely invalid.

• It is an acquired taste. This is the biggest hogwash I have encountered. Around the world, numerous dishes with distinct flavors have become cultural icons. Let’s elaborate on this: the most trending now is matcha (Japan), but there are Vegemite (Australia), Indian pale ales and stouts (England and Ireland), Scotch whisky (Scotland), anchovies and fermented fish (around the world), and more. I arrived at the wonderful Timilo Lodge in Arunachal Pradesh, and we got a warm bowl of local thupka, a rice porridge made with local red rice, yak cheese, and yak butter. Half of our group put it on after a few bites. The manager arrived, sat down with us as part of the reception, and described the dish, its cultural significance, and the local ingredients. By the time he had finished, every bowl was wiped clean, the culture gave us new insight into the soul, and the pride in his region made us want to taste this again. Unfortunately, Noon chai is not afforded this cultural identity and pride; instead, it is moved to the back, a loss of cultural pride and identity.

• How to compete with saffron kahwa. This is a war of perceptions. Kahwa is well marketed; it is scented with saffron, a sign of luxury and wealth. Noon chai seems to pale in comparison. Noon chai gives off the scent of home, of poor middle- to lower-class families, and hence serving this at a luxury 5-star hotel seems almost incongruous. This is “whitewashing” a class-based system that prevails today.

• History tells a different story. Noon chai is old, arrived with travelers and traders, and inculcated itself from bonfires to homes. It had a humble upbringing. Kahwa came with the Muhals, royal and luxurious. The Mughals tolerated Noon chai but did not foster it. Sweet tea arrived with the British, a symbol of power and wealth. The British subdued Noon Chai. And assigned it a class, lowly and for the poor. Although Noon chai is drunk in every home today, it is never served to tourists or foreigners. This class system runs deep; the locals feel embarrassed about their most essential cup of tea.

• Change in drinking profiles. Kashmir has seen a change in what drinks are consumed over the last 10 years. Numerous cafes have popped up, serving coffee, a relatively new drink in the region. Tourists flock for the familiar, the lattes, cold coffees, and tea infusions, but kahwa is well-marketed and adapted to this more modern coffee culture. The older culture that enjoyed Noon chai is giving way to the trendy younger crowd that flocks to the next wave of commercial drinks. These drinks also include Matcha, an import.

• Assassination by social media. Social media and Instagrammers have discovered Pink tea, and it has been marketed as Kashmiri Rose tea. Drinks have started appearing like Pink tea latte and cold Kashmiri rose tea. What is even more frustrating is that these drinks are made from commercial powder mixes rather than tea brewed the old-fashioned way. The liquor has been replaced with cheaper, more convenient powders, filled with colors or beetroot powder, making them different from the original. More often, salt is replaced with sugar, in keeping with commercial interests rather than history.

  

The solution:

This is a complex issue, but one that involves more of a cultural identity than a change to a menu item.

To solve this cultural appropriation, we need to understand the history. Noon chai arrived as a poor man's drink, meant to nourish. The Mughals brought kahwa, richer and more luxurious, and sidelined Noon chai. The Dogra rulers, we have not spoken much about them here, and the British actively suppressed Kashmiri culture and cuisine. This was followed by civil war, partition issues, Article 370, and more, with the Indian Government suppressing a state and its communities. The se communities and their practices, culinary and religious, went into hiding behind closed doors and were wary of being expressed for fear of persecution. More recently, Kashmiri is resurfacing, but slowly and cautiously; the military presence is still intimidating. Along this long and sad history, Noon chai lost its place, as did most of the culture, Wazwan (coming soon), and the bakery culture. Modern trends and commercialism are not helping; coffee is beginning to dominate, and “fake” Noon chai is common.

The solution lies in cultural identity, pride in history, a pride that has been suppressed for so long that people are forgetting it. Noon chai is ancient, deeply rooted at home and within communities, but not offered to tourists or foreign travelers. There is definitely an impression that 5-Star Hotels will not serve this, opting instead for the newer, more tourist-friendly Kahwa and modern tea concepts. The impression that it is an acquired taste is deep-rooted at this point.

To me, the answer lies in cultural identity and pride. The slow resurgence of Kashmiri culture to the forefront, as we see with Wazwan cuisine and bakery culture, will instill confidence that old customs will be respected rather than sidelined in embarrassment. The establishment of modern tea shops, like Chai Jaai, will help bring tourists who will appreciate these traditional values in a modern setting. The taste profile will shift from acquired to respected as the history is explained and the rich culture is brought to the fore, one cup at a time. It starts with the common man, who no longer feels suppressed, inferior, or subjugated. It begins with internal pride about belonging to a community that is old and respected.

I, for one, will ask for Noon Chai at every 5-star establishment, hoping they begin to appreciate that they do not define what is culturally correct, what should be served, and what dishes should be backstaged. I want these same owners and managers to work to build cultural awareness and a sense of pride in self, not determined by perceptions of what should be enjoyed, but based on their own deep, glorious history. I want tourists to come to a place where cultural identity is strong, where communities have learned from the past, moved beyond the bleak history, and resurfaced, not just stronger, but with a fiercer pride in their cultural identity. The noon chain will always be tied to cultural identity; it is a symbol of grace, generosity, and welcome, essential to the culture. Stripping this away is a deep loss, not just to a culinary masterpiece, but to a way of life.

This article was written after conversations with Azmat Ali Mir, a cultural entrepreneur and founder of Sarposh Restaurant. She is building hospitality and cultural experiences rooted in memory, craft, and Kashmir. This series of articles on the cuisines of Kashmir is possible because of her deep knowledge and willingness to share her knowledge.

I was hosted by the lovely Azmat Ali Mir in Srinagar over the last month, and it was such a fabulous time. It seemed that Azmat had read my mind, and although the trip was centered on Wazwan cuisine, other food-related items were included as well.

One of the many stops we made was for Tujj and the market. Azmat wanted me to experience the wide spectrum of cuisines that are integral to her homeland. There will be articles on Noon chai, bakeries, and, of course, the mighty Wazwan.

Tujj — Kashmiri barbecue:

Along the shores of Dal Lake, the region's biggest tourist attraction, are dotted small barbecue stands, with coal smoke swirling in the air and heat radiating from the hot coals. On my first day, Azmat invited me to one of these, Mama’s, an established barbecue stall. Mama’s was established around 30+ years ago as a small coal brazier and two chairs. The location is called Makai Point, a small cut-out on the road at Dal Lake, where, traditionally, 2 vendors sat selling grilled corn over coals to tourists who came to see the lake. What started at 2 stalls added barbecue vendors, one of the early ones being Mama’s. Today it is a major turnout, with about 30 barbecue vendors and only one grilled corn seller. Mama explained that tourists were to enjoy themselves and splurge on meat; they could get corn grilled at home. There is nothing special about the corn. So Makai Point, which translates to “Corn Point,” is now a place for grilled meats; the name has stuck, but the food has transformed to meet the demand of the tourists.

We sat down on basic chairs in the shade at the back of the stall, me with a Diet Coke, and Azmat ordered kebabs, lamb, beef, trout, and ground kebab, a wide variety so we could taste everything

.

Tujj has a long history with Middle Eastern roots. Tujj translates to “skewer” and arrived with merchants and soldiers along the Silk Road. Grilled meat was a quick, filling meal; it required little more than a local animal and was easy to prepare. The Mughals cemented the practice, adapting the spices to local ingredients such as fennel seeds (saunf), Kashmiri chilies, and ginger powder. The tradition established itself at Khayam Chowk, where, at dusk, street vendors would fan their coals and serve barbecue. The coal griddles, called mangals, flaring up with melted fats, and the smell of barbecue were the only advertisement they needed. Today, they have spread further, including to the shores of Dal Lake.

But still, these barbecue stalls are relatively new to the culture, about 20 years old, but now deeply seated. These stalls arose from a market opportunity: the ability to feed the ever-hungry tourist, either with a quick snack or a meal.

The kebab was the most commonly ordered, ground lamb with well-balanced spices. The meat is fatty, dripping oil, basted in rich ghee that causes the coals to flare up, adding a wonderful char to the kebabs. The lamb skewers were also tender, fatty pieces of meat that were coated in red with the traditional Kashmiri chili, which adds more color than heat. What was interesting is that this is lamb, not goat, a species native to the region and renowned for its meat, with layers of fat that the community prizes. The fat helps the community survive the cold winters; the leaner goat would not suffice in times of strife.

Surprising beef was on the menu, and when I asked about this, I was told it was a modern addition, again driven by customer demand. In India, it is rare to see beef served, especially so openly. I was told that tourists come mainly for beef, a novelty item. Azmat told me that most of the older population, with respect to the Hindu population in the state, still will not eat beef. This inbuilt mechanism for mutual respect has kept Kashmir from becoming a tinderbox of racial hatred.

And then the trout came out, perfectly grilled, the meat tender. Trout was introduced to the region a century ago. It was a gift to the Maharaja of Kashmir from the Duke of Bedford in 1899. He shipped 10,000 brown trout eggs that perished en route. A second, and more successful, attempt was made in 1900, when small trout fry were shipped with the help of J.S. Macdonall. The trout were raised in small ponds at home on arrival and were released into the streams. Pandit Sodhama Miskeen and Khwaja Gafaroo were also instrumental in caring for these trout. In 1905, Frank J. Mitchell established the first hatchery, and trout were well established as a sport fish in the region.

The trout smelled of the water, its flesh red from the chilies, and the squeeze of lime juice made for a perfect bite. Alongside the grilled meats were thin, delicate lavash breads and three chutneys: a radish and yogurt chutney to cool your palate from the spices, a pink chutney made with the same radish base but with Kashmiri chili powder, and a third, bright red chili chutney that was super spicy. We wrapped the lavash around the chutney and ate, adding pieces of chewy meat in between.

We left, our clothes smelling of grilled spices and smoke, and our fingers a pale pink from the masala on the meat. Our bellies were full, and Mama beamed as we paid. He asked if we enjoyed the meal, and I promised I would be back at least one more time before I left Srinagar.

Masal Tchot or Masala roti:

We were in the market, and Azmat stopped suddenly and bought me a masala roti, declaring, “This is the most iconic street food.” I watched the vendor assemble it and took a bite: a creamy center, chewy bread, and a pop of spice. It was perfection in a bite. I was in love with this dish.

The next day, I was at Jamai Masjid, and my driver insisted that I have the masala roti at the vendor outside the masjid. He is the most famous, and so here we were watching the roti be assembled again. A flatbread, lavash, onto which mildly spiced cooked chickpeas, soft and creamy (some vendors use cooked white peas), and a generous dab of red chutney are added, is rolled and handed to you. And again, I was transported to a happy place, the texture perfect, the pop of spice hits your palate, and the bread is chewy. I must admit I was becoming addicted to this snack.

Masala roti comes from trade from the Middle East again; the bread has Turkish origins, the lentil filling, and the chutney is local. This is a snack designed to keep the worker full for just a few rupees. The bread was imported and adapted in Kashmiri tandoor ovens; the lentils came from the rich valley, providing the base of the dish; and, of course, the Kashmiri chili highlighted the region's spice diversity. A dish made local, with local ingredients and for the locals, the workman on his way home after a long day, the school kids rushing home but hungry, and, of course, the tourist like me.

I returned to my expensive hotel and discussed the dish with the chef and the manager. The question was simple: “Why is this dish not on your menu?” I saw at least three vendors in every market. They are on street corners. This is the common man’s food. That was exactly why the manager told me it would never appear on the menu; it was too low-class. An upper-class establishment would never serve a worker’s meal. This made me angry: a dish, one that is core to the working community, has been turned into an item that portrays class (we will talk more on this with Noon chai), ok for the street but not for the tourist, especially the foreigner. While I tried to argue that it is delicious and uses local ingredients, the response was that it is cheap and doesn't fit on their menu, where most ingredients are flown in to give their guests a good experience. Nothing so local, and especially so cheap, would ever be served; it did not fit the image of a high-end hotel.

To me, this is a loss of culture, loss of community pride, a “whitewashing” of culinary customs. I was told that French fries or cucumber sandwiches were available, but for the masala roti I would have to find my way back to the market vendor.

Boiled lentils with spices:

Sitting in the corners of the market, a small basket covered with a bright cloth is one of these silent vendors, knowing that you will eventually notice them. The sun was bright, and they sat patiently under an umbrella in the shade, waiting their turn. As Azmat led me to one, she unwrapped her basket, a pile of black beans, boiled and ready. She picked up a small newspaper, dropped a handful of beans into the paper cup, and sprinkled a generous portion of chili and salt over them, then mixed. We munched, hesitantly at first, and then greedily. These are Masalae wari muth, a black turtle bean that is boiled and served with chili powder and salt. Nearby was her friend, who sold another variety of the snack—boiled local red rajma beans and white peas—and yet another vendor who sold a third variety. Kenke masale is made with whole wheat berries, so it's chewy and sweet, making it delicious.

Again, another quick snack, made from locally grown endogenous lentils, black beans, red kidney beans, black chana dal (chickpeas), and more. A high-nutrition snack for just a few rupees, full of vegetable fiber and minerals.

Puri halwa:

These stalls are located outside mosques and burial sites (members) for the saints. They dominate the market spaces, and you cannot miss the colossal puris, tossed into thin layers and fried until crisp.

This is not a local dish, but one that immigrated to Srinagar and Kashmir in the last 15 years or so. They came along with the halwais from Punjab and Uttar Pradesh, who followed the tourist trail to the region. They smartly set up small stalls outside mosques and in the marketplace, so worshippers could stop for a sweet snack after prayers.

The halwa concept is old, with Persian heritage, and here are huge vats of super-sweet semolina halwa, supposedly scented with saffron because of its deep yellow color; however, I feel most of it is food coloring. The halwa is extra sweet, coyly, and they compensated for it with the savory puri that wraps it.

Making the puri is an art form, and I watched with fascination. The dough ball is rolled out with a rolling pin and then stretched to an almost paper-thin consistency. The thin puri is deep-fried quickly and pulled out when crisp. It is piled on top of the previous one, and the process is repeated. It is impossible to miss this show, which is also the attraction of the stall. We had to try some of the hot puri loaded with halwa, rolled and passed out, sweet, chewy, and so satisfying.

Ever so often, a snack migrates and takes root in a new place, displaced from its origins, adapting to the local region and establishing itself. It stays and becomes local. As this huge vat of oils bubbles, the puris are replaced with potatoes, lotus roots, and other vegetables that are fried and served in newspapers as sacks.

I spent 4 days in Srinagar. I had come here for Wazwan (coming soon), and Azmat insisted that I see a market. Kashmir, like most parts of India, is renowned for its cuisine, but in this article I wanted to spotlight the street foods, always so overlooked, unless it is the mighty samosa. Street food speaks to me about the common people; it speaks to me of local ingredients and tells me stories of the community. Here we saw cheap snacks, and I am sure I missed so many more that feed the population. I am categorizing these into two groups: the traditional snacks, which include the masala roti and the lentils, and the imported snacks that arrived more recently with tourism, the Tujj and puri halwa. The traditional snacks are surprisingly nourishing, unlike the deep-fried snacks I see elsewhere across India. Maybe the land is harsh, and the bounty of crops, lentils, and grains is valued; the snacks are meant to preserve their nutritional value.

But there is a clear divide; this is not the food that finds the upper-class table. We will discuss this more with Noon chai and baked goods, but for the common market, it is an almost shunned, an almost embarrassing side of culinary culture that will eventually be lost. But I will always seek these out, to try them, understand the stories behind them, and bring them to you.

One of these is vendors selling lotus pods. After the flower has matured, it grows into a flat pod. Vendors sit on the side of the road with these pods piled high, occasionally with the flowers, the pink petals flashing bright in the sunlight.

I looked at them, wondering what they were used for. Are they edible? Always my first question. Are they decorative? What do the locals do with them?

My fabulous host, Azmat, stopped the car and we bought a few pods. She ripped one apart, took out the seed, peeled off the layers and said, “Try this!’ And that is how this story started.

It is a tedious process to get to the seed. The first layer is the foamy pod layer that needs to be peeled away. The thick seed skin follows this, also to be tediously peeled away. The seed inside is minute, and you occasionally wonder, is it worth the effort? Then you pop one in your mouth: the fresh taste, light, a soft crunch, and the delicate flavour make you go back for the rest.

We munched on the green seeds, sweet and refreshing, and the word makhani kept popping up. The vendor, the people next to me and others kept mentioning Makhana. I was aware of Makhana, but were they the same? If I had not questioned what everyone was unanimously saying, I would not be writing this post.

Makhana is the Hindi word for Fox nuts, the delicious popped nuts that have become so common as a snack throughout India.

For those who know me, my next thought was, how are these nuts processed and popped? Where does this happen? And of course, can I see this process?

Out came the questions, the locals having no idea. Out came Gemini, and deep into this rabbit hole I climbed.

My first point of reference is always the locals. I asked my taxi driver, the hotel staff, the chef in the kitchen, all Kashmiri, but not one of them had any clue. They brushed me off, saying, “It is for tourists!” It was interesting that although these pods were sold frequently alongside the lake shores, not a single local had any clue about them; not one of them had tasted the seed.

This made me think back to the post I wrote about cherries, and I had unknowingly stumbled upon yet another of these crops, the lotus seed, that was only for the tourists and for the outside market. This is a topic I feel I am going to come back to often, and is true for other ingredients from this market too, notably morel mushrooms, wild garlic, and saffron. Ingredients that are so expensive that they are only sold outside the region by powerful traders, with none kept for local consumption.

The lotus seed is locally called Kamal gatta, and is derived from the plant Nelumbo nucifera, or Sacred Lotus. It is a plant worshipped by Buddhists, and grows with smooth leaves that rise above the water and produce pink-white flowers. The seed pods are prominent and easily visible. According to Buddhist lore, when Lord Buddha started walking, lotus flowers blossomed where his feet touched the ground. We will come back to this later.

The seeds are eaten raw, pan-roasted with spices, boiled for soups and made into a sweet lotus seed paste.

To turn our attention to Makhana, the beloved snack that is available everywhere. These popped seeds are packaged and sold in bags, akin to commercial chips, considered by he industry as a healthy snacking alternative.

Usually called Fox nuts, they are from a completely different plant, Euryale ferox, or Prickly water lily. The leaves are massive, covered in sharp spines, and the flowers are smaller and purple.

The seed can be popped into a popcorn-like kernel and is beloved as a snack. The popped version is the only way these seeds are consumed.

So why the confusion? And to be honest, I always considered Makhana to be lotus seeds and have been happily popping them.

But they do not even belong to the same biological family.

The confusion arises from the fact that both these plants are aquatic. But it does not stop there. There is a global strategy at play to create a market and sell a product.

The first problem is the name: Fox nut is not the most marketable name, especially in international markets. It does not sound or translate well. Also, the term “nut” tends to make consumers with allergies to tree nuts veer away, losing a huge section of the market.

The strategy was quite devious, if I may say so. Lotus seed is easy to sell, especially in Asian markets. The lotus flower is associated with purity, wellness, and spirituality, especially in Buddhist cultures. But this concept has transitioned into everyday life on a glocal scale; yoga, health retreats, and other wellness programs have lotus flowers symbolically across the landscape. It is natural to associate the seeds with health as well. The lotus flower already had a brand, and the seed naturally tagged along with all the benefits. Seeds also catered to the healthy image, and this nut was pushed up into the superfood class by default. But the lotus seed is not produced and harvested in the mass quantities needed for a global trade. The lotus seed does not pop.

The answer is simple: substitute the seed, use another aquatic plant and work within the thin lines defined by the system to allow you to get away with mislabelling a product.

So how does this work on commercial packaging, and why are the manufacturers allowed to mislabel a product? This talks to the power of an industry and how much it is willing to push boundaries. The global makhana market is valued at approximately $140 million annually, and expected to grow to $300 million by 20235. Major importing countries are the US, Europe and Asia, highlighting the global nature of this market. The Indian market alone is valued at approximately $129 million annually. There is one dominant supplier, India, at about 90% of global demand.

The makhana market is huge, intense, and growing, driven by demand for healthier snacking alternatives, cheaper foods, and greater availability. Given these characteristics, “mislabelling” a product is a devised strategy. It is conceived to allow penetration. Most labellers will label the bag “Puffed Lotus seeds” on the front, with a small print on the back in the ingredients section calling it Fox nuts or Euryale ferox, the biological name, to confuse you further. This simple trick bypasses the most stringent regulatory rules across the world.

In addition, the word “popped” is important; it immediately associates the product with popcorn and establishes this as the healthier alternative. The popcorn industry is also similarly massive, and so getting inroads into this industry is clever.

So lets compare these two nutritionally.

A closer look at this chart shows that the differences are really not significant. Lets break this down: the approximately 25-30 calorie difference is equal to 1 strawberry or 3 minutes of a brisk walk, or 8 minutes of daily walking. Makhana has slightly lower fibre and protein. However, Makhana is significantly higher in minerals.

The biggest difference is fats, with Makhana having a significantly lower fat content. Lets assume this is now loaded with salt, flavourings, and butter; this is not where we are going to go for better nutrition.

Again, given how minuscule that nutritional difference is, marketing has created this buzz about how healthy Makhana is compared to popcorn, the alternative for snacking.

What started as a curiosity turned into something else over these past few days. I loved feasting on the lotus seeds, raw and healthy, and as I dug deeper into the topic, I learned about the industry's secrets and its dark underbelly. I still love Makhana; this is not a post asking you to give up this snack, but to be aware. This is a wake-up call to understand the provenance of your product, the supply chains, and all the aspects that drive us to buy food. This is a call to read labels carefully, understand nutritional values and what they mean, and question buzzwords like “healthy” on packages.

What started as a post to understand lotus seed turned into something else along the way. It highlights mislabelling of product packages; it highligts marketing strategies, and how easy it is to move populations into a belief system that is based on bias. I hope I see the true lotus seeds the next time I am in Srinagar. I will also be aware of the differences between Makhana and lotus seeds. I will not stop eating Makhana, but I will do so knowingly. I will choose to make a healthy choice with portion control and knowledge.

What does the book cover do for you?

Why have a book cover?

How do you concentrate 500 pages of photos and text into a cover?

What does the book cover represent about you, the author?

And on and on….

Within the book the graphic design fell into place relatively easily. But when I had to discuss the concept for the book cover with yet another designer, I was stumped.

Completely stumped.

So I had to rethink the book, go back to basics.

What is this book about?

Recipes — yes, but not completely

Family recipes and the preservation of history — yes, but not completely

Travel — most of the book — but not completely

My growth as a chef and lover of flavour — a central theme, but not completely

As I distilled ideas and read through the pages, most online now, one word came to mind.

People!

Not recipes, but the people behind the recipes

Not travel, but the communities that make travel so worthwhile

Not the heritage recipes, but the family that has cooked these dishes for generations.

A base concept was coming together slowly.

There were a lot more ruminations.

How do we represent this?

An image? If so, which one? Why would you leave the others out?

Plain, but then readers may not get the message about what this book is about.

Here is an early draft:

I wanted a deep red, blood red, deep yet attractive. A colour that will draw you to the book.

I wanted gold foil print for luxury, to grab attention.

I wanted minimal elegance.

I wanted folks to gravitate to it because of the food and recipes.

I wanted readers to associate this with people, communities, and the world.

I wanted a circular image, one that represents the world. The circle also represents inclusion and unity in customs in multiple cultures.

My designer conceptualised this sketch. The messages I feel are coming through. The sketch adds a layer of informality to an already heavy topic contained within the pages.

It is still a work in progress, the cover, spine and inner bookmark need to reflect these thoughts concisely, and, most importantly, clearly.

Please leave a message with your thoughts, positive or negative. I look forward to getting your feedback.

The finish line is getting closer every day. The list of items to be completed shorter. This is one of the major ones remaining.

Note: the representation of the kitchen utensils on the top is for the spine of the book and the bookmark inside.

Thank you.

The gyoza has a story, one of migration, kings and exchange of ideas. The origins have been traced back to the Chinese jiaozi, invented by Zhang Zhongjing during the Han dynasty. The original dumpling was a medicinal dish, wrapping meat and herbs in a wheat cover. It became a winter ritual and a Lunar New Year celebration essential.

The first impression of a gyoza-like dish in Japan was recorded as Tokugawa Mitsukuni eating a gyoza served by an exiled Ming scholar called Zhu Zhiyu. But it never caught on. During the Manchurian occupation by the Japanese in Northeastern China, potstickers, goutie, became popular amongst the troops. These veterans came back to a country devastated by war and widespread food shortages. They set up street stalls selling gyoza, a remembrance from the attempted occupation.

The gyoza adapted, as do most food who travel. The wrapper became thinner, more stretchy, to accommodate the inability of flour, to help with the crunch. The meat package was smaller, enough to keep you going. The filling was lightly spiced, enough to add a bit of flavour, but not enough to allow the consumer to feel full. It was dish created out of war, famine and stress. And it has endured, becoming a part of the national identity.

These same gyoza migrated to India, coming from a different route and need. To get to gyoza in India, we have to mention momos, the original dumpling of India. The momo spread by the refugees from Tibet. They arrived in Darjeeling, and the momo spread rapidly across the nation.

This was followed by investments in India, particularly in Gurgaon and Chennai, from Japanese multinational companies. The employees arrived by the 1000s, and with them the need for local cuisines. Japanese restaurants serving sushi first opened up, followed by tepanyaki houses and ramen shops more recently. The early Japanese restaurants added gyoza to the menu, bringing a flavour of Japan to the Indian subcontinent.

Once this was established, restaurants took the gyoza from the Japanese style and adapted it to suit the Indian palate. The incorporation of the dumpling family, dim sum from China and more were also simultaneously adopted, catering to a wider need from consumers who were travelling more. The higher-end restaurants chose gyoza as an option, elevated to the higher standards that the Japanese high-end restaurants. The cheaper momo, has remained more for the common masses. Dumplings meanwhile pervaded the Asian and pan-Asian space, with numerous varieties being served at every restaurant.

If a gyoza is on the menu, I usually get it. The best gyoza I have had in India is at Long Finish in Gurgaon, prefectly cooked and a pleasure to devour. On the flip side, the worst gyoza I have had is from the highly rated Naru Noodle Bar in Bengaluru. I was drinking wine at Wine in Progress and ordered them. They arrived a soggy mess, a lump on a plate, each piece indistinguishable from the other, the wrapper over cooked and melting, the boiling water forming a pool in the plate. I sent them back, probably the only gyoza I have ever returned uneaten.

So how did this gyoza evolve in India, and what does this evolution tell us about the Indian palate? To understand this, we need to understand the anatomy of the gyoza and what happened along the way. The story gets quite interesting.

The wrapper:

An important characteristic of a gyoza wrapper is its lightness. The wrapper, gyoza no kawa, is made up of all-purpose medium gluten flour, which is mixed with warm water to gelatinise the starches. This gives the gyoza its very delicate skin when boiled or a bubbly crunch when fried.

One of the biggest differences is in the thickness of the wrapper in India. The wrapper is usually thicker, more akin to the very dense momo wrapper. This reflects two perceptions on the Indian palate: the bite through starch that is important, and the chewiness. As a result, the Indian gyoza, as a general rule, are not as delicate as the Japanese gyoza. The flour also has a different gluten content, so replicating the exact characteristics is difficult.

More recently, I have seen a shift to a more traditional wrapper, as chefs learn technique and expat Japanese populations demand a more authentic dish.

The filling:

The Japanese gyoza is a simple recipe, almost minimalistic. The meat is usually fatty pork, the fat making the gyoza juicy. Added to the meat are finely diced vegetables, some of which are Napa cabbage, green chives, scallions, or leeks, depending on the region of Japan you are in. For aromatics, ginger or garlic, soy sauce and sesame oil, but at a minimalistic proportion. The accents are used for two main purposes: to add texture and highlight the meat.

The Indian gyoza has evolved. The biggest change has been the migration to chicken and occasionally to mutton. Vegetarian versions also dominate in the marketplace to cater to this huge population. The green chives and leeks have been dropped, and instead cilantro herb and coriander powder have been added. The gyoza had adapted to the regional palate.

More importantly, the texture of the gyoza has also changed. The Japanese gyoza is lighter, softer and less dense. The indian gyoza is denser and chewier. This change reflects the need for the Indian palate to feel the food, fleeting flavours and bites of subtlety have given way to chewy textures and stronger flavours.

The cooking technique:

Traditional gyoza is cooked in one of three ways:

Age gyoza: deep fried for a crispy wrapper that should bubble so it is light and very crunchy. The meat is almost immediately sealed in the wrapper, keeping it moist.

Sui gyoza: a boiled gyoza that hails back to the origins of the dish from the Chinese, shui jiao. The gyoza are boiled until they float, about 3 minutes, for a very delicate, soft skin and a very juicy meat centre. The cooked gyoza are drained, drying in their own steam, and served as individual pieces, like steamed dim sum.

Yaki gyoza: probably the most common style of cooking the dish, and the most difficult. It is a combination of the previous two techniques. The bottom is fried crisp, usually with sesame oil, while the top is steamed soft. The gyozas have both textures, soft and crunchy. This is the most difficult technique of the three to master and get correct.

In India, we see the gyoza cooked in mainly two styles. Steamed or boiled, going back to our history with momos. However, with this style, the fitness of a gyoza, lightly steamed and delicate, is lost for a soggy gyoza that is overcooked. One of the challenges of a thicker gyoza skin is that they turn soggy if cooked too long.

The higher-end restaurants have the yaki-style gyoza, mostly done correctly and with care. However, some restaurants have accentuated this with a tuille feature that is common on the Indian plate. This is borrowed from the French influence, and the crunchiness is well-liked by Indian consumers.

I personally love the Yaki style if done correctly. I find the tuille redundant; the gyoza should have enough crunch to not warrant that. The best gyozas I have had have been at Long Finish in Gurgaon, and made by Chef Martin Gomez when he was at Siren in Bangalore.

The dressing:

The traditional dressing is very light, with soy sauce for umami, rice vinegar for acid to balance the rich fatty pork and sesame oil. A simple dressing that brings out the simplicity of the dish, highlighting the meat.

The dressing in India is similar but almost always spicy, usually accented with crisp chilli oil to reflect the palate of the consumers. Indians prefer the heat, and plain gyozas did not succeed as they were too bland. This spicy dressing could be solely responsible for how successful gyozas have become in India.

Perception of value:

One of the biggest drivers of whether a dish becomes incorporated into the infrastructure of a menu is perceptions of value. Indians want to feel they are getting value for the money they are paying.

In Japan, the traditional order is 6 pieces, each weighing about 20 grams of meat. They are designed to be bite-sized. The gyoza was designed at a time of less food, and this history still carries through. A light appetiser that is fleeting but delicious.

In India, the average order is trending towards 8 pieces. The average meat is at least 30 grams. The wrapper is thicker to provide a bite, akin to a momo. The filling and dip are spicier to allow the customer to enjoy flavours they are used to. That complete package has been adapted, and together, the perception of value is increased.

The gyoza travelled to India, it changed its characteristics to be accepted by the local population. It bifurcated into identities, the traditional gyoza for the expat populations, and an Indianised version for the locals. They live side-by-side, serving different groups of diners.

I have learned to appreciate both styles of gyoza, it is still one of my favourite dishes on any Japanese or pan-Asian restaurant menu. But the story it tells of why it adapted to suit a population is interesting, and says more about the people who consume it. This is one of the many dishes that have undergone this transformation, the others being burgers, pizza, spaghetti dishes, and almost everything else that has arrived to India in the last 10 years.

Over the years, I have worked on my burger skills. It is no longer a simple slap-a-patty-onto-a-grill-and-have-a-beer. This is my fault; I have been overly focused.

When I want a burger, I still go out. It is both cheaper and easier. When I do decide to cook a burger, everyone I know descends to my place; they know it is going to be something special.

The first time I made the pulled lamb burger (second recipe), I served it on a hot dog bun and invited friends over for a sandwich. They were almost hesitant. The second time, I made the same recipe and invited friends over for a burger, and they showed up happily. As we discussed in the previous two posts, the name matters; in this instance, the dish is the same, just the name changed. And with that, the perception.

Here are two of my favourite burger recipes. The first is simpler and more traditional. The second one I recently made, and it immediately jumped to the top of my favourite dishes. Both burgers take time to make, but both are amazing, at least in my opinion.

The sun-dried tomato burger with feta:

This is a burger recipe that I have worked on for a while and finally have ot perfected. I like the acidity of the sun-dried tomatoes and the earthiness of the herbs. I usually do not top this with a pickle; the tomatoes and feta cheese add the needed acidity.

Ingredients:

For the burger:

500 grams (1 lb) ground beef or mutton with 20% fat content.

1 tablespoon ground cumin powder

3 tablespoons sun-dried tomatoes, in oil, finely minced

2 teaspoons oil from the sun-dried tomato bottle

1 teaspoon dried thyme

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1 teaspoon pepper

Salt, to taste

For the caramelised onions:

4 tablespoons olive oil

2 large onions, thinly sliced

1/2 teaspoon toasted fennel seed, lightly pounded

1 teaspoon sugar

Salt, to taste

For the roasted garlic-tahini sauce:

25 garlic cloves, evenly sized

Drizzle of olive oil

1/2 cup yoghurt, whisked

2 tablespoons good quality tahini sauce

Salt, to taste

1/2 teaspoon white pepper

To serve:

Feta cheese

Caramelised onions

Baby arugula

Roasted garlic-tahini sauce

Burger buns or Kaiser rolls, insides toasted

Method:

Mix the burger ingredients and make 4 portions. Pat into patties without overworking the meat. Set aside to marinate for at least 1 hour.

For the caramelised onions:

Heat the oil in a wide frying pan on low heat. Add the onions, fennel seeds, sugar and salt and cook, stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes. The onions will turn soft but will not colour. You want the onions to be soft and melt. Remove from the stove and set aside.

For the roasted garlic -tahini sauce:

Heat a small frying pan with oil. Add the whole garlic cloves and fry until they are well caramelised and deep brown in colour, about 10 minutes. Remove, keeping the cooking oil. Mash the cloves with a spatula or fork; they should be extremely soft.

Mix the mashed garlic with the rest of the ingredients, and taste for salt. The tahini should pop, and the garlic should be strong. Set aside.

To cook the burger:

Make a dimple in the middle of each burger patty. Grill the burger for 2 minutes on the first side and 1 minute on the second side, for a pink burger. Rest for 3 minutes. Cook longer for a fully cooked burger, but be careful not to dry them out.

Alternatively, pan-fry the burger with a touch of olive oil for 2 minutes on each side, for a pink burger. Rest for 3 minutes. Cook longer for a fully cooked burger, but be careful not to dry them out.

Serve on a bun with toppings.

The pulled lamb shoulder kubaneh burger:

This burger fits the looser definition of a burger. The bun is the same, but the meat is shredded and spiced. I have also defaulted to calling these burgers now.

I cannot find the soft pull-apart kubaneh bread here, so I opt for a very soft potato bun or brioche bun instead. These delicious slider buns are from Paris, My Love, in Delhi. I also like to serve these as sliders, smaller bites so each slider can be customised differently. I serve these unassembled, part of the joy being loading the meat and accompanyments individually; the ritual creates a commitment to enjoying the dish.

This burger is work: slow-braised, a few accompanyments and planning for marination and cooking. It is not something you can slap together at the last minute. But then on first bite you understand why: the flavours- tartness from the preserved lemon, the heat from the rose harissa, and more flood your palate. This burger is so worth the effort.

Ingredients:

For the cured lemon paste:

1 Moroccan preserved lemon, or Hyderabadi dhoop limboo, minced, seeds removed

1 tablespoon smoked paprika

1 tablespoon red pepper flakes

1 teaspoon ground cumin seeds

For the pulled lamb:

1 1/3 kg (3 lb) lamb shoulder, cut into three pieces

3 tablespoons ground cumin seeds

3 tablespoons harissa paste

1 portion cured lemon paste (see recipe)

2 teaspoons pepper

1 teaspoon sugar

6 garlic cloves, minced

1 onion, sliced

2 carrots, diced

2 celery ribs, diced small

Salt, to taste

8 cups water

Note: For rose harissa, I use Belazu rose harissa. For lamb, I substituted mutton, a much more common and significantly cheaper ingredient in India.

For the Hawaij spice mix:

4 tablespoons black peppercorns

4 tablespoons cumin seeds

6 green cardamom pods

6 whole cloves

2 tablespoons coriander seeds

2 tablespoons turmeric

For the sumac onions:

2 onions, thinly sliced

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

1 tablespoon sumac

1 teaspoon zata’ar mix

1 teaspoon ground coriander seeds

Juice of 1 lime

Salt, to taste

A drizzle of olive oil

For the green zhug:

3 garlic cloves

3-4 green chillies, or to taste

1 large bunch of cilantro, washed well

Juice of 1 lime

1 teaspoon Hawaij spice mix

2 tablespoons olive oil

Salt, to taste

For the tzatziki sauce:

1 small cucumber

1 garlic clove, minced

4 tablespoons mint, minced

2 tablespoons parsley, minced

Juice of 1/2 lime

1/2 teaspoon ground coriander seeds

1/2 cup lebneh or Greek yoghurt

Salt, to taste

Olive oil, to drizzle

To serve:

The pulled lamb

Sumac Onions

Tzatziki sauce

Green zhug

Soft potato or brioche slider buns, cut in half

Method:

Day 1:

For the cured lemon paste:

Mix all the ingredients and set aside.

For the pulled lamb:

Mix all the ingredients. Make deep slits into the lamb meat and stuff with the marinade. Coat the meat well and marinate overnight.

For the Hawaij spice mix:

Dry roast all the ingredients individually in a frying pan over low heat until aromatic. Cool completely and grind to a fine powder. Store in a dry bottle.

For the sumac onions:

Mix all the ingredients and pickle overnight.

Day 2:

To cook the meat:

The next day, remove the meat and vegetables and lay them in a single layer in a roasting pan.

Preheat the oven to 400°C with the rack in the bottom 1/3 of the oven.

Roast the meat for 30 minutes, turning the pieces after 15 minutes. The meat should be charred in spots, and the spices should be roasted.

Remove the meat, vegetables and juices to a pot. Add the water and bring to a boil on a stove. Keep at a very low simmer for 4 hours. Alternatively, turn the oven down to 350°C and braise for 4 hours. Check the pot periodically to ensure that water has not dried out.

At this point, the meat is completely shredded into the stew. Remove all the bones, if any. Taste for salt, tartness and spice. The meat should have lots of flavour, with a strong tartness. Adjust with more harissa, salt, or preserved limes as needed. If the base flavour is not deep, add a teaspoon of Hawaij spice mix. Cook the meat on a slow simmer on the stove until you have a thick, saucy dish. The flavours from the braising liquids need to be absorbed into the meat again. You want to leave the meat sloppy; after all, what is a burger if it does not drip all over the front of your shirt?

While the meat is slowly braising, make the rest fo the sauces.

For the green zhug:

Add all the ingredients to a blender and blitz till smooth. Alternatively, I like a coarser zhug, so I pound the mix in a mortar until I have a rough paste. Taste for chilli, salt and spice. The zhug should have a high spice profile. Set aside.

For the tzatziki sauce:

Grate the cucumber, with skin on if you like a bit of colour. Toss with 1/2 teaspoon salt and drain in a colander over the sink for 20 minutes.

Mix with the rest of the ingredients. Taste for salt. Set aside in the fridge.

To serve:

Load the heated meat into a bowl and serve alongside all the accompanyments. I usually serve these as sliders, smaller bites so folks can customise each bite to their tastes. I like each diner to make their own slider to suit their palate.

Over the years, my burger recipes have got more complicated, not the patty itself, but the toppings. Although I have stated that I love a plain, old-fashioned burger, at home, fr some reason, I want a flavourful burger. My thought is, if I am going to cook a burger, I might as well commit to the time wholly.

I wanted to share some of these learnings. The most important thing to remember is that a burger should always be made to your liking; you are the one eating it, so please enjoy it the way you like it prepared.

Lets start with the basics:

Bun-to-meat ratio:

The most important aspect of eating a burger is the bun-to-meat ratio (BMR). Lets not confuse this with the human Body Mass ratio, which won't be too good with too many burgers in your diet. The feel of a soft bun and chewy, juicy meat is critical to its enjoyment. I have dined in a few places recently that focus so much on the quantity of meat that the joy of eating a harmonious burger is lost. The triple patty, the added bacon, and the need for a 1/2 lb of pulled mutton don’t work for me. It is about the balance.

The best BMR has been calculated to a 40/60 ratio, one that favours the meat. You want the burger to be meat- and flavour-forward, but you also want the bun to be present on the bite, adding softness and absorbing the juices.

Another much-discussed aspect is whether you should toast the bun. The answer is yes. A plain bun works great at the start, but as you eat your burger, it tends to fall apart. At the end of your burger, when you have just a few bites left, you often have a soggy area where the bun has disintegrated. Toasting the burger is the solution; the bun's inner surface is strengthened, and it will hold together longer. A toasted bun also adds a crunch to the burger along with lettuce.

Fat content:

I like a 20% fat content with beef or mutton burgers, and this is the industry standard. Fat is critical to how juicy your burger turns out. Fat plays an important role, as it melts with the heat; the fat coats the muscle fibres. The lyposis or melting point of fat is lower than that for meat (muscle) denaturation, so fat melts before the meat cooks. The oils coat the meat fibres and retain the water in the meat. The oil and fat emulsify, trapping the natural water in the meat. In lower-fat-content burgers, say 10%, usually adopted for the leaner burgers, the fat content is not enough to coat all the meat, and you usually get a denser and drier burger.

The gold standard is 20% fat. I usually ask for the fat separately, making sure no white tendons or tissue materials are added in, and have the meat ground in front of me.

Making the patty:

All patties are not equal. There are handmade patties and the commercially pressed ones.

Commercial patties are great if you run a large volume business and are looking for consistency. However, commercial presses tend to mash the burger a bit more than you would by hand. The commercial pressed burger cooks evenly, as it is designed to. Still, since it is formed under mechanical pressure, the fats tend to ooze out instead of being captured in the burger, giving a generally drier and tougher burger.

Hand-pressed burgers are always preferred; loosely patted down. The heat pushes the fats and juices into the burger, where they are retained, because they have space. Never overwork your burger mix too much; keep it loose and be gentle. The burger holds together as it cooks.

Another trick I have learnt is that you need to make a small dimple in the centre of the patty; this prevents the juices from collecting in the coolest place, the centre of the burger. This causes the burger to “ball up.” With the dimple in the centre, the juices spread out and saturate the whole patty, and not just in the centre.

Pink or fully cooked centre:

This is really a personal choice and is driven by a few factors.

I love a burger that is pink in the centre. But the quality of the meat has to be excellent. I want to taste the meat, complemented by the char on the outside. A pink-centred-burger is also usually juicier. However, a pink burger must be rested for at least 3 minutes; this allows the juices to warm up the centre. As it was explained to me, you want a burger to be pink, not red, where the meat is still cold.

But if you want a fully cooked burger, the cooking time is very critical. An overcooked burger will be dry and hockey puck-like, and not juicy. Please time the cooking so the burger is just cooked through, then remove it from the heat. A fully cooked burger does not need to be rested.

In India, I find it almost impossible to get a pink-centred burger. This is because Indians are not fond of raw meat. The burgers are generally overcooked, likely to meet the expectations of demanding customers.

Smash?

The new trend has been to smash, and I occasionally see chefs smash a regular burger on the grill too. The idea usually is that the burger will cook faster, but this is just a myth.

Smash burgers have got a lot of attention recently, and for a reason; they are delicious. It is the perfect burger for crispness and a juicy texture, without the technical cooking skills needed.

The first Smash burger I had was in Nicaragua, on the streets. They are affectionately called hamburguesas. We were strolling in the city, and my daughter asked for one. I looked at the behemoth being made and nodded. The burgers are massive, almost paper-thin and fitted between two thin buns. They were crisp, juicy and delicious; we got a second one the next day and could not stop after that. This was 15 years before Smash burgers became as trendy as they are now.

Lets break this down a bit. For a Smash burger, the patty is very thin, and you apply pressure on top of it so the burger gets thinner and cooks faster. But in reality, you are smashing it down to get a crisp patty. The goal of a Smash burger is a short cook time and juiciness. Cooking it too long makes the patty dry; the juices ooze out because there is no mass to retain the emulsified oils. The smash burger cooking technique was developed because the patty is thin.

A regular burger is never smashed; the physics of cooking is completely different. The burger cooks from the bottom, on a charcoal grill or a griddle. The heat pushes the juices, melted fats, and water up, which is why you see the burger ooze from the sides and top. The burger does not technically want to let go of the liquids; smashing it down squeezes the liquids out, preventing them from binding to the meat. Smashing a normal burger results in a dry burger without the juicy bite.

Flip or not to flip:

This is an age-old question and one I have had heated discussions over the years. I was always of the opinion that, like a steak, we never flip a burger more than once. But I was mistaken. The answer lies in the type of burger, of course.

For a Smash burger, the answer is never. This is a quick-cook process; the meat is seared, flipped, seared again, and served. The burger is thin, and flipping it numerous times will dry it out. The timing for each side is critical and has to be perfected.

For a regular burger, according to both Nathan Myhrvold and J. Kenji López-Alt (the source of my discussions), flipping a burger multiple times is better. The physics is that the heat now cooks the burger from both sides, creating a heat flux and creating a burger that loses less moisture. Also, the thin “grey zone” seen in a burger, right under the crust, is avoided.

I have now switched to this method, and the burgers are more evenly cooked and juicier. However, you need to be careful with timings; flipping the burger often reduces the cooking time by as much as 30%, so don’t end up with an overcooked, dry burger.

Press or not to press:

The answer is clear here: never. When a burger cooks, the dissolved fats and water are pushed up, away from the heat. When you press a burger, these juices are squeezed out, leading to a dry burger. Let the juices accumulate and enjoy them as they dribble down your chin.

Of course, with a Smash burger, you have to smash, but this cooking process is very different. The moistness is maintained by the quick cook time and the crust.

Do I add an egg?

This is really two questions, and I will tackle each individually.

The first opportunity to add an egg is raw, mixed into the burger patty. However, if you are making a plain beef or mutton burger, you really do not need an egg—the albumin in the egg white acts as a binder, attaching and pulling the meat together. However, in a plain burger, the meat muscle, called myosin, forms a natural mesh that binds the burger well.

However, if your burger patty is overly spiced or loaded with ingredients- onions, garlic, spices, and more- the burger is unable to form a strong enough mesh and tends to break apart easily or crumble. The same is true for bird burgers made with ground chicken or turkey and some vegetarian burgers. An egg or two may become essential to hold the burger together. So the answer is it depends on the filling on the burger.

On a side note, meatballs have breadcrumbs for moistness that break up these mesh structures, and hence almost always have an egg as a binder.

The second opportunity is when you eat your burger. I love, absolutely love, a runny fried egg on my burger. The yolk oozes and adds a creaminess that only it can. So the answer is personal, and always a yes for me.

Grill or fry:

The answer is both. But technique is important.

Frying is easier and more convenient, and honestly makes a great burger for an everyday meal. But be careful to set the heat right; you want to sear the outside and not dry out the inside of the burger. Flip a few times, unless you are making a Smash burger. When you remove the burger from the pan, it should be dripping juices; collect those and top your burger with a bit of this, or serve as a side jus. Most importantly, add only a drizzle of oil at the start; a good burger patty has 20% fat content, and the rest of the juices will come from the burger. Cook the burger over a high flame; you want the pan very hot to sear the burger and seal the juices in. Your burger should be cooked in less than 2-3 minutes, or it will begin to dry out.

For a grill, you will always get the chargrilled look and flavour; we all love that. However, a burger cooks quickly, and the fats drip off the grill into the flame. An overcooked burger will be dry. I flip my burger only once, because I like a great crust. This is an old habit, but you can decide after reading this section.

Resting is important:

One of the most important steps is to rest your burger, but just briefly, 2-3 minutes. Never serve it on a bun right off the grill.

While cooking, the meat contracts, and the fats and water are squeezed out of the tissue. If you bite into the burger, you get the immediate flow of juices, because they have nowhere else to go but ooze out of the patty. Letting the burger rest allows the muscle fibres to relax, reabsorbing these juices back into the meat.

Although the initial bite of a burger fresh off the grill is fantastic, over the next few bites the burger will dry out as all the juices leak out of the meat. Letting the burger rest allows the meat to stay moist for longer, prolonging the eating experience for as long as the burger lasts on the plate.

This is a small detail, but one that is very often overlooked.

Never rest a Smash burger.

Pickles anyone?

A big part of a burger is the toppings. They are not simple add-ons, but I have learned to be creative with them. With the usual array of standard toppings: lettuce leaf, onions, tomato, ketchup. mustard, mayonnaise, and others. I always find one topping critical. Pickles.

For me, it is always some pickle: dill pickles, pickled jalapeños, bread-and-butter pickles or more. A burger is rich, the flavour driven by rich, fatty meat. A pickle helps cut through the fat. You can be creative with the pickle you serve or how you serve it, but I always add a pickle to a burger.

Some of the more innovative ways I add pickles to a burger, rather than as a topping, are to mince them and add them to ketchup, mayonnaise, or a dressing. I have served pickled green beans, slices of mustard-pickled beets, spicy pickled kraut, or even sweet pickled watermelon rinds with my burgers, either on top or on the side. The traditional German sauer kraut also makes a good topping, going back to how the Hamburger steaks were originally served.

You can also serve a vinegar-based slaw on the burger; they make for an excellent topping. As does a simple salad, rather than the plain lettuce leaf, as long as the dressing is vinegar-based. The most luxurious topping I have made for a sirloin burger is aged balsamic glazed oyster mushrooms; they were decadent.

Onions are another much-argued topping. I like them cooked, slowly, caramelised until soft and sweet. But if you like them sharper and raw, add them raw. Fry them slowly, on the lowest flame your burner can go to, in butter with a touch of salt, a tablespoon of sugar and a hint of cumin or thyme. Another recipe is with port wine and crushed fennel seed. They still need to be white or light yellow, and almost sweet.

So get creative and add that pop of flavour.

I love a good burger; it always ranks as one of my top 10 dishes I crave. The joy of biting into a moist patty, the juices dripping down your chin, and the explosion of flavours- that is what I crave. Over the years, I have worked on recipes (See Part 3), mostly technique, polishing small aspects for a better burger. At some point, irritatingly for me, it is no longer simple; making a burger has become a pressure. This is a self-created mindset for perfection, one I try to fight. As I make the patty, always by hand, and then cook it, my mind runs through all the finer details, a never-ending list of questions. But then I take my first bite and realise why I crave this perfection.

I hope this post helps you make a better burger. Lets light up those grills and cook, and mostly have fun, but turn out something special. Most of all, enjoy a great burger, knowing why it is so good.

It is a slow steady process, numerous edits, movement of photos, and more. it is one day at a time.

Here are some pages for you to preview.

Would love your thoughts.

Churmur Pandey - Burger Singh

Aloo Bechara - Wat-A-Burger

Vegan Seagal - Good Flippin’ Burgers

Smoked barbeque ham burger - BeyondBurg

Crunchy French fry burger - Burger King

Amritsari murgh makhani burger

Schezwan aloo tikki burger

Smash burger

Pulled pork barbecue burger

Korean chicken fried burger

Portabello tempura burger

Birria burger

Wagyu steak and truffle butter burger

The list goes on, a never-ending ode to creativity and the diverse tastes of a nation.

Subscribe now

For me, a burger has always been a ground patty, beef preferred; mutton is also a fine substitute in India, between two buns with toppings of my choice: cheddar, caramelised onions, lettuce, tomatoes and pickles. That is the simple burger I love. Evidently, I feel I belong on an isolated island where the world of burgers has become immensely creative, loaded with probably too many toppings, bountiful in meat and flavour. How did this happen, and where was I dreaming?

Let’s start with the basics. What is the definition of a burger?

According to Merriam-Webster, a burger is defined as “ground beef seasoned and shaped into a patty, broiled or fried, and tossed between slices of bread or a bun.” This definition is simple: ground meat, lightly seasoned, broiled or fried, and a bun or bread. These are the origins, and after this, everything else is evolution.

The first official burger was the “Hamburg Steak,” a creation in the ports of Germany fueled by trade with the Russians. In the late 18th century, trade brought fresh ground beef to Germany, a luxury item at that time. The meat was shaped into a patty, grilled, and served on a plate. It was considered a luxurious meal and formed the basis of the comfort dish we now know.

In the late 1900s, Germans immigrated to New York, a new land, in search of opportunity. With them came the Hamburg Steak, but it was hard to serve and eat, always requiring a formal setting. It was also expensive and not for the masses. Numerous vendors set up carts, grilled the meat, and slapped it between buns, creating a dish the hungry workers could eat while walking to or from long hours of work. Creativity transformed a dish from the lap of luxury afforded by the rich to a food of the working class, mobile and easy to access. This was the first evolution of the burger,

The original first burger is hotly contested in history. The Library of Congress officially recognises Louis’ Lunch from New Haven, Connecticut as the maker of the first burger. As the legend goes, Louis Lassen slapped a broiled beef patty between two slices of white toast for a hurried businessman. Today, the diner still serves the broiled meat the same way it has for a century.

Fletcher (Old Davie) Davis in Athens, Texas, put a patty between two buns and showcased it at the 1904 St. Louis World's Fair, making it popular across the US. Charlie (Hamburger Charlie) Nagreen of Seymour, Wisconsin, served a smashed meatball to patrons at the fair who wanted to eat while walking around. The legends are prolific, but the burger has not just captured the US market but the market worldwide.

Note: I would drive from my home in San Francisco over the hills to Half Moon Bay, located on the waterfront by the Pacific. In a mall was a historic train coach, shaded by the tall fir trees. Three-Michelin-starred chef Scot Clark served a simple burger at the always-crowded Dad’s Luncheonette. A grass-fed patty, cheese and two slices of toast, no customisation, no fillers, simple and elegant, and the best damn burgers I have ever had. All these years later I now understand the importance of the sliced bread, so novel when I first had these burgers.

Burger chains began with White Castle, the first to produce burgers commercially. They faced an uphill battle, as the perception of dirty slaughterhouses and contaminated meat was prevalent, with consumers buying small amounts of meat from the local butcher for home consumption. In 1921, White Castle changed this by building clean animal pens, painting its meat-processing plants white to highlight cleanliness, and opening them to visitors. McDonald's and Wendy's followed shortly after, streamlining processes and building the industry through intensive franchising.

Note: I still crave a box of the small White Castle sliders, always a treat when we used to live in the US and travel to a location where the chain still operates stores. The sliders disappear in a few bites, and then you automatically reach for another one.

I have been asking chefs this question for years and have never got a definitive answer: What is a burger? I have now come to realise that origins matter. In the US, as we have seen, a burger is ground beef, with exceptions for ground chicken and other ground vegetable sources, served on a bun, roll, or bread. This definition sticks quite stringently to the original description of the dish. The name is a clear definition for the vessel and the content in a specific format: ground patty.

So how does a Korean fried chicken burget qualify? Why is it not a sandwich? This is where different nations have stretched the definition a bit. In countries like the UK, Europe, Australia and India, they define a burger with yet another twist.

The burger is defined by the vessel, the burger bun, and the contents do not matter. The meat can include chicken fillets, crumb-fried fish, pulled pork, mutton, steak, or any combination of meat or vegetables. The only factor that matters is that it is served in a burger bun. This is the second evolution of the burger.

Subscribe now

India has also adopted this looser definition of the burger. To understand why this is not a sandwich in India, you need to understand the Indian burger market. International corporations expanded to new markets; India was a prime target because of its massive population. But there were major challenges: in 1996, supply chains were not established, India was not a beef-eating population, and the vegetarian population was dominant. The Indian population wanted a spiced dish; a plain burger was not to their taste.

McDonald's overcame these challenges by moving to chicken burgers, generally opting for fillets rather than ground meat. The crust was heavily spiced to adapt to the local palate. The vegetarian McAloo Tikki burger was created for the market to cater to that segment of the population. Aggressive marketing followed to bring the market to the franchises.

Burger King followed soon after, leaning into mutton and paneer burgers, again heavily spicing them for the palate. These burgers were aggressively priced for the middle-income population, those who would stop by for a quick snack. The franchises were large and exceptionally clean, providing an “international” experience in India. Simultaneously, indians were also travelling abroad, and mean income was rising; all these came together to build a massive business across the nation.

But it does not stop at international brands; Indian brands have also been established. These local brands followed the same franchising methods, but tailored their product to be maximally Indian: tandoori, makhani, achari and more.

It is clear that in the Indian market, burgers are big business. There are a few clear trends: It is a novelty product that has caught on. The market is growing, and it is filled with innovation.

Lets contrast this to the Indian sandwich market. The biggest player is Subway, an international chain. The rest of the market is small and fractured. The annual revenue is approximately Rs. 5500 crores across all international and local brands. McDonald's alone generates this revenue annually.

Additionally, burgers are considered luxury items, heavily marketed, while sandwiches are considered snacks or between-meal fillers. Indians go to a burger restaurant for a meal; they will snack on a sandwich between meals. It is a mindset that is clear and very distinct.

The other driving factor is that the Average Order Value (AOR) for a burger is higher than for a sandwich. The burger is considered a meal, and hence ordered with sides, fries, chicken tenders, and more. The sides are high-profit items, adding heftier profits to the bottom line. A sandwich is considered a snack and hence usually ordered alone.

Let's get back to the burgers; in India, it is profitable to call a sandwich a burger, stretching the definition a bit. It makes business sense. The marketing for burgers is more aggressive, and the supply chains for burgers are better developed: frozen patties, baked buns, and condiments, and the love that Indians have for chicken plays a part.

Today, burger shops sprout across the nation, driven by a known business model that burgers sell in India. The name has been reclassified, adapting to include a larger variety of meat and vegetarian fillings, to include the wide tastes of a nation.

The dish and name have evolved, built out of a need to profit; this is not an evolution of a dish, but a need for returns on an investment. This is the third evolution of the burger.

The evolution of food is inevitable, driven by several factors: changes in taste profiles, availability of ingredients, and changes in techniques. But this is an example where commercial interests have driven the evolution, not the palate or the people. The definition was loosened until it has become a free-for-all, the original burger just a remnant of its former self.

A good burger still rules the landscape in some restaurants, made the old-fashioned way: the perfect juicy patty, a bun, and grilled. These are still my favourites; I am a purist by nature, and a dish I look forward to.

Part 2: How to cook a burger.

Share

But I am seeing the end of the tunnel, as as challenging as this has been, I am enjoying it. I learn along the way, small details about fonts, grids, printing, inks and more.

Here are a few layouts from the book. This is from a chapter on travels and recipes from the Northeast of India. I would love your thoughts and cuggestions.

Deborah Madison was one of the first chefs to embrace the farm-to-table movement when she opened her restaurant, Greens, which I have dined at a few times. Her cookbooks are lovely, and this one, in particular, is amazing. It has simple recipes that are loaded with flavour. Like me, you should get all her cookbooks; each is a masterpiece!

For more wonderful recipes from this cookbook, click here.

Subscribe now

Ingredients:

6 oz. thin buckwheat noodles like soba

6 cups of water

2 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil

1/2 lb mushrooms, shiitake or oyster, or other, thinly sliced

Salt, to taste

2-3 garlic cloves, minced

1 tablespoon ginger paste

1-2 jalapeño or green chillies, thinly sliced

1 small bok choy, thinly sliced

1-2 scallions, thinly sliced

1 teaspoon dark sesame oil

2 tablespoons mirin

2 tablespoons Kikkoman soy sauce

2 tablespoons cilantro, minced, for garnish

2 teaspoons sesame seeds, lightly toasted, for garnish

Method:

Heat the water in a pot and add the noodles. Cook as per the instructions on the package, minus one minute for al dente. Drain and cool completely in a colander under running water. Set aside.

Heat the oil in a wide pan or pot. Add the mushrooms and salt and cook on medium heat until the mushrooms are dry and browned, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic, ginger, and chillies, and cook for 2 minutes. Add the bok choy and toss for a minute.

Add the cooked noodles, along with the scallions, sesame oil, and soy sauce, and toss well to evenly integrate the sauce into the noodles. Put the noodles into a serving bowl or plate. Garnish with cilantro and sesame seeds. Serve immediately.

Note: the leftover salad is also great cold, especially in Gurgaon’s heat.

Share

Let’s start with Craig Claiborne, who was America’s first male food critic. Before him, the food section was assigned to women and meant for women. Food articles were directed to domestic home cooking, and restaurant reviews were usually PR events, paid for in cash or a free meal, beginning to sound familiar?

Craig Claiborne was the food critic for the New York Times. He single-handedly devised a system to rate restaurants, one we are all familiar with today. He was among the first writers to introduce journalistic criticism, particularly towards restaurants. He created a framework that exists today, the backbone of which is used by most culinary rating organisations, such as Michelin.

I want to break down his system in detail and then contrast it with how generally Instagrammers operate in India. I would love to hear your thoughts on this globally.

His system was composed of 4 essential pillars, and I am adding a fifth because I feel it is important to this conversation:

• Rankings:

Craig Claiborne established a fastidious ranking system in 1962, well before the world was ready for this. This ranking system was devised according to strict rules and later adopted by the New York Times for food journalism, and it went beyond. The system had 5 categories:

a) 4 stars: Extraordinary

b) 3 stars: Excellent

c) 2 stars: Very Good

d) 1 stars: Good

e) 0 stars: Poor or unremarkable

But this ranking system was just the start. He insisted that he would use all the rankings impartially, so the restaurant reviews received a review from 4-0, depending on specific criteria.

The Instagrammer Reality: For the Indian Instagrammer, every review is a 4, “the best restaurant” they have dined in since the last shoot a few days ago. How many Instagrammers do we see give a terrible review? Every restaurant is a “hidden gem” suddenly discovered by them and pushed forward as the best thing that happened to them this week. This directly feeds into the next point, as we will see.

• Strict Anonymity:

A cornerstone of Craig Claiborne’s method was strict anonymity. He would never let the restaurant know he was there, and on repeat visits would occasionally wear disguises so as not to be recognised. He would use aliases when making reservations so as not to be discovered. This was important to him and was a departure from the norm, even in that age, as he believed in judging a restaurant as an ordinary diner without the hoopla.

The Instagrammer Reality: From the time of the reservation, the Instagrammer makes it known that he is a superstar and wants to be treated as one. They enter, and with them the camera crew, if any, and the noise that goes with trying to be a superstar. The restaurant has to bow to their every wish, and I truly feel sorry for any other patrons that may be present at this moment, because they are most likely ignored or forgotten. Rather than Craig Claiborne’s goal of actively blending in, the Instagrammers work to stand out.

For some of us who have friends in the restaurant industry, chefs, owners and front staff, we know how dramatically the service changes when the restaurant recognises you. The chef or owner comes out and suggests menu items, freebies are sent out to the table, and they “take care of you”. Occasionally, your bill is comped, but this will be discussed below. To me, this is a mixed bag; I am both pleased and occasionally embarrassed by this. A small appetiser or extra dessert on the house is okay, but anything more is excessive. I always sit there wondering, while all the attention is being showered on the table, how the table next to us, which is paying for its full meal, feels. Do they shrug it off, or get pissed off?

Subscribe now

• Financial Independence:

Although the NY Times paid for every meal, Craig Caiborne was insistent on no financial liability. He paid for every meal, never accepted a comped dinner. He believed that this broke the string between a fair review and otherwise. This objectivity made his reviews trusted.

The Instagrammer Reality: In today’s world, PR machines grind, offering Instagrammers free meals and occasionally even paying them to visit for a favourable review. This is a classic monetisation model of barter and paid collaborations. It is practically impossible for an Instagrammer to give a negative review, or even criticise a single small aspect, lest they break the sacred bond between themselves and the PR machinery that supports them. This model is an outreach designed for only one purpose: eyeballs and clicks that turn into foot traffic.

• The Consistency test:

Craig Claiborne visited a restaurant at least three times in sequence and occasionally needed disguises to assess how consistent the quality of the food and service was. He was testing consistency: if a restaurant had a “bad day,” they could redeem themselves, and if the experience was excellent, he wanted to check that it was consistent.

The Instagrammer Reality: For the Instagrammer, it is a one-time deal, which is what the PR machinery will allow as spending on the marketing effort. They hardly ever repeat a restaurant, trotting off to the next restaurant that has opened, sometimes just down the street. As they are “sponsored” by the restaurant, the red carpet is usually rolled out, and they get the best service and dishes cooked with care. So for them, it is a one-shot perceived reality.

• The whole menu:

In Craig Claiborne’s world, a restaurant was not a one-dish wonder; the whole menu had to be exceptional. One of the reasons for multiple visits was to try a large part of the menu rather than specific dishes. He was judging the menu on technical ability, not just the initial visual impression and the tableside theatre. He would graze through almost the entire menu, from the appetisers to the desserts, and judge them all. He would dine with 3-4 other guests, covering a huge part of the menu.

The Instagrammer Reality: They choose the most flamboyant dishes, those on fire, oozing with melted cheese, loaded with dripping butter, or the classic dripping, huge burger. The reels are more about the theatrics than the dish's quality. They dine, usually alone, the centre of focus, and order the most visually aggressive dishes for great videos. The review never actually has a technical review other than, “This dish is BANGING”!

Subscribe now

• The Chef:

There was an additional factor that was not part of Craig Claiborne’s method, but just as important. Craig had put himself through the esteemed École hôtelière de Lausanne, Switzerland, where he trained as a formal chef. His reviews were based on technical expertise. He also published numerous cookbooks and partnered with French chef Pierre Franey in a test kitchen. He tested recipes fastidiously throughout his career.

His restaurant reviews depended heavily on his technical background as a chef, and he clearly understood classical French cuisine. He was among the first to bring fame to the cuisines of the South of the US, particularly from Mississippi, where he was born, making Paul Prudhomme famous. He tried New York’s diverse cuisines, brought by immigrants, bringing them all to the limelight. He was more than a reviewer; he was an evangelist who kept the bigger world of cuisine and its implications at the forefront.

The Instagrammer Reality: Most Instagrammers are not chefs or have very limited skills in the kitchen, if any at all. They are strong PR and marketing machines. Their reviews are not based on technical knowledge, but rather the visual impact of a dish. For most of them, taste is irrelevant, and it is the drama of the dish that captivates them.

The Instagrammer is also focused on his own marketing, very rarely discussing the larger picture in the world of cuisine. They are not evangelists for cuisines but create trends that fade within a few months. Remember the oozing cake trend, the momo trend and more. It is about a dish that makes them look good but does nothing for the cuisine or the community.

In conclusion, as discussed above, the review system established by Craig Claiborne has been completely turned around by the Indian Instagrammer. The value system he set up, including rankings, anonymity, no free meals, and more, is being completely ignored.

Admittedly, the caveat to this article is that it does not apply to all Instagrammers; there are a few who still maintain these values. These are few and far between, the few who judge based on quality rather than pizzaz, on value rather than the quick shoot. These are the few I respect; these are the few whose word is golden.

Share

The curry is mildly sweet with a hint of chilli; it is rich thanks to the mashed sweet potatoes, which act as a thickener. The potatoes are soft and the star of the curry, their flavour pervading the sauce. It is simple, elegant, and perfect with white or sticky rice. I added a few sticks of lemongrass to the curry; they were not in the original recipe, but I thought they would add a nice, soft nuance.

Like every recipe I have cooked from Diana Henry, this recipe is absolutely delicious. Subtle flavours dominate this meal, and the spices are balanced. A Change of Appetite was my first Diana Henry cookbook, and after making a couple of recipes from it, I was addicted to her cooking. The recipes feature flavours and cuisines from around the world, and her writing style is fun and easy. Like this recipe, the dishes are amazing and step away from the ordinary.

For more wonderful recipes from this cookbook, click here.

Subscribe now

Ingredients:

2 tablespoons peanut or neutral oil

2 onions, thinly sliced

1 fresh red chilli, cut into 3 pieces, or 3-4 Thai red chillies, halved longitudinally

3 1-inch pieces of lemongrass, lightly bruised

1 tablespoon ground coriander seeds

1/2 teaspoon turmeric

10 oz sweet potatoes, peeled and chunked, stored in water with lime juice so they do not discolour

6 oz. coconut milk

2 cups water or vegetable stock

Salt, to taste

Juice of 1 lime

Thai basil, to garnish

Method:

Heat the oil in a pot and add the onions, chillies and lemongrass. Sauté on medium-low heat until the onions are golden in colour, about 6 minutes.

Add the coriander and turmeric and mix into the onions, taking care not to burn the spices. Add the sweet potatoes and cook for 3-4 minutes on low, coating them with the onion mixture.

Add the coconut milk, water/stock, and salt, then simmer, covered, for 15 minutes, until the potatoes are very soft. Remove 2 of the smaller pieces of potato, mash them well with a fork, and integrate them into the curry to thicken it slightly. If needed, you can thicken it further by adding another piece, mashed to your preferred consistency.

Remove from the heat and stir in the lime juice. Stri well and taste for salt and tartness. The curry should be well-balanced and have a subtle but lovely flavour.

Serve hot, garnished with basil and with rice on the side.

Share

This is a lovely stir-fry, the beans blistered and yet retaining the essential crunch. The standard coconut milk does not dilute the fiery red curry paste, but it is bold and stunning. The lemongrass, chilli, galangal, and palm sugar undergo Maillard reactions. Finally, the kaffir lime leaves add a citrusy tone, lightening the dish. This is a lovely, easy-to-make side dish that is always well-received at the table.

This is a thin cookbook filled with outstanding vegan recipes. Simple recipes for traditional salads, fried foods, noodles, and curries, like this one, make this my go-to cookbook for vegetarian Thai cuisine. Vatch, as he is known, has published several cookbooks, runs some excellent restaurants worldwide, and teaches Thai cooking at his school.

For more wonderful recipes from this cookbook, click here.

Subscribe now

Ingredients:

2 tablespoons oil

2-3 cloves garlic, minced

1 tablespoon good-quality commercial red curry paste

1 kaffir lime leaf, slivered

8 oz. beans, stems lopped and halved

2 tablespoons Kikkoman soy sauce

1/4 cup water or vegetable stock

1 teaspoon sugar

1 tablespoon roasted peanuts, lightly crushed

Method:

Heat the oil in a wok over high heat. Add the garlic and cook for 20 seconds, until pale gold. Add the red curry paste and saute for 10 seconds.

Add the beans and kaffir lime leaves, then toss for 3 minutes, until the beans are just softened. Add the soy sauce, water/stock, and sugar and toss well until you have a thick sauce.

Remove directly onto a platter and garnish with the peanuts. Serve immediatley.

Share