Neither is the idea that immigrants are the root cause of every problem known to humankind.

Everyone is talking about Shane Jones and his bad behaviour. Everyone except one lot. Us Indians.

I don’t mean our Indian politicians, journalists and associations. They’ve done their rightful duty. I’m talking about Indians like my mum. The aunties and uncles in Pakuranga. Our shop-owners, our nurses, our teachers, our chefs. Our WhatsApp groups are silent.

We’re busy looking at each other, wondering if it’s even our place to say something.

This is silence that comes after years of being told you belong. But only in the way we want you to.

I’ve lived in New Zealand for 18 years. Yet, whenever the inevitable “where you’re from” question comes up, I hesitate. Am I Kiwi today or am I Indian today?

It’s a bad habit I’ve adopted from years of trying to be a ‘proper Kiwi’.

It started in my second week in New Zealand, at Macleans College. Mum had packed me rai no papeto, Parsi-style mustardy potatoes with curry leaves curled crisp on top. Blue-eyed Chris wrinkled his freckled nose. “Are you eating curry for lunch?”

Of course I brought a sandwich the next day. And for ten more years, I kept making silent choices that were bad for me. Because I wanted to be a “real Kiwi”. Well actually, I desperately wanted to be known as Perzen-the-JAFA**.

So I rolled my eyes when Mum wore her kurta with sneakers. I cringed when my parents used the free barbecues at Cockle Bay beach to cook akoori, our spicy scrambled eggs, instead of sausages. We listened when our landlord suggested we cook in the garage so the wallpaper in her mould-filled home didn’t absorb “that spicy smell.” Mum stopped cooking with coriander because “who the heck pays $4 and drives 14 km for sad, about-to-go-brown coriander?”

I must admit I even enjoyed my Friday ritual of dipping buttery naan into a bowl of radioactive orange, suspiciously sweet butter chicken from Shamiana.

On trips back to India, I ate as if I’d been starved. Squeezing in dosa, biryani, my grandmother’s curry, prawn kolivada and multiple rounds of pani puri into 17 days is no mean feat. Butter chicken never featured on my must-eat list. Except once, when I made a pilgrimage to Moti Mahal, the restaurant that invented murgh makhani in old Delhi. I ate that bowl in reverent silence, absorbing its creamy, smoky taste while ignoring the dented serving dish and faded wall décor.

And I knew I’d been right to be suspicious of the butter chicken back home in Aotearoa.

The orange Shamiana butter chicken was only sort of real. The way the Perzen who insisted she was a ‘continental chef’ was only sort of real.

Both of us fulfilling our side of the immigrant bargain. Fitting in.

I got good grades. Mum was grateful she had a job as a receptionist after receiving 63 rejection letters. I loved dancing on stage at the Auckland Diwali festival. I laughed when someone decided to call me ‘P’ because that was easier for them than saying Perzen. And Mum dutifully took endless plates of butter chicken samosas for shared lunches at work.

Our saris hung silent in the cupboards. Right beside Mum’s stash of salli – salty, crispy potato sticks. Those were for special occasions only.

Must not rock the boat. Or someone might tell us to get on the next one back home.

Then I grew up. Fell back in love with my food. Became a mum. Discovered I love wearing brightly coloured kurtas to work. Accepted that I detest cold sandwiches and salads.

It’s taken me 38 years to say it out loud. I want no part of the immigrant bargain. Not in my kitchen, and not in how I show up in Aotearoa.

New Zealand is no longer the Auckland I moved to in 2002. At the farmers markets, customers tell us our Cashew Korma paste is a staple for their curry Tuesday. The Italian selling cheese wants to taste my Indian rendition of spaghetti aglio e olio with ghee. When my kids’ friends come for a playdate, they choose my dosa over pizza.

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I love the parallels between what I learned from my grandmum and what my Samoan neighbour learned from hers. I love wondering aloud with my Japanese friend why katsu curry tastes remarkably like dhansak. And I love that my colleague experimented using chai masala for a cake she baked me.

This is the New Zealand we live in. Shane Jones is the outlier here. Not us.

But if I am a JAFA* and New Zealand is my true home, then I need to start acting like family. I must not gate-keep the real murgh makhani – or the real me – anymore.

Staying quiet has a cost. It dilutes us.

So this is me, speaking up. The immigrant bargain doesn’t serve us anymore. And it certainly doesn’t serve New Zealand.

P.S. Aunty living in Papatoetoe, kindly share this article in your WhatsApp group.

*JAFA is South Island, New Zealand speak for just another fucking Aucklander.

This article was originally published on 26 April 2026 in the Sunday Star Times.

• What is Parsi green curry?

• Make Parsi green curry at home

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It’s 10.43 pm in Whakatāne. The boys have made the obvious joke about the town’s name (F**ktane) approximately 7,632 times today. It was funny the first 263 times, but I can’t understand how they’re still giggling about it as we wriggle into unfamiliar duvets in our holiday rental.

In the darkness, Narrator Man from Fun Fables comes on. ”Ahh grandma, left her false teeth in the jar,” he sings to the tune of Circle of Life. We’re listening to ‘Not! The Lion King’ on my phone. Also for the 7,632nd time. I’m horrified my kids have been awake for 17 hours and I wonder idly about the judgement the ‘in-bed-by-7pm-moms’ would pass about my parenting skills. Also for the 7632nd time.

But after nine years of being a mum, I know that what I really care about is that we’re done. The negotiations about the pillows, who sleeps where, does the light stay on or off have concluded.

No more “Mum I’m itchy,”
“Mum I need water,”
“Mum I need another hug.”
Just me, the darkness and the Goat King.

If you don’t know who the Goat King is and you have a child, you NEED to listen to the Fun Fables podcast. The creator wanted to make a Lion King episode because his listeners kept asking. Copyright said absolutely not. So he wrote about the Goat King instead. Same energy. Completely different animal.

As ‘Moovefastaa’ (incumbent goat king on farmer McDonald’s farm) and his son ‘Simbaaaah’ talk about how Simbaaaah must absolutely never go to the back paddock, my mind starts forming lists.

“We’re still on holiday brain”, I protest. But it won’t listen.

It’s back to work day after tomorrow. Back to routines. Back to trying to get the boys down at a reasonable time even if they are still on school holidays 26 more days. Back to writing. Sort out mom’s house packing. Book the annual planning meetings with the team at work. Figure out what to write for and ’s curry night round-up submission.

As the ‘goat with a scar on his face who is not called on Scar’ plans his evil coup my phone pings with another reminder. Oh yes, back to planning next week’s dinner as well.

My brain brings up a grainy image of the inside of my fridge and I mentally scan the shelves. Tray of fish in the freezer, bunch of coriander I forgot about, frozen coconut, chillies from mum’s garden. Did I water my curry leaf plant before leaving for Whakatāne? On my phone, Simbaaaah has run away. Instead of cooking and worrying about baby goats he’s learning how to roll in the mud with the pig now that Moovefastaa is dead.

Maybe I should run away, take another week off and forget about the curry post too?

“You are the Goat King. Rememberrr, rememberrrr,” Moovefastaa chastises Simbaaaah in ghost form.

My brain remembers too. Parsi Green Curry.

That ticks all the boxes. Unique curry. Ingredients in the fridge. Funny story (if I listen to Moovefastaa). And easy to cook up as I head back into work.

In the bed, the boys have gone still. Not pretending-still. Real still.

Tomorrow they’ll wake up and make the same joke about Whakatāne. I’ll pack the bags, finish our four hour road-trip back home, put in a load of laundry without removing my travel shoes and head to the deck to water Arjun, my curry leaf plant.

He’s survived another winter like I’m surviving another school holiday. I’ll finish my cup of chai and then make some Parsi green curry. NOT for 7,632nd time. But, close enough.

What is Parsi green curry?

Ahh grandma, left her false teeth in the jar. It sounds nothing like Circle of Life, even if the beat is the same. That’s exactly how I feel about my Parsi green curry. When you hear “green curry,” your brain auto-completes to Thailand. Coconut milk. Lemongrass. Kaffir lime. The sweet-salty-spicy gravy coating your palate in comforting thickness.

Parsi green curry is none of that. It’s boring. Coriander, cumin, raw garlic, green chillies, and grated coconut blitzed into a paste. The kind of curry that doesn’t bother dressing up for guests.

In my family, this was always the fallback. Dolly Mumma’s red curry got the honour of being the heirloom dish. Green curry is the overlooked sibling of Parsi curries. We didn’t even give it a proper name, just calling it by its colour. When I don’t know what else to make and I don’t want Dahi Kadhi, the answer is green curry.

The paste is essentially a basic green coriander and chutney with coconut and a bunch of other spices. Taste umami-ish and confrontational when cooked with meat. Mellow and lazy when cooked with fish. Wholesome if you add in peas and carrots. Indulgent, if there are some boiled eggs floating in there too.

That’s why I love it.

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Make Parsi green curry at home

Ingredients (for six)

For the curry paste

• Half a coconut or 160gm frozen coconut, grated

• 1 large bunch fresh coriander

• 2 tsp cumin seeds

• 6 green chillies

• 1 tsp white sesame seeds

• 10-12 cloves garlic (10–12 cloves)

• 1 fresh or 200gm canned tomato

• Approximately 1.5-2 cups water

For the curry

• Generous glug of oil

• 1 heaped tbsp wheat flour or chickpea flour

• 2-3 stalks curry leaves

• 1.5 tsp turmeric powder

• 1.5 tsp red chilli powder

• 1.5 tsp curry powder

• 2 potatoes, cubed

• Salt

• Protein of your choice

For the protein marinade

• If using fish, marinate with pinch of turmeric powder, 1 tsp red chilli powder and salt.

• If using red meat, marinate with salt and 1-2 tbsp ginger-garlic paste.

• If using paneer, no need to marinate but highly recommend pan frying them first so they retain their shape.

Method

• In a small pan, lightly toast the cumin seeds and sesame seeds.

• Marinate the protein of your choice.

• In a food processor, add in the seeds, garlic, coriander, chillies and tomato. Give it a quick grind.

• Then, add in the grated coconut, about half the water and grind. Keep adding water as needed. You want a smooth and green paste.

• Next, we must fry the masala. This is an important step you often won’t see in reels which gives you a smooth, thick curry rather than something watery. To do this, heat oil to a saucepan and then flour. Fry the flour until it looks like breadcrumbs before adding the paste.

• Add in the turmeric, chilli powder and curry powder as well as the ground curry paste. At this point, you might need a little more oil. Fry this paste until oil releases from the sides of the pan. It will smell sharp and pungent – that’s correct.

• Add 2-3 cups of water, potates, curry leaves, and the protein of your choice .

• Red meat requires longer to cook so I recommend adding more water. If you’re using fish, only add that into your curry once the potatoes are 3/4 cooked. Vegetables such as peas and carrots can be added the same time as your potatoes. For hard-boiled eggs, you can boil these inside your curry itself. as it simmers.

• Cover and let your curry simmer for atleast 15-20 minutes until everything is cooked. If its too liquidy, uncover and allow the water to boil off.

• Serve with steamed white rice and a simple onion/coriander/tomato salad. Don’t forget the squeeze of lemon.

That chapter — Home is where no one flinches — is now officially out in the world!!!

The book, Tāmaki Makaurau 2025: Essays on Life in Auckland, is an anthology edited by Damien Levi and published by Auckland Council Libraries. I’m deeply honoured to be the only South Asian voice in the collection, and quietly (okay, loudly) thrilled to finally call myself a published author.

I wanted to share one of my favourite moments from the chapter — a scene that captures how much Auckland, and I, have changed.

In many ways, Tāmaki Makaurau has changed vividly from the city I grew up in. The change stares me in the face every day when I pack my kids’ lunchboxes.

Yes, they like chicken nuggets and hot dogs, but homemade dosas, Monaco or Parle-G biscuits and parathas with cheese are part of our weekly rotation too. When I first introduced these to their boxes, I was afraid. Afraid to hold the line and insist they eat it when their mother, the hypocrite, had rejected any lunchbox item that gave away that she was Indian. But the push-back never came. In fact, when their friends came for a playdate, they asked if I could make everyone dosas!

The place where I notice it the most? In the way people show up at my Indian food walks in Sandringham.

Curious. Open. Hungry—not just for food.

On a chilly Saturday last June, we stood huddled under umbrellas near the Mumbai Vada Pav and Chaiwalla Bhai food trucks. The air was thick with the smell of cardamom and deep-fried goodness. I rushed to explain why I loved vada pav so much, assuming, wrongly, that my guests were just being polite. That they’d rather escape the rain.

That the smell might be too . . . Indian-y. No. Instead, someone asks, “What’s the batter made of?”

“Ground chickpea flour,” I reply.

“Oh—so, that’s besan, right?”

Another guest asks, “Is it vinegar in the red chutney that makes it sour?”

“Nope,” I smile, sharing a secret. “Tamarind.”

I wasn’t being quizzed, I realise. They wanted to know. To hear why I think vada pav—hot, deep-fried potato patties tucked inside pillowy bread, doused in sweet-spicy chutneys and garlicky peanut powder—tastes best in the rain.

You know who surprised me most? My people.

These food trucks sit in a very Indian part of Sandringham Road. No matter the time, you’ll find loud Indian families laughing over thermocol cups of chai, or someone shouting “Ek sandwich bas na!” to a cousin 50 metres away.

I’m always bracing for judgment. Watching out for a side-eye for bringing flatwhite drinkers—or worse, chai latte sympathisers—to a stall that only serves masala chai. The original milky, sugary, cardamom-y goodness. Straight out of their giant aluminium kettle. No soy. No lite. No milk froth fern.

Instead, two people tap my shoulder and say, “What lovely stories you tell. Thank you for sharing a part of us so nicely. I would never have explained chai so well. Next time, I will try too.”

[Mum joined one of my walks too.] She burst out laughing at my final stop. “A park bench?” she cackled. “This is where you feed people?”

It was the one by the steep yellow slide, decorated with a chipped red-and-white checkerboard plastic top. I ignored her wide eyes as I opened a giant plastic box, filled to the brim with lamb biryani and chicken 65.

I launched straight into my usual spiel—asking the crowd their theories on why chicken 65 is called what it is—before dishing out saffron-laced rice and cool, tangy raita to a circle of strangers.

Not caring who saw. Or smelled us. Or if they thought we were too much.

“Maybe she’ll feed you all akoori on the beach next,” Mum told my guests while we hugged each other goodbye. I blushed. Tomato red.

Purchase a copy of Tāmaki Makaurau 2025

Funny how life loops back on itself.

I spent my teens praying no one could smell my lunch. Now, showing people the Indian part of Tāmaki Makaurau (and sharing food-themed metaphors) has become one of my favourite ways to understand myself.

Writing this chapter made me realise how far I’ve travelled. From the girl who hid her lunchbox to the woman who proudly explains tamarind to a group of strangers and then encourages them to tie rakhis on each other outside an Indian grocery store.

If you’d like to experience this scene beyond the page, I run Indian food walks in Sandringham. We’ll eat vada pav in the rain (or sunshine), drink masala chai from giant kettles, and indulge in biryani on a park bench. There’ll be stories in every bite, and you’ll leave having discovered a part of Auckland that’s been hiding in plain sight.

Private Indian food walk in Sandringham

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• Jump to the full recipe

• What is Kid Gosht?

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Thank god I didn’t delete that almost-sounds-like-spam email.

It said:

“We are a leading MNC based out in Coimbatore. Blah blah blah, we would like to meet you to discuss the possibility of you being our consultant for the Parsi restaurant we are planning.

Blah blah blah. Would an appointment on 9 August work”

They couldn't possibly think that I could consult for a restaurant.

Me.

The girl who started writing about Parsi food so she didn’t lose the recipes her mum dictated to her over the phone.

We met in the lobby of J.W. Marriott, where I was hosting my first-ever Parsi food festival in the lead-up to Parsi New Year. Ignoring my sweaty palms, I looked at myself in the mirror as I did the Superman pose. I had read somewhere it helps you appear more confident.

What followed was an hour of being grilled.

Five offbeat Parsi dishes. Was I aware of Bhicoo Maneckshaw’s Parsi Food and Customs? My favourite Akoori. Had I worked with chefs before and could I manage their tantrums? My thoughts on Dhansak. What might the menu at my dream Parsi restaurant look like? On and on it went.

At night I couldn’t even remember what I had rattled off. I was still coming off the high. Grateful to have even been asked. Putting the finishing touches on the proposal, I called Dad to see if I had the figures right.

He demanded I triple my figure. Was he mad?

I wanted this. Bad enough to do it for free. I rolled my eyes. Grumbled he was being unrealistic. Surely, they are getting comparative quotes from the likes of Parsi experts such as Kurush Dalal and Anahita Dhondy, too. My lower price would make me attractive, I insisted.

“You’re pricing yourself like a blogger. Triple the fee, or I won’t help”, he threatened. Muttering in disbelief, my heart racing, I changed the figure. Hit send before I could change my mind.

“We’ve only got six more hours to go. Stop dawdling”, said Dad loudly in my left ear.

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Filter coffee spilling out of my cup, I stumbled out of my reverie. Six hours. 360 minutes. We’d need as many of those as possible to make sure the mutton in my Kid Gosht was perfectly tender.

The Managing Director hadn’t shared a single line of opposition. So long as I came on this all expenses paid trip to Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu and cooked him a spread for his 40th birthday.

The final test.

In the kitchen, Dad and I cooked in comfortable silence. Before this trip, I didn’t even know he knew so much about Parsi food. He probably never had to stand in the superman pose, my brain told me, as I waited for the onions to surrender in the hot oil and change colour.

The Kid Gosht we were making tonight might be Dad’s recipe, but it was me who suggested the cashew paste to make it thick. Me who recommended blitzing the gravy, so that the cinnamon and star anise that had been lazily floating in the Kid Gosht wasn’t over-powering. And me, that was busy ordering the chefs around so everything would be ready in time.

Kebabs ready to fry. Check

Patra ni Machchi steamed. Check

Mutton Pulao layered and smoking. Check. It was time.

At 8 PM sharp, the guests started trickling in, and we revealed the spread. Mint, cardamom and that ‘freshly fried’ aroma filling the air

The Managing Director asked if I'd like a vodka now that the hard bit was done. Lifting my chin, a bright smile on my face, I headed with him to meet his friends. Debated my hypothesis about Dhansak being overrated. Made the crowd laugh with the story of my Patra ni Machchi redemption. Confidence buzzed in my veins with each story while my eyes kept track of the second and third servings the guests were taking.

At midnight, I took stock. Bowls scraped clean. The staff meal I’d made for the cooks who helped me, lonely in the fridge waiting to be eaten.

Dad’s eyes twinkled as he caught me whispering to myself, “What hungus people! Thank God I charged triple.”

Looks like I didn’t need that superman pose after all.

What is Kid Gosht?

Kid Gosht used to be a regular fixture at many Parsi weddings and navjotes a decade or two earlier, but sadly, it’s not seen much these days. From scrolling through various food groups, I learned that Kid Gosht came to be named so because of the tender baby goat that used to be used to make the dish. Or maybe, it was a mutton dish parents made exclusively for their kids? Ergo, Kid Gosht?

There are often two versions of the recipe. One uses coconut cream to thicken the gravy, and another uses a paste of cashews soaked in milk. You can use either or, like me, use both! No such thing as extra creaminess!

Not many people know of Kid Gosht outside the Parsi community, and I want to spread the love. It’s perfect for spice-averse Indian food beginners as it only has a handful of spices and most of the flavour comes from the meat being cooked in its own juices.

A final note. A menu at an Indian takeaway where they serve chicken, lamb and paneer versions of every gravy might make you believe that a chicken or paneer version of this recipe will be just as tasty as Kid Gosht. I’ve tried the swaps, and for this one, at least, red meat works best.

Ingredients - makes enough for 4-6 people

For the marination
800 gm lamb or goat meat, with bones
1 heaped tsp ginger paste
1 heaped tsp garlic paste
2 tsp salt

For the cashew paste
100gm broken cashews
150ml milk

For the gravy
4 tbsp ghee or oil
1-3 cm cinnamon stick
4 star anise
6-7 green cardamom, roughly crushed
3-4 green chillies, slit
2 big onions, finely chopped
1 tsp black pepper, crushed
300ml mutton stock
3 potatoes, cubed to medium pieces
400ml coconut cream
Handful of coriander, finely chopped
Salt to taste

Method

1. Marinate the meat in salt, ginger and garlic paste. Ideally, the meat should marinate overnight but otherwise, allow it to marinate for at least an hour.

2. Pour the milk into a bowl. Soak the cashew pieces in the milk for approximately 30 minutes. Grind to make a paste. Set aside.

3. In a pressure cooker, add 2 tbsp ghee/oil. When the oil is hot, add the meat and allow it to brown for 5-6 minutes. Add two cups of water (ensuring the meat is submerged) to the meat. Close the lid and cook on high heat until the cooker comes to pressure. At that point, lower the heat to medium and pressure cook for 35-40 minutes until the meat is tender**

4. While the meat is cooking, get those onions chopped, the spices ready on a tray and the coriander chopped.

5. Once the meat is cooked, heat up 2 tbsp ghee/oil in a large crockpot or saucepan. Once hot, add in the cinnamon stick, cardamom, star anise and green chilli. Saute until lightly brown, about a minute. Then, add in your chopped onions.

6. Saute the onions on medium heat until they are translucent. This will take longer than you think. If the mixture gets too dry, sprinkle in some water, and that will help the onions cook too.

7. When the onions are soft, add in the potatoes, cashew paste, mutton stock and black pepper. Cover and allow the potatoes to cook for 7-10 minutes.

8. Once the potatoes are tender, add in the cooked meat as well as the coconut cream. At this point, your gravy will be quite liquidy. Now, lower the heat and cook the gravy for 20 - 30 minutes until it all comes together. The gravy will thicken once it gets cold so I wouldn’t make it too dry, especially if you plan on eating the Kid Gosht with rice.

9. Adjust the seasoning if needed. Garnish with coriander and, you’re done!

Notes:

• If you don’t have a pressure cooker, you can use an instant pot.

• Alternatively, brown the meat in a frying pan. Add the meat and water to a crockpot. Cover and cook the meat in a pre-heated oven for about an hour.

Have questions as you’re cooking? Let me know and I’m happy to help!

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Just like I must eat hot, freshly fried pakora—ideally potato and chili bhajiya—on a cold, rainy day, I will have something to say if you tell me your favorite Indian dish is butter chicken.

Yep, I’m your friendly, neighbourhood Spiderman butter chicken police.

Recently, BBC, NPR, Bloomberg, and The New York Times have reported on butter chicken. In India, where there are at least 5.8 million pending high court cases, the Gujral family, owners of Moti Mahal (home of butter chicken), have sued rival restaurant Daryaganj, accusing them of falsely claiming to have invented butter chicken.

Monish’s quote, “You can’t take away someone’s legacy.” is littered across hundreds of publications covering this case.

Here’s where I start to “laumace.” My own word: when you laugh and grimace because you don’t know how to deal with the ridiculousness of it all.

What legacy?

Murgh Makhani versus Butter Chicken

Growing up in the 90s in India, I loved nothing more than an over-the-top, sitar playing in the background, walls decked out in red and gold while we sat on colorful cushions and stared at the large stone elephant, Indian restaurant.

Murgh Makhani (aka butter chicken) with buttery garlic naan was always on our order if we went to one of these restaurants. And, like any sensible person with half a brain, I loved it.

At eight, I didn’t know the chicken was yum because of fenugreek’s umami or that soaked cashews made the tomato gravy velvety smooth just as much as the cream did. But, I remember the earthy taste of marinated, tandoori chicken lazing around in the gravy. I remember wanting mum to tear a piece of her naan so I could wipe clean the last Murgh Makhani left in the serving bowl. And I remember feeling like everything was right with the world as my full tummy lulled me to sleep in the back of Dad’s Maruti 500 on the way home.

Compare that to my first butter chicken at Pakuranga Plaza in New Zealand at age 15, as a fresh-off-the-boat immigrant. My homesickness was cured temporarily as I hungrily dipped my buttery naan into some very bright, orange butter chicken (maybe it was the lights in the mall?).

It tasted familiar. But strange.

Later, while trying to get the orange stains off my fingers in the bathroom, I felt like I had a 5kg rock resting at the bottom of my stomach that I needed to burp out.

Murgh Makhani’s celebrity makeover into butter chicken reflects the journey the migrant cooks who made the dish popular went on themselves. In the 1950s, as Indians—mainly north Indians—began migrating to countries like the UK, the US, Canada, and Australia, they took their food traditions with them. The entrepreneurial types (and migrants stuck in the loop of “you don’t have <insert country> experience, but we won’t give you a job so you can get <insert country> experience”) opened curry houses and takeaway joints. First, their customers were other Indians craving home. Later, locals came, too.

And so began Murgh Makhani’s evolution into the sweet, excessively creamy, one-dimensional butter chicken we know now.

Taste matters. But not as much as money.

Most Indian restaurants (in New Zealand at least) serve the same 30 dishes no matter where you go, and butter chicken tops that list. Just in small little NZ, the term “butter chicken” has an average monthly search volume of 400,000 hits, and a Gisbourne takeaway—population, 38,000—made the news in lockdown for selling 1300 plates of butter chicken in a single day.

And that’s before we address that there’s now a butter chicken version of everything you can imagine. Butter chicken enchiladas. Butter chicken tacos. Butter chicken pie. Butter chicken sushi made with biryani rice! And, butter chicken pizza (which tastes good so long as you’re not dipping a cheese pizza into butter chicken gravy!)

Food blogger Kalyan Karmakar describes butter chicken as an ‘Olympic’ brand within the Millward Brown brand dynamics framework. He explains that an Olympic brand has exponential awareness and consumption. It’s unlikely another Indian dish will challenge butter chicken’s position in the near future.

If Monish Gujral won the case, he could close Moti Mahal and simply sue every place serving butter chicken for ruining Murgh Makhani. He’d become a trillionaire.

What does AI know about food?

Apparently, very soon, AI will help us learn just about anything we fancy. Cure cancer and unlock world peace. So late at night the other day, I found myself typing into ChatGPT, “How can we rid the world of bad butter chicken?” Sadly, he? she? had no good ideas.

The challenge is not about cooking a better version of butter chicken or improving technique. The challenge is not about using better ingredients like cashews, ghee and fenugreek leaves rather than just tomato paste, garam masala, and cream.

And, the challenge is certainly not about establishing some sort of butter chicken protection law.

It’s about embracing diversity.

India is a country of countries. The cuisine changes every 100km you travel, and you could cook a new Indian dish every day until you die without running out of options.

If AI can’t directly cure the world of bad butter chicken, what role can it play?

Change begins at home

Food is subjective. The food you like may not necessarily be the food I enjoy. We’re also lazy. And busy. This is why, despite being surrounded by thousands of recipes, cookbooks, and food apps, we still cook the same thirty dishes. On repeat. Even though they bore us to death.

But one of the ways we can use AI to go beyond butter chicken is by discovering your taste. Evan Armstrong, who has written about using AI to discover your taste in writing, explains that “knowing what to make is just as important as the ability to make it.”

The same applies to Indian cooking. You likely keep cooking butter chicken, Tikka Masala, and Saag Aloo on repeat because you know it’s something you and the family will enjoy.

Instead of asking Claude for a better butter chicken recipe, what if you used it to discover what you specifically love about the dish? Is it the rich, creamy mouth feel? Or perhaps you enjoy the mild tomato gravy? Maybe it’s the light smokiness.

Now, ask AI for five other dishes to replicate those same taste elements.

You could also use AI to improve familiarity with spices. Imagine you only have the most basic spices at home—cumin, turmeric, mustard seeds—and a head of cabbage to use up. What could you do? Ask Claude.

The role of AI in restaurants

In the UK, Londoners are moving away from stereotypes of Indian food. The city now has Chourangi, specializing in food from Kolkata; Trishna, which provides a taste of coastal cooking; and Gunpowder, where there’s no naan on the menu! UK-based food writer, Mallika Basu says, “The pattern I’ve seen is that diners first experience Indian food at a curry house, then demand elevated, more authentic versions of those dishes and finally, they are ready to experience India’s regional nuances. It’s a journey.”

Could AI help fast-track this journey?

Food apps like Delivereasy and UberEats are already using AI to get you to order more food, more frequently. What if the single-minded sales focus changed to an educational lens? Maybe the next time someone orders butter chicken, they’ll see a side recommendation for Keralan Fish Curry or Awadhi Mutton Korma. Something similar enough to be approachable, but new enough to spark curiosity.

Whenever we go out, I’m the default family member who orders for the table. To cure my decision anxiety, I always ask the waiter for their favorite dish or scan the last five dishes on the menu, where the chef sneaks in the dishes they’d like you to try.

Waiters and restaurant owners could use AI to personalize their recommendations at scale. Instead of training waiters to “recommend” their most expensive dishes, they could suggest Mughlai Chicken to customers who love creamy dishes. Or recommend a new kind of Dahl to customers that order Dahl on repeat.

My favorite part of my catering business in India was partnering with hotels and restaurants to run Parsi food festivals. Not the ones who just wanted me to serve Dhansak and Patra ni Machchi—the butter chicken equivalents of Parsi food. Instead, I hosted festivals on rare Parsi wedding treats and another focused on a Parsi vegetarian breakfast.

AI could analyze sales data and assist our local takeaway to highlight regional or seasonal dishes. Imagine. At a takeaway where fried dishes are bestsellers, you might find a “Monsoon Flavors” menu. They’ve got your favorite “onion bhajji” but you can also try Bread Pakora, Vada Pao and Banana Bhajji’s now.

Or, at a restaurant where South Indian dishes perform better, chefs can use AI to introduce new South Indian dishes that still align with customers’ taste preferences. It can also then help curry house cooks, typically with limited knowledge of regional Indian food, find a good recipe.

Yes, radioactive orange butter chicken could be kept warm in a chafing dish for customers jonesing for their butter chicken fix. However, adventurous customers could go beyond their usual orders and start exploring India’s food diversity.

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AI can help food media shift the conversation

If I see a recipe for Saagwala or Butter Chicken that mentions garam masala and no other spice, I intuitively know a white journalist or some Instagram celebrity wrote the column. Same with Dahl Makhani made with the wrong type of lentil (the title, “lentil curry,” is the clue). What we cook next Sunday can change depending on the dishes the mainstream media chooses to focus on. Who writes these recipes also matters.

To cover the butter chicken feud, the Asia New Zealand Foundation sponsored a NZ-based food writer to try the “original” Murgh Makhani at Moti Mahal. But during their taste test, rival Daryaganj won. I didn’t mind who the winner was until I read why.

It was because, “Their [Daryaganj] curry had boneless chicken chunks doused in a rich, sweeter butter curry. It was similar to those I’ve tried at Indian restaurants back in New Zealand.”

This is not an isolated case. Author Nayantara Dutta succinctly shares my frustration. “In the West, people view Indian food through the lens of takeout". Since the media mostly echoes what the public wants (or thinks they want), the stuff that gets published has to be “the right level” of ethnicity. It can’t be “too brown” or “too white.”

But perhaps, AI can cure these writers and editors from their butter chicken obsession?

What if food editors used AI algorithms to detect patterns in user behavior, like the growing popularity of certain ingredients or seasonal recipes? Instead of 1281 columns on turmeric latte being the next super-food, they could commission an Indian food writer to explain why turmeric is always used in Indian marinades or create a listicle about Indian sweets featuring turmeric.

Larger outlets with bigger budgets could explore content personalization that challenges stereotypes about Indian food. By analyzing a reader’s browsing history and recipe interactions, the algorithm might suggest articles that are slightly outside their comfort zone but still aligned with their taste.

Dish NZ’s readers who have clicked on their Dahi Puri recipe more than five times might see an article about India’s ten favorite chaat dishes, an article discussing regional nuances between Dahi Bhalla and Dahi Vada or, if they are health food inclined, a video about Sweet Potato Makhana Chaat that’s more protein-rich. This stepping-stone approach would help readers explore new flavours or dishes in a way that feels approachable while broadening readers’ palates.

Who will win the butter chicken feud?

The high-court case about butter chicken isn’t the first food dispute in India. In 2018, the Delhi High Court heard a case where two kebab shops were vying for the brand name “Tunday Kebab,” a lightly-spiced kebab made of minced meat that has almost become synonymous with the city of Lucknow, India. Closer to home in New Zealand, it’s not officially summer until I argue with a friend or colleague from Australia about the origins of Pavlova.

I don’t know who will win the butter chicken feud. Given how slowly justice is served in India, my word laumace might have entered the Oxford dictionary before then.

Instead, I’m counting on all of us who are curious about AI. Collectively, we can use AI to make butter chicken less famous.

Maybe, just maybe, on the day the court announces the resolution restaurants will not make big vats of radioactive orange butter chicken. Nor will the media share another butter chicken recipe featuring chicken breast and garam masala.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll laumace upon reading the headlines. Before heading into the kitchen to roll out some Aloo Paratha or whip up a Parsi Akoori.

Have you used AI in your cooking, eating, food writing? I’d love to hear your thoughts

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P.S. Parts of this post was originally written for an interview I did with Foodstack, sharing the ins and outs of my kitchen for their series, Other People’s Kitchen

Depending on the day you ask me, I'll tell you I'm from New Zealand, India or Iran.

The first two, I've lived in for equal parts of my life. And Iran, because I'm a Parsi Zoroastrian. While I've never stepped foot in Iran, my ancestors were from there. In New Zealand, we use a pepeha to introduce ourselves formally. to share the people and places that are most important to us, that define who we are. Rather than starting with our name, we begin with the places most important to us (often a mountain and a body of water) move onto our community and family and finally, share our name.

Here’s mine:

Ko Damavand te maunga - Mt Damavand is the mountain I call home
Ko Arabian te moana - The Arabian Sea is the water body closest to me
Ko Parsi te hāpu - Parsis are my tribe, my community
Ko Patel tōku whānau - I'm part of the Patel family
Kei Tāmaki Makaurau ahau e noho ana - I live in Auckland
Ko Perzen tōku ingoa - my name is Perzen

Like other Indian immigrants, I've always had a complicated relationship with the food I grew up eating. Butter chicken, turmeric latte, naan bread. I have something to say about all of those and more, but especially butter chicken!

My Kitchen: Where the Magic Happens

Fun fact. When we were shopping around for a home, the first thing my husband would look for was a large bedroom. And me? A large kitchen of course. Ideally one with two pantries. I didn't know when I'd get so lucky again as to find a kitchen with two pantries, two ovens and a gas stove. That's when I knew we absolutely had to buy this house.

Our kitchen is where all the action happens. One pantry is devoted to the business, and one is used for all my experimental cooking. When we're not preparing curry pastes for our family business, I'm toodling around in there trying to use up whatever is left in the fridge. My kids know I'm probably in the kitchen if I don't reply to them.

Aside from the pantries and ovens, my favourite part of the kitchen is that it's open plan. I grew up in a house where the kitchen was in a far-flung part of the house, and if you were cooking in there for family or guests, you couldn't be part of the conversation. It was like you were being punished. I consequently love my kitchen, where family and guests can gather around and chat (or make themselves useful and brew a pot of chai) while I wash the dishes.

Kitchen Must-Haves

Kitchen gadget shopping is my favourite kind of shopping! When we bought this house however, I promised myself I wouldn't clutter it with gadgets and kitchen utensils that I hardly used and I’ve mostly stuck to that promise plus or minus a few cast iron pans and silicon spatulas

My Thermomix is my trusty workhorse. We use it for the business multiple days a day, after which it does a night shift for dinner. I'm also in love with my half oven, which heats up super quick, and my miniature tadka pan for all things tadka, kettle, air-fryer and panini grill (the new one I got allows you to adjust the height so all your sandwiches don't get totally squashed, magic!).

Cast iron pans aside, my most treasured utensil is my traditional patio tapeli.

I typically use it to make my Lagan no Patio (a traditional, sweet and sour tomato-based gravy served with poached fish). I share custody of this utensil with my mum and it’s engraved with H N Darukhanawalla, my grandfather’s name.

Darukhanawalla is my maiden name. The literal Hindi translation means walla: ‘owner, or person who does something’, with 'daru', stands for alcohol and 'khana', stands for food. When I studied hospitality, my lecturer would always joke that, my surname was very suited to me.

Kitchen improvements

I love my kitchen but it doesn’t make good use of available space. I’d love if my pantry shelves were actually pantry drawers. This way I could put things at the back of a shelf or at the bottom of a pantry and still be able to easily access it.

I’d also love one of the knife magnets, spoons hanging down from the ceiling on hooks and a herb wall but I’m a #boymom so even as I close my eyes to imagine these in my kitchen all I see is my six-year-old hanging off the wall contraption or dangerous “sword” play I’d rather not have.

Pantries, fridges and my favourite meal

Items that are always in my fridge are... curry leaves and coriander because they are my go-to herbs for just about any kind of food I make. I always have a stock of carrots because I hide them in all the meals I make for my kids and broccoli because my son likes to open the fridge and nibble on it raw. Aside from that, there's always a big block of cheese. We are a cheese-loving family.

My pantry is full of... all kinds of sauces and spices. I have storage baskets for different kinds of cuisine so my south-east Asian ingredients like fish sauce, oyster sauce etc stay there and I have another basket for all my pastas and couscous and then shelves for my Indian spices. Now that I have a Thermomix at home I also make sauces and spice blends myself at home. I do that when the mood gets me once in a couple of months and that leaves me with plenty of flavours I can experiment with.

My favourite ingredient to cook with is... onions. I often find myself cutting a couple before I have decided what I am cooking and they are just so versatile and tasty!

My go-to meal is... a bowl of dahl. I love lentils and could have them every night of the week, making different kinds of preparations using them. Being Parsi, my favourite is Dhandar, a simple preparation made using yellow split peas, ghee, turmeric, garlic and cumin. If I've been away travelling for a long time or if I am happy or if I am upset, plain, yellow dahl topped with a simple ghee-garlic-cumin tadka is soul food.

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From India to New Zealand and Back Again

I've migrated from India to New Zealand as a teenager. From New Zealand back to India as a bride. And from India back to New Zealand as a mother.

Each time, it was like moving to an entirely new country.

I remember my second week in a new college where I stumbled into a classroom full of 15-year-old boys shouting "Penis. Penis. Penis." and was embarrassed heating up my box of leftover masala potatoes. That was the start of my journey, rejecting the food I grew up eating in my bid to desperately assimilate in a new country.

As a result, when I moved back to India after five years in a long-distance relationship, I knew nothing about cooking Indian food. For date night one day, I decided to cook Chana Masala. First I added too many tomatoes. Then, it was too spicy. Over the course of our ten years of married life, I've recounted that date night many times and you’ll have to read the full post to know why.

Dolly Mumma: From Grandma's Kitchen to Yours

As a kid, I used to go to my grandma, Dolly Mumma's house every weekend and she'd always make me her amazing curry for lunch. Once she cuddled and asked me what I wanted to inherit from her. I innocently told her that all I really wanted was a big, never-ending bowl of her curry that I could always have and remember her by.

When we moved to New Zealand, it took some time adjusting to having to cook all the meals all the time. I'd spend every weekend making various curry pastes so that I had shortcuts in the fridge to make weeknight cooking easier.

One night over dinner I was complaining about the Kiwi obsession with radioactive orange butter chicken and how they all needed a taste of real Indian food. My husband Rushad, sales genius extraordinaire, convinced me I had to bottle up my pastes and see if there was a market for them.

We decided to name our business Dolly Mumma because both my mumma and Rushad’s maternal grandma was named Dolly. To encapsulate everything we’ve learned about good food from them.

In October 2020, we did our first farmers' market, and 100+ weekends later, we now have a thriving small food business that both Rushad and I run together, selling curry pastes and spice blends across New Zealand.

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On cookbooks

I’m an avid reader of just about every type of book. When we moved to New Zealand, I had to cull my book collection and give away most of it. The only books I’ve kept are a few (okay, about 20) collectables, mostly ones about regional Indian food. I rarely take my cookbooks into the kitchen to cook. For me, they are my bedtime or weekend reading when I want to learn something new.

A guest I interviewed for my podcast once described cookbooks as history books and it’s something I’ve taken to heart. Perhaps my favourite book in my small collection is Parsi Food and Customs by Bhicoo Maneckshaw.

The book contains no pictures and only a handful of illustrations, but I learned a lot about my community’s heritage from that book. The section on vegetables starts with Bhicoo sharing, “one seldom heard of a Parsi vegetarian in my youth” while the section on eggs includes a recipe that once called for eight eggs and 500gm of ghee!

I haven’t written a cookbook yet, but I want to! In my head, it’s a culinary memoir that shares the story of me falling out of love and then, back in love, with Indian food. I’m tentatively calling it Butter Chicken Police. Read a few draft chapters and give me your feedback?

Three spice tips

1. If you cook with more than 3-4 spices, you need a Masala Dabba in your kitchen. An unassuming steel box containing seven steel bowls, a masala dabba is to the indian kitchen what an oven is to the western kitchen: a necessity.

2. If you're grinding your own spice blends or using whole spices in your cooking, you must dry roast them first, ideally individually. Dry roasting spices allows them to bloom and release their full flavour. This seemingly unnecessary step is what makes your curries go from meh to mwah (chef's kiss).

3. I used to roll my eyes behind my mother-in-law's back for buying spice packets in 50gm sizes but I've learned that spices, especially spice blends, lose their aroma rapidly. Buying them in smaller quantities means you ended up using the spices when they taste best.

Here on Substack, I share food stories, recipes and host online cooking classes.

By telling you the stories of my misadventures in food and life, I hope to inspire you in your journey beyond radioactive orange butter chicken and show you how simple and forgiving Indian food can be.

That in fact, Indian food can be made in any home, even yours.

Arohanui, Perzen 🍛✨

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To cook. Just because. Instead of cooking to feed the troops.

I’ve not used a cookbook in months. My favourite kitchen gadget is a Thermomix. This means that if I’m looking to cook something outside of the 25 or so dishes in my regular rotation, I use my Cookidoo subscription, type in the ingredient I’d like to use and then choose the dish with the lowest cooking time.

I don’t even have a cookbook collection anymore. Maybe only fifteen or so books that have been collecting dust on the top-most shelf of our bookshelf. I promised myself this year that I wouldn’t buy any new cookbooks until I had cooked atleast one thing from each of the cookbooks I already own.

But my Notes feed is crowded with foodies showing off their cookbook collections. And there’s been so much interesting discourse about cookbooks on my feed too. It got me thinking. When did the humble cookbook transform from being a book of utility to a collectible? And, why do we keep buying cookbooks we might never use?

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What is the value of most cookbooks?

, Local Bread Baker

Olga begins her piece with, “IF I SEE ANOTHER celebrity or personality cookbook, I will explode”. And, I agree.

“What are these cookbooks offering to their readers? What is their value? Is it simply another product to sell to make money? I’m afraid it’s more nefarious than that. These cookbooks are in the business of selling their readers a certain type of lifestyle, a certain type of femininity, and certain types of social and personal aspirations. These cookbooks are sold on whatever “perfect life” the consumer thinks they want. Don’t get me started on diet cookbooks.”

Read the full post: Stop buying shitty cookbooks, a short rant

On collecting mostly unreliable cookbooks

, Recipe Graveyard

Hannah is the opposite of me. She has a vast cookbook collection. An entire plastic tote of diet books from the 1980-90s, an entire shelf of vintage Betty Crocker and four boxes of brand booklets covering everything from baking soda to Crisco. Hannah admits it. She collects bad cookbooks. But why?

“I don’t buy and collect these books with the expectation they’ll be reliable. Many of them, I have no desire to cook from at all (looking at you, Butter Busters). For me, these books are essential to telling one of society’s most fundamental stories: how we feed ourselves. Going through a box at an antique store and realizing you’ve found the exact same Pillsbury Cookbook from 1980 that your mother used as her culinary bible is an unrivaled emotional experience.”

Read the full post: In defense of bad cookbooks

Can food blogs replace cookbooks?

Erin, The Suburb Farm

Food blogs seem to get more sophisticated every year. The most successful ones have drool-worthy photography, recipes that have been tested multiple times and vulnerable stories. But we don’t seem to collect food blogs the way we collect cookbooks or old recipe cards.

“The food someone made was so delicious that you wanted to replicate the taste, or you remember a certain dish from your childhood, so you asked some version of the timeless question: Could I have the recipe? Chances are that you kept the physical paper recipe, rather than digitizing it and throwing away the original. The faded ink handwriting is unique to the recipe writer, and the grease stains on the paper attest to the recipe’s authenticity”

Read the full post: Preserving the old ways

Buying cookbooks when we’re drowning in recipes

Anne Helen Petersen,

We’re drowning in recipes. I have atleast fifty saved on Instagram, a similar number on tiktok and subscribe to 60+ food substacks. Not to mention the thousands of recipes available to me via Cookidoo and the various foodie Facebook groups I’m a part of. So what’s the role of the humble cookbook here?

“I maybe buy like a new one (cookbook) every month or so. And I'm realizing that increasingly I'm reading them like in bed, like novels, more than I'm reading them like actual cookbooks to cook from. I use my cookbooks sometimes, but honestly, I find myself overwhelmed. I’ve got so many now, and the digital space adds another layer. It feels like I’m drowning in recipes from everywhere, and cookbooks become more about nostalgia. I used to dive into them for actual cooking, but now they serve more like inspiration or even entertainment—while the online recipe world becomes this endless, chaotic resource.”

Listen to the full podcast episode: Cooking in the age of infinite recipes

Yet, we all persist with wanting to write a cookbook

, Not So Secret Agent

Sometimes, we yearn to do things that make no practical sense. For a while in 2024, I was knitting flowers. And for many years now, I’ve dreamed of writing a cookbook. Despite knowing how hard it is to get a cookbook published. If you simply MUST write a cookbook, then check out what might just be the best cookbook proposal guide on Substack

“If you want to write a cookbook, you need to start by writing a book proposal. Sure, there are exceptions to this rule. But generally speaking, even if a publisher approaches you directly or you want to self-publish, I am on team book proposal. Why? The book proposal is the business plan for your book. It is the who, what, where, when, and why”

Save the full guide somewhere safe: Cookbook Proposal Guidelines

But beware, you might hate your first cookbook

, L’Appetito

Earlier this year, my decade-old food blog on WordPress self-imploded. Okay fine, I forgot to renew the hosting. And now, I’m trying to find a new home for the 150+ recipes I put out into the world at that time. People keep asking for these recipes via DMs and yet, I procrastinate. Why? Reading through my early work makes me cringe. Which is why I found this post by Valentina so poignant.

“…I have a hard time leafing through my first book. One very wise person once said that you need to get rid of your first book (or album) to finally write all the others. All artists struggle with having to come face to face with their first work. It’s the nature of constant evolving: the further down you walk the path, the more distant your point of beginning blurs behind the horizon. While this is definitely not true for everyone, sometimes, the only way to start is to accept that you might have to put immature work into the world - especially when you start young”

Read the full post: I hated my first cookbook

Maybe what we all really want is a legacy cookbook

, Sunny Side Breakfasts and Desserts

One of the first posts I wrote on my food blog and the recipe I share to date is my Dolly Mumma’s Prawn Curry. It’s special because neither mum nor I could make our prawn curry taste like her prawn curry. Part of the reason I want to write a memoir-ish cookbook is for my sons.

“Inspired by my death doula training, I began reflecting on what food has meant to my own family and decided to create what I like to call a ‘legacy cookbook.’ Am I terminally ill? Well, in a sense, yes — aren't we all? No one is getting out of here alive. But in another sense, no — I hope to have many years ahead of me. Either way, this cookbook is my way of ensuring my family will always feel my love — even after I’m gone. A legacy cookbook isn’t just a collection of recipes — it’s a way to pass on affection, memories, and connection through the dishes that tell your life story. It is a way to reach across time”

Read the full post: What is a legacy cookbook? 

Cookbooks in my cart

I might have decided not to buy any new cookbooks but that doesn’t stop me from adding them to my Amazon cart! I’m lucky that Amazon doesn’t have a base in NZ, and we must pay exorbitant shipping fees. It’s the only reason I’m able to stick to my resolution!

Three cookbooks I’m pining for:

• What goes with what, Julia Turshen

• What to cook when you don’t feel like cooking - Caroline Chambers

• The New York Times Cooking No-Recipe Recipes - Sam Sifton

Two zines I’m waiting for:

Maybe moving forward, I’ll only purchase cookbook zines because they combine that community feel I love with well-tested recipes that work.

• Panaderia, Teresa Finney

• Burnt Basque Cheesecake Zine, Olga Koutseridi

And here’s a few cookbooks specifically on Indian food from my collection: 

• Masala Lab: The Science of Indian Cooking, Krish Ashok

• Pangat, a Feast: Food and Lore from Marathi Kitchens, Saee Koranne Khandekar

• Tiffin, Sonal Ved

Parsi Food and Customs, Bhicoo Maneckshaw

How do you use your cookbooks? Is there a specific type that you buy? What are your thoughts on cooking zines? And if you have some secret method to organise the recipe overwhelm, please share it?

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There was a time when I found vegetables like zucchini, red capsicum and mushrooms quite cool. For some reason, these vegetables are called ‘exotic vegetables’.

When in fact, what you need to do to discover the real ‘exotic’ is to leave India for a bit and then come back. It is then that you will discover the sheer wealth and variety of produce that grows in India (Follow the hashtag #IndianFoodMovement and #KnowYourDesiVegetable on Instagram if you don’t believe me).

For example, I am ashamed to confess that I cooked properly for almost six years before I learned that chickpeas didn’t just come out of a tin. Nor did they just come in a plastic bag full of dry beans. Six long years to learn that, actually, you could eat them in their fresh green form too. After this discovery, I got braver and have tried vegetables like red amaranth (laal chawli), purple yam (kandh), sorgum grains (ponkh) and rat tail radish (laal mougri).

For a few months now, I have had about five screenshots of recipes of Bhaji Dana ma Gosht on my desktop. Bhaji Dana ma Gosht is a quintessential Parsi dish combining leafy greens (bhaji), green peas (dana), and tender mutton (gosht), reflecting our deep-rooted cultural journey of mixing Persian and Gujarati food styles.

Parsis typically enjoy Bhaji Dana ma Gosht during family gatherings and festive celebrations. On Nowruz (Parsi new year) we’ll serve it as our token ‘vegetarian’ dish - yes it has mutton but the vegetarians can eat the gravy, right. Right? It’s warming, hearty nature also makes it a popular choice during cooler months, but honestly, you can eat it whenever you feel like it.

As I was looking through my inspiration screenshots, I was also scrolling through this #KnowYourDesiVegetable hashtag and happened upon Amaranth. Apparently, it’s the new kale.

‘Ting’ the light bulb went off in my head. I decided to make Bhaji Dana ma Gosht (finally), but instead of spinach, I would use Amaranth, and on impulse, I decided to replace the green pea ‘dana’ with green chickpeas instead! While the traditional recipe uses chopped leaves, I decided to puree mine and make it into a Saagwala-esque style creamy gravy.

Ingredients (for 4-6 servings)

• 2 onions, roughly chopped

• 1/2 tsp ginger paste

• 1/2 tsp garlic paste

• 1 big bunch Amaranth leaves, roughly chopped

• 1/2 tsp coriander powder

• 1/2 tsp cumin powder

• 1 tsp garam masala

• 1/2 tsp red chilli powder

• 500 gm boneless lamb or goat meat

• 100 ml fresh cream

• 1 small lemon, sliced and deseeded

• 200 gram fresh green chickpeas (replace with fresh or frozen peas if you’d like)

• salt to taste

• 200 ml oil

Instructions

• Pop your onions into a food processor and mince them into a pulp. Fry the onion paste in some oil until the moisture evaporates and they turn brown. Set aside.

• Roughly chop the Amaranth leaves and saute them in some oil. Make a paste of the leaves in the food processor and set aside.

• Peel the fresh chickpeas and boil them for 15 minutes in hot water. Keep aside.

• In a pressure cooker, add the leftover oil, the onion paste, ginger and garlic. Saute for 2 - 3 minutes.

• Add in the dry spices - cumin, coriander, red chilli and garam masala

• Once the spices no longer have a raw smell, add in the Amaranth paste and meat. Allow the meat to brown for a few minutes. Add in about 500ml of water and close the pressure cooker. If you’re in India, cook for 3 whistles and 20 minutes on slow. If you’re using an international pressure cooker, allow it to reach pressure and then cook on medium for 40 minutes.

• Release the pressure and now, allow the gravy to simmer on low heat - you want to create a thick gravy. Add in the fresh chickpeas at this stage so they absorb some of the flavour. Season the gravy with salt.

• Finish the gravy by mixing in the fresh cream and simmering for a final five minutes. Turn off the gas and squeeze in the lemon juice. Serve hot with soft bread rolls or roti.

Substitutions and tips

• Replace green chickpeas with fresh or frozen peas or even, edamame.

• Replace amaranth with a mix of spinach and fresh fenugreek (methi). The methi leaves add a slight bitterness which goes well with the meat

• If you don’t have a food processor, chop the onions and greens finely. You won’t get the same smooth gravy, but it will taste the same.

These Potato Cheese Cutlets are Kashmira's innovation from her early days as a newlywed, trying to master Parsi cooking in an unfamiliar city. They quickly became her husband's favorite post-flight snack, and I can see why!

Crisp on the outside with a gooey cheese center, these cutlets are a dream for any cutlet lover (or mom trying desperately to find a school lunchbox treat her kids will eat). When Kashmira taught me this recipe during my visit to Chennai, my family fell head over heels for them, too. They're perfect wrapped in a warm roti or paired with bread for breakfast.

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Ingredients (for 8-10 cutlets):

• 4 small potatoes, boiled and peeled

• Large-ish handful of coriander with tender stems, roughly chopped

• 2 green chillies, finely chopped

• Juice of 1/2 lemon

• 1 tsp amchur (dry mango powder)

• 1 tsp cumin powder

• 1 tsp coriander powder

• Small handful of mint, leaves only, finely chopped

• 8-10 cheese cubes (1 cm each)

• Salt to taste

• Pepper to taste

• 1 cup coarse semolina for coating

• Oil for frying

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How would I describe a bhakra? It’s like a dense donut minus the toppings.

Growing up in New Zealand, I used to miss eating bhakras so much that on my visits to India, I'd take up to 7-8 packs stuffed into my suitcase, much to the disdain of NZ customs and security.

While I've always loved eating them, I never thought of making them at home, having heard tales of how hard it is to get the recipe right.

That all changed when the old uncle who used to sell bhakras at my doorstep in our Mumbai house didn't show up for 20 days. We were craving our favorite snack, and as luck would have it, I chanced upon a bhakra recipe on my favorite Facebook group, 'Parsi Cuisine'. I decided to wipe away the mental excuses and give it a go and am happy to proclaim that they turned out fabulous.

I even took some for my Hong Kong sojourn and fed them to the family to much praises. A special thank you to Zarina Cama and Benaifer Gazder Daruwalla for sharing their prized recipe that worked.

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Ingredients (makes 1/2 kilo of bhakras):

• 2 cups semolina

• 1 cup wheat flour

• 4 eggs

• 1 1/2 cup sugar

• 100 gms ground almonds

• 1/2 tsp cardamom powder

• 1/2 tsp nutmeg powder

• 2 tbsp plain yoghurt

• 2 tbsp ghee, warmed up so it’s in liquid state

• Oil for frying

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I am not sure when I first tasted Malido.

It must have been on one of my many visits to the Agiary (fire temple) as a kid. Traditionally, Malido was the domain of the local priests’ wife as it is a dessert that is served at most Parsi religious occasions like Jashan’s and also as an offering to our dearly beloved as part of their prayer ceremonies.

I remember having Malido’s that were chock full of dry fruits paired with the slightly salty Parsi flatbread called P,apri which contrasted well with the fudge sweetness of the Malido.

In today’s time, the fate of the Malido has gone the way of Vasanu and Dar ni Pori. It’s become a dish we eat only at religious occasions because the local Agiary (fire temple) still makes the best version or we simply buy it from an aunty we may know who makes it. Ofcourse, you can forget about the dried fruits now – most places just make an orange looking fudge of sorts that is a shadow of what the real Malido tastes like.

But I can understand why we keep eating it.

Because, making it at home is out of the question.

The traditional recipe requires you to combine the flours and make a dough, then you make flatbreads and fry these in the ghee, then you hand pound these flatbreads and cook it some more until you have a coarse wheat pudding. I got tired just reading all that!

A version of Malido is served as a dessert in many ethnicities, the Bohri’s call it Maleeda, the Rajasthani’s refer to it as Churma and I am sure it’s served up with a different name amongst many other Indian communities.

At the heart of it, it’s wheat flour and semolina cooked together with sugar and ghee. Ofcourse, us Parsi’s also add an egg to it because why the hell not?

When I first came across a recipe for Malido in one of the Parsi cookbooks, I did try making it. However, I can barely make roti’s so spending the time to make roti’s only to then crush them all by hand seemed like a pointless waste of time. Since then I’ve tried various versions (at least 5 or 6) only to never be able to recreate the Malido of my childhood.

Which is why, it’s been seven years since I started writing about Parsi food and there’s still no Malido recipe!

Anyways, fast forward to us moving back to New Zealand and buying our own home.

We were going to have our Jashan, and I told my mom how nice it would have been to have some Malido at our Jashan just like we would have in India.

Turns out, she knew someone who knows how to make the most amazing Malido. Mum is close friends with this aunty (the best kind of friend in my book) and so she called me a week before the housewarming to ask what she could gift us as we made this new start.

What did I ask for? Her Malido (along with the recipe, of course!)

This version still takes an hour or so to make but is nowhere near as complicated. I’m ecstatic to finally have a Malido recipe that works! Do try making it at your place and share the results with me – I’d love to see how you get on.

Ingredients

• 300 gram ghee

• 50 gram broken cashews

• 50 gram slivered almonds

• 50 gram plain flour (maida)

• 50 gram wheat flour

• 50 gram coarse semolina

• 200 ml milk

• 300 gram sugar

• 150 ml water

• 1 egg

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• 1 tsp cardamom-nutmeg powder

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Mic drop moment alert. My favourite part about being Indian is not the food.

While food comes a close second, what I love most about being Indian is the permission to celebrate a “new year” at least once every three months.

As a Parsi Zoroastrian, I regularly celebrated the “new year” once in March when our Iranian ancestors celebrate Nowruz and once in August when the Parsi calendar changed. We also enjoyed celebrating Diwali in October and then the actual New Year with the rest of the world.

The Zoroastrian New Year, we celebrated in much the same way: cleaning the house a week prior, buying new clothes, visiting the fire temple in the morning, watching a slapstick-style Gujarati play in the evening, and then having a hearty dinner of fish, chicken and mutton all in the same meal.

It wasn’t until I got married and Mum lightly suggested (read, insisted) I setup my own Haftsin table did I truly understand what celebrating Nowruz was about.

Nowruz is the name of the Persian new year, and it consists of two words: ‘now’ or ‘no’ meaning ‘new’ and ‘ruz’ or ‘rooz’ meaning ‘day’, which when put together means ‘new day’. It’s a celebration dating back 3500 years that marks the spring equinox and the start of spring in the Northern Hemisphere.

While Nowruz is deeply rooted in Zoroastrianism (the predominant religion in Iran thousands of years ago), the celebration is not connected to any religion today. It is widely celebrated across Iran, its neighbouring countries and worldwide amongst Zoroastrians.

At its core, Nowruz is about celebrating the victory of good over evil. We do this by celebrating the first day of spring as the light and warmth of the season conquers the cold and dark of winter.

Except there’s a tiny problem. Living in New Zealand, Nowruz to me, signals the beginning of winter. Leading up to the day, the mornings are dark, the air crispy cold and without me realising it, my soul starts carrying around a sense of impending gloom. Soon, our long sunny evenings will be gone, and it will be time to hibernate (but not really as NZ has zero public holidays through the winter!).

Why celebrate spring in autumn then?
The answer is simple. Because we can.

As a question-everything teenager, I rebelled against the fuss of Nowruz. “Why mark the period when the dark is clearly winning over the light?”, I’d whine. On reflection, most of my resentment stemmed from being bossed around to clean the house. In reality, I love celebrating Nowruz because there’s something magical about participating in a tradition 3500 years in the making. And because it’s always a good time to pause, take stock of the good things in life and celebrate with family.

My favourite part about celebrating Nowruz is the Haftsin table

A ceremonial table laden with fruit, food and flowers showcasing the 7 ‘S’s—seven items starting with the letter ‘s’ in Persian, each symbolising hope, renewal and prosperity for the coming year. On a typical Haftsin table, you will find:

• Sabzeh – sown wheat to mark the rebirth of nature

• Samanu – sweet pudding for the sweet moments of life

• Sib – red apples for beauty

• Sikkeh – coins for wealth and prosperity

• Seer – garlic as medicine and good health

• Sumac – the bright red spice for the spice in life

• Serkeh – vinegar for old age and patience

We also have a mirror for self-reflection, candles for light, eggs for fertility and nuts for love. Each family will lay out this table together and it can be laden with food or a simple offering you setup for a day.

Then, at the exact moment of Nowruz, we light the candles, take a moment to reflect and give thanks—and finally, celebrate together by feasting on the food we jointly lay out. Over the next three to five days we also visit each other’s Haftsin tables to celebrate friendships, exchange gifts for the new year and eat our way through all the food.

As I become more comfortable in my identity as a Kiwi-Indian of Iranian descent who follows Zoroastrianism, Nowruz is no longer the weird spring festival my mum forces me to celebrate in autumn. I invite my Kiwi friends, neighbours and everyone in my life to feast with me at my Haftsin table. Last year I invited clients from my small business to pay their respects and the table and join me for a lunch and this year, I took Nowruz to work and together, we put together a shared lunch with items made from the seven S/Sh’s.

Since January is long over, I even made a new resolution. After all, I only need to follow until Matariki (the Māori New Year) rolls around.

One of the things we always make at Nowruz is Sev.

Go to a Parsi household on any auspicious day and you will always find a bowl of Parsi Sev which is traditionally served with sweet cardamom-laced yoghurt. Made from roasted vermicelli and topped with fried raisins, cashews and almonds, this sweet treat can be had for breakfast, lunch, dinner or tea-time or any other time that the tummy growls.

My mum is the resident Sev expert and she’s always cautioning me that while Sev only needs water and sugar, the one ingredient needed in abundance is patience. Hurry while making Sev and you risk it turning into a sticky lump or what we Parsis call ‘Londo’.

Under her strict tutelage, I’ve been practising my Sev-making skills and I’ve graduated from ‘Londa jevi Sev’ to reasonably okay. The good news is that even if yours turns out to be a sticky lump, it will taste bloody awesome so you should make it regardless!

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When I lived there, every month I’d set off with my mother-in-law to indulge in a Gujarati thali, where they serve you up to six delectable vegetable preparations – always seasonal. During Ramadan, I’d make my annual pilgrimage to Mumbai’s Bohri Mohalla, where street vendors fan spicy skewers of lamb seekh kebab on coal grills. Living close to South Indian food mecca Matunga meant I often started my day with a podi ghee roast dosa. And whenever someone in the family craved fish, we’d head to our local Maharashtrian lunch home for some fish gassi and tisrya (clam) masala.

But here in New Zealand? I hardly ever eat Indian food outside my home.

Because no matter how many different Indian restaurants I visit, it feels like I’m eating at the same one. 

The menu never changes, and everything tastes almost the same. 

We were in Taupō recently, and by the fourth day, my children were craving dahl and rice. We had two joints to choose from, but really there was no choosing involved. The menus could have been photocopied – more than 20 similar dishes, including butter chicken (of course), mango chicken, madras chicken and lamb saagwala.

You could say the same thing happens at a Korean restaurant, at a Mexican taqueria, or at a pizzeria. And no restaurant serving an average of 40 dishes can hope to showcase the food an entire country eats. 

But with other cuisines, my hope is that if we combined the menus of all the Korean joints or Italian nooks in Aotearoa, we would have a reasonable representation of the country’s food. 

Not with Indian food. As chef Srimoyee Chakraborty of London’s Calcutta Street restaurant once said, “I can add all of the Indian restaurant menus in England together, and they cover about 2% of what India really offers.”

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It’s partly India’s fault

The country is vast. There are more than 2,000 ethnic groups, each with its own unique cuisine. Visit India, and you’ll realise that the cuisine changes every 100km. 

Rajasthan is mostly an arid state, which means their food features wheat and millets instead of rice. Meanwhile, in coastal Goa, fish and curry rule the kitchen, most dishes incorporate coconut, and there’s a heavy Portuguese influence. Across the country in northeast Meghalaya, the food is heavily influenced by its hunting-gathering traditions; doh-neiiong (smoked pork with bamboo shoots) is a popular dish. And, the east coast Bengalis love their meat and potatoes so much there’s even a song about their kosha mangsho.

There is also community variance. Like the Parsis who enjoy eating at least two kinds of meat in a single meal, or the Pathare Prabhu whose cuisine is influenced by the vegetarian Gujarati community, yet their signature dish is a prawn pie! 

So really, India is a country of countries. The cultural equivalent of Europe. It’s impossible to cram all this diversity into one “Indian” restaurant. 

Internationally, the definition of Indian food is broadening

People who know me know that I intensely dislike radioactive orange Kiwi butter chicken. 

But UK-based food writer says murgh makhani (butter chicken) will likely always remain the entry point for people’s Indian food journey. “Even in India, north-west frontier cuisine has always been a go-to for special occasions. Rich and comforting, dishes like dahl makhani, sikandari raan (slow-roasted lamb leg) and biryani are popular at restaurants because they taste good and people are familiar with them.”

But curry house popularity aside, Londoners are moving away from stereotypical ideas of Indian food and embracing its full diversity. The city now has Chourangi, which specialises in food from Kolkata; Trishna, which provides a taste of coastal cooking; and Gunpowder, where there’s no naan on the menu.

Closer to home in Australia, the regional Indian food scene is starting to emerge too, whether that’s Dhakshin in Sydney which cooks up dishes from regions like Tanjore, Udupi and Mangalore, or Melbourne’s Toddy Shop, where home-style Keralan cooking is on display. 

Migration patterns have a lot to do with why the UK has a much greater awareness of Indian food than New Zealand does, says Chand Sahrawat, director at Cassia, Kol, Sid at the French Cafe and Cassia. People travel with their food traditions, and Indians have been migrating to the UK for over two centuries. In contrast, Indian migration to New Zealand has mostly occurred over the last 50 years, making the industry here more nascent.

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Regional Indian is available in Aotearoa, too – but we need to hunt for it

I’d be lying if I said there’s no regional Indian cuisine to be found in Aotearoa. “At Cassia, we consciously decided to not have butter chicken on the menu,” says Sahrawat. “Will we find a Maharashtrian misal pav at an Indian restaurant? Likely, no. But we have incorporated some regional cuisines like Malabar and Chettinad.”

There’s also Mumbai’s prawn koliwada and Parsi sali boti at Mumbaiwala in Ponsonby. The Kerala mutton pepper fry at VT Station in Newmarket tastes fabulous too. And no one does justice to Mumbai’s train station staples, vada pav and bread pakora, like the Mumbai Vada Pav food truck. 

But where can we find Lucknowi haleem, Bengali macher jhol, Bihari litti chokha and the decadent Bohri thaal? I especially feel for people living outside the Indian hubs of Auckland and Christchurch, where finding even decent chaat dishes like dahi puri and pani puri is akin to finding gold.

“The demand for regional Indian food in the UK has grown after decades of experimentation by restaurants and a sustained push by food writers in the media as well as cookbook authors,” says as she coaxes me off my please-no-more-butter-chicken soapbox. “The pattern I’ve seen is that diners first experience Indian food at a curry house, then demand elevated, more authentic versions of those dishes and finally, they are ready to experience India’s regional nuances. It’s a journey.” 

We all have a role to play when it comes to shifting the dial

My husband comes back from every farmer’s market lamenting why we don’t have a butter chicken paste as part of our product range at Dolly Mumma. We’d make so much more money. 

I’ve compromised and introduced a tandoori paste, but I keep dreaming of a pop-up restaurant where I can serve a bowl of my prawn curry followed by some patra ni machchi – fish coated in a minty green chutney and steamed in banana leaves. Endlessly feeding everyone the food I love is the only way I know how to shift the dial.

That’s what Sammy Akuthota did when he opened Auckland’s popular Satya Chai Lounge after practically growing up at his parents’ restaurant, Satya. “I didn’t want another restaurant that did curries. I wanted to serve the food you’d find at your local beer bar because that’s where I enjoy hanging out.”

“We’ve come a long way. When my parents started Satya in 1999, Kiwis found the concept of sharing food wild. Fast forward to today, where you’ll find Kiwis from all communities chilling on our crates sharing snack plates and cocktails like you would at a dhaba in India. We’re definitely ready to move past the curry, rice, naan narrative but it can’t just be a basic mum-and-pop operation where the taste changes if Dad’s a bit upset today. Our customers want to go on a journey not just with the food but also with the ambience, the hospitality, and the overall experience.”

Would you like to try eating some Gujarati khichdi or Parsi dhansak in New Zealand some time soon? 

You can help shift the dial by ordering something you don’t know or ditching the salt and vinegar chips to try some Indian snacks instead. If you’re in Auckland, drive to Sandringham Road and visit one of the smaller joints teeming with Indians – Eggs & More is great for chaat – or join me on an Indian food walk.

Who knows, maybe one day, my dream will come true. A mainstream restaurant that showcases traditional Indian dishes on its menu and keeps changing them! A different taste of India, every time you visit.

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Thank you to The Spinoff where this article was first published

• What’s the most unusual Indian dish you’ve ordered at an Indian restaurant?

• Do you have a favourite Indian dish you’d like to see more of?

• Should I just leave butter chicken alone (unlikely but you’re welcome to make a case for it :) )

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I’m nine years old. The six spicy tangy lamb kebabs I ate a few hours ago for breakfast were not enough; I’m hungry again. I already know what’s for lunch this Sunday – it’s always the same. It has been for the last 246 Sundays.

I’m joking. I haven’t been keeping count. But I know Mum’s making dhansak, a traditional Parsi meat and lentil stew served with caramelised rice. Again.

As I come to my favourite section of the Sunday Mid-Day, the horoscopes, I can smell the thick, spicy dahl bubbling on the stove. There’s a faint meaty aroma in the air, which means Mum’s opened her pressure cooker and is busy poking the chunks of goat meat to see if they fall apart. Grandpa stands by the dining table, picking away the seeds from our watermelon sherbet.

And Dad? Dad’s making kachubar, a tangy onion, tomato and cucumber salad. He’s also trying hard to engage me in a debate about onions tasting better when thinly sliced versus finely chopped. I roll my eyes. Who cares?

Does everyone in the world also eat dhansak every Sunday? Surely they must be bored of it by now like I am.

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But despite my ennui, I always have seconds

For my first serving, my plate is full of long grains of basmati rice caramelised with jaggery. On top of the rice is a puddle of thick dahl with four pieces of goat meat. On the side is Dad’s kachubar. Granny tries to force her boiled beetroot onto my plate, but I always fill it up so there’s no space.

Time seems to slow right down as we all dig into our dhansak. It’s total silence as we have those first few bites. The dahl is spicy, though the tang of the kachubar helps.

Granny hates how I eat my dhansak seconds. I fill my bowl with just the dahl and then scoop it into my mouth using the dry lemon peel. The British left India when she was in her teens but still, her colonial sensibilities are offended that I’ve ditched the fork and spoon for my hands. I’m too busy slurping it up to notice.

As we clean up, Mum smiles and pokes my back. “I thought you were so sick of dhansak that you can’t eat another plate?” she says. I shrug happily and go to lie down on the bed beside Dad. Somehow, my Sunday nap is much better after a plateful of dhansak.

Every Sunday is the same. Until I turn 13, and my parents get divorced.

Mum and I moved cities, dad moved to some other part of Mumbai I had never seen, and suddenly, just like that, Sundays were not about dhansak any more.

Throughout the next eight years of living alone with Mum, I ate many different Sunday meals. Fish curry when Mum was missing her mother, potato and cheese sandwiches if she was tired, or a platter of leftovers if the fridge needed clearing.

The teenage me felt like slapping my eight-year-old self. Of course the whole world didn’t eat dhansak on a Sunday. What was I thinking?

On the occasional Sunday when Mum cooked dhansak, she’d talk about our forgotten tradition, tell stories of her as a new bride struggling to understand the Sunday dhansak ritual. Other times, she’d wistfully remember Dad hugging her from behind as she added the meat to the dahl.

As I was getting dressed for my wedding day, Mum said, “Beta, I hope your in-laws don’t eat dhansak every Sunday as mine did. But if they do, learn to adjust, OK?”

Thankfully, there was no Sunday dhansak tradition in my new home. A good thing, considering I didn’t even know how to make it!

The first time I tried making dhansak, it was a total disaster.

I thought all my years of eating it would mean I could cook a perfect one. But I rushed it. I put all the meat, vegetables, and dahl together in the pressure cooker. The result? A pot full of brownish water, with burned meat and vegetables floating around in it. I had to work on my technique.

As a Parsi, Dhansak is fused to my identity. In the same way as you might see an Indian and think of butter chicken, when I told anyone I was a Parsi they asked me to cook them dhansak.

It took many tries to learn how to make a decent Dhansak. One of my first lessons was that it’s better to cook the meat first, and then use the stock to cook the dahl. The final dish is more satisfying when vegetables like pumpkin and aubergine are added. I learned to resist the temptation to make Dhansak an hour before I had to serve it because it’s a labour of love. When the dahl has been soaked, the meat marinated, and the whole dish slow-cooked, the result is 100 times better.

But it took years for me to learn that what separates a good Dhansak from an exceptional one is the Dhansak masala, the core spice that goes into the dahl.

The recipe for Dhansak masala is a closely guarded secret

So well protected by our grandmothers and aunties that few Parsis know how to make it. It’s an all-in-one spice blend that contains half an Indian shop’s worth of spices, with the main notes being earthy cumin, zingy coriander, and woody cinnamon with a hint of chilli. While Dhansak lovers in India can find the masala in Indian spice stores, that’s not the same for us in the diaspora.

When a close friend gifted me her grandmother’s dhansak masala recipe, I didn’t understand the treasure I was receiving.

Having cooked more than 5000 litres of Dhansak as a caterer – with a store-bought spice blend, gasp! – in India, I wasn’t sure I’d ever want to eat the dish again, let alone make Dhansak masala from scratch.

But as my children reach the age where they sit in a chair long enough to finish their meal, I feel called to create new family traditions that are uniquely ours. If I can convince my children to marinate the meat and make the rice, and my husband to chop the kachubar, then perhaps our new tradition will be an afternoon meal dedicated to dhansak.

There’s something very comforting about cooking and eating a dish my parents, grandparents and great-grandparents all grew up eating, mainly on a Sunday.

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What is Dhansak?

At its core, Dhansak is a spicy dahl made with meat and a few vegetables which is all slow-cooked together and served alongside sweet(ish) “brown rice”. The rice is not actual brown rice but rather, white rice that has been caramelised with jaggery.

For reasons unknown to me, Dhansak is very popular at curry houses in the UK. However, that Dhansak is made with what Parsis would consider bizarre ingredients like pineapple, pomegranate, and tamarind. It’s also weird that the British refer to the dish as Dhansak curry because it falls in the dahl category! I’ve also heard rumours of a Dhansak burrito that’s available at Marks & Spencer but the idea of our iconic dish wrapped inside a cold, limp, tortilla is enough to give me nightmares so we will not speak of this further.

The small size of our community (only 150,000 globally) means there are few Parsi restaurants. The best place to find a good plate of Dhansak therefore is at a Parsi’s home. However, if you don’t have a Parsi friend or colleague, some restaurants serving Mumbai-focused food serve the dish too such as Mumbaiwala in Auckland and Sodabottleopenerwala in Mumbai. If you’ve seen it on the menu somewhere else in the world, let me know!

Why can’t I eat Dhansak on a happy occasion?

Firstly, this is a bit of a myth. Parsis DO eat Dhansak every Sunday AND on happy occasions like birthdays, new years etc.

However, we cheat.

The meat is cooked with the rice into a Mutton Pulao and the Dhansak Dal is served alongside it. Technically, if the meat is not cooked with the dahl then it’s not “Dhansak” but rather “Masala ni Dar” and that’s how we get around the rule of no Dhansak on a happy day.

The reason Parsis don’t eat Dhansak on auspicious occasions is because when a family member or close friend passes away, we abstain from eating meat for four days. On the fourth day when the soul is believed to finish it’s accounts on earth, we return to normal life (and to eating meat) with a feast - kind of like a memorial ceremony - with Dhansak.

Make Dhansak at home - for six

Warning: The reason we normally eat Dhansak on a Sunday afternoon is because it takes the better part of the morning to prepare. But it’s all worth it! The recipe below mentions cook times inside a pressure cooker. You can make this in an Instant Pot too and it tastes best if you go with the slow cooker but remember to adjust the dahl cook times accordingly.

Ingredients
Meat
1 kg meat - lamb, goat, beef or chicken
1 tbsp ginger paste
1 tbsp garlic paste
Salt to taste
Rice
250 gm Basmati rice
50 gm jaggery (or raw sugar if you absolutely can’t find jaggery)
2 tbsp ghee/oil
2 bay leaves
4-6 cloves
2 star anise
2 tsp cumin seeds
Salt to taste
Dal
3 tbsp ghee/oil
100 gm toor dal (yellow pigeon peas)
50 gm moong dal (yellow lentils)
50 gm masoor dal (orange lentils)
1 small onion, finely chopped
75 gm peeled pumpkin, chopped
50 gm small brinjal, chopped
1 tbsp fenugreek leaves
3-4 tomatoes (about 200 gm), canned will do too
10-12 curry leaves
1 tsp turmeric powder
1 tsp red chilli powder
2 heaped tbsp Dhansak masala**

Method

1. Source a good Dhansak masala (read below on what to do if you can’t find it)

2. Start by soaking the dahl in a mixing bowl and chilling the beer

3. Cook the meat first

• Marinate the meat with salt, ginger paste, and garlic paste. Keep aside for an hour.

• Cook the meat in an instant pot or pressure cooker with about a cup of water until completely tender - about 40 minutes.

3. Now make the tadka (spice tempering) for the dahl

• In a saucepan, heat the ghee until sizzling

• Pop the curry leaves until they crisp, add in onion, and allow the onion to brown

• Next, add in the tomatoes, pumpkin, brinjal and all the spice powders. Cook for 5 minutes. If the mixture turns dry, add in some water and cook another 5-10 minutes. You want the pumpkin to be almost tender and the brinjal to be cooked completely

• Remove the mixture and blitz in a blender or food processor until smooth

4. Next, we make the dahl

• Rinse the soaked dahl completely and add it into a pressure cooker/instant pot or slow cooker

• Add the tomato spice paste from before and all of the meat stock

• You may need to add in some water - you want the water to be about one knuckle higher than the level of your dahl

• Cook the dahl until it completely breaks down - about 40 minutes in the pressure cooker

• Add salt to your taste

• Using a hand blender, blend the dahl into a smooth, brown, gravy

• Add all your cooked meat into the dahl and allow everything to simmer for another 15 minutes

5. While the dahl is simmering, make your brown rice

• In a saucepan, warm up the ghee until sizzling hot

• Add in the whole spices - cloves, bay leaves, star anise and cumin - and cook for a minute

• Turn the heat on medium and add in the jaggery. If you don’t have jaggery, you can do this with raw sugar too but it will not taste as good.

• When the jaggery turns golden brown and molten, mix in your raw rice and then add in 2-3 cups of water. Careful: the addition of cold water to the jaggery will cause angry splatters and sounds.

• Allow the rice to cook - about 20 minutes.

• When the rice is tender, strain everything into a colander. Your rice should be a beautiful caramelised brown.

6. Make your kachumber (onion salad), cut up some lemon wedges and set the table

7. Pile up your plate with the rice, dal on top of the rice, squeeze the lemon juice and enjoy

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What do I do if I don’t have Dhansak Masala?

Your Dhansak Masala is really going to make or break your Dhansak. While the masala is easy to find in India, outside of India it’s one of those few blends that Indian shops don’t always stock.

If that’s you, here’s a few options:

1. On Amazon, search for Mangal, Badshah or Ahura Dhansak Masala

2. If you’re in New Zealand, buy Dhansak Masala from Dolly Mumma

3. Make your own cheat’s blend using the method below:

   1. 50 gm coriander powder

   2. 25 gm cumin powder

   3. 50 gm garam masala

   4. 5 gm red chilli powder

   5. Mix it all together until combined

   6. Please note this will not give you an exact Dhansak masala but it’s the fastest way to make the blend with easily available spices.

Have you eaten Dhansak before - share your favourite memory with us.

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Given how much it rains in Auckland, I’ll leave you to guess what this hard coding has done to my waistline. 

I get it. Fried goodies are not for everyone (luckily, those people are not my friends). But rain or not, if you are craving some hot, spicy, crispy, carby snacks, then let me introduce you to the world of pakora.

In India there are many names for pakora – pakoda, bhajji, bhajiya, bhaja, chop and kebab are just some of the names India’s many communities use for them. So much more exciting than “fritter”, no?

There are so many pakora varieties that I’ve come to believe you can pakora just about anything. And why wouldn’t you? It’s a quick and easy way to add something hot and yummy to your meal – especially if said meal is a bowl of soup or salad. The best way to eat vegetables in my book.

Most commonly, pakora is made using a batter of chickpea flour (besan), fresh ginger, turmeric, coriander powder, chilli powder, dried fenugreek, a touch of fresh coriander and salt. You then add water to create a thick batter and you’re on your way to pakora goodness. 

You’ve likely already heard of onion and potato bhajji. So delicious as they are, I want to introduce you to five of my other favourite pakora goodies. 

Corn, spinach and paneer pakora

For the impulsive cook

If you want your pakoras to come together in a jiffy, this is the version to start with because it all comes together in one bowl. Mix frozen corn, a few handfuls of baby spinach and grate in paneer to add creaminess. Now add in your flour, spices and water to create a thick batter. Simply plop big spoonfuls into a saucepan of hot oil and your Pakora will be ready in a few minutes. I love making these when I have small amounts of produce I need to finish up from the fridge. The spinach, corn and cheese combo is a classic but you can follow the same method for a combo of your choice too.

Moong dal pakora

For the protein lover

If you drink protein smoothies on the regular, add some protein to your pakoras by making them with lentils. To make your batter, soak and rinse yellow mung lentils. Drain them completely in a colander before grinding them with a couple dried red chillies and very little water to get a coarse mixture. Spice up the mixture with finely sliced onion, ginger and garlic paste, garam masala, fresh coriander and salt. Fry bite-sized balls of the mixture in hot oil until they are crispy golden. Enjoy with a curry of your choice or use them as fillings for wraps or as a school lunchbox filler.

Bread pakora

For those recovering from a hangover (or for when it’s rained non-stop)

What is there not to love about a potato and cheese sandwich coated in batter and fried? My favourite memory of bread pakora is picking some up as a parcel at Churchgate Station (where the Western Railway line for Mumbai begins) when Mum and I did weekend trips to Nallasopara, a far-flung suburb of Mumbai where we owned a weekend home. The train journey was over an hour long, and the pakora wrapped in a day-old newspaper kept me occupied for several stations. Even though bread pakora is super easy to make at home, deep-frying a whole sandwich can get messy. But when it’s raining non-stop and we’re trapped at home, bread pakora keeps our family happy. 

Kheema kebabs

For the meat lovers

While I don’t discriminate between my vegetable pakoras, I am partial to more meaty options. Essentially, these are deep-fried meatballs. You might have had Swedish lamb meatballs or Turkish kebabs, but these kebabs are different. Like the exotic cousin who comes to visit you every summer. My grandpa’s recipe uses lamb, potatoes and a bunch of spices, though you can also make these with beef, chicken or pork mince and they all taste good. Because I love eating them so much, I’ve moved to cooking these in the air fryer and they come out just as crispy and tasty. 

Begun bhaja

For those who dislike a thick batter

It was my Bengali business partner in India who introduced me to the joys of bhaja – small morsels of fried goodness you serve alongside a dahl or an afternoon meal. My favourite is the begun bhaja made with eggplant, which come together in minutes. Simply sprinkle thin slices of eggplant with turmeric powder, chilli powder, salt and a pinch of sugar. Allow the eggplant to marinate for a few minutes before coating each slice in some rice flour and shallow frying them until tender. Enjoy them with a bowl of dahl and a spoon of spicy mango pickle.

• Have you heard of pakora before?

• What’s your favourite pakora to eat?

• Have you seen any of these pakora at your local Indian restaurant?

Let me know in the comments!

P.S. This article was originally written for The Spinoff.

500 gm lamb/beef/pork/chicken mince
Two-ish handfuls of breadcrumbs
4 medium potatoes, boiled
2 large eggs (if your mixture is too dry, add another egg)
3-4 heaped tbsp Dolly Mumma’s Tandoori Paste
Big handful of chopped coriander
Salt to taste
1-2 cups of coarse semolina (fine will work too, but they don’t get as crispy)
Oil for deep frying

Method:

@dollymummanzI grew up eating kebabs every Sunday! Who knew they wud be so easy 2 make w our Dolly Mumma Tandoori Paste. #indianfood #nzfoodproducts #nzsmallbiz

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1. Peel and fully mash your boiled potatoes.

2. In a large mixing bowl, add in the mince. Then mix in the Tandoori Paste, breadcrumbs, eggs, salt and coriander.

3. On a plate, make large-ish meatballs that should take you about three bites to eat. Empty some semolina into another plate, one cup at a time. Heat up the oil in a saucepan, ready for deep frying.

4. When the oil is hot - you will know this if you add in a pinch of semolina and it comes floating to the surface - the action begins.

5. Roll the rissoles/kebabs into the semolina, and carefully from the side of the pan, pop them into the oil. Your oil must fully cover the top of the rissoles, so that they cook evenly and don’t crack.

6. When your meatballs turn a golden brown, they are done. Serve piping hot with lemon wedges as a main or for brunch or as a fun side-dish.

Stock up on Tandoori Paste

It is not uncommon for a Bawa (Parsi) Groom to commonly ask his wife ‘Ne Kathor Ma Su Che’? What he means by this question is whether there is any lentil dish on the menu to fill him up.

Parsis love their lentils and we can’t go more than a couple of days without them. And while Dhandar (plain yellow dahl) will always be my favourite dish, Masoor comes a close second. It’s the Parsi equivalent of the Punjabi ‘Maa Ki Dahl’. If I were honest I’d go as far as to say that I like our version better as it often comes sans the dollops of ghee and hence makes for quite the healthy mid-week meal.

Ofcourse, since Parsis can’t have any meal without some ‘ramakras’ (fun toy-like food) on the side, I’d recommend a serving of Tareli Machchi (fried fish) with the Masoor. If this suggestion means your weight loss dreams are once again down the gutter then you could also just pre-cooked lamb and meat stock to make Masoor ma Gosht. Or, pair it with the humble Kachubar which also gives it a simple flavour kick.

This is probably the right time to mention that Masoor is not made with the orange masoor dal but rather ‘sabut’ (whole) dal otherwise known as ‘brown lentils’.

And finally, while the occasional rice addict is known to have Masoor with rice, please try to steer away from this weird combination and have roti with it instead.

Read more

But rather because choosing a single word to summarise an entire year feels as hard as choosing my last meal.

To write this newsletter, I persisted. Three minutes of reflection in the bathroom while my boys asked me 84 questions from outside, I had my word.

As someone who sells curry pastes to make dinners easy, I’ve made it my job to stir together something cheap and nutritious, that my children will also eat, and doesn’t take longer than 20 minutes to put together. My Instagram search tells me I’m borderline addicted to #quickcooking, #15minutemeals and #instantdinners.

So for the first week of embracing ‘Slow’, I couldn’t think of anything except for the slow cooker languishing on my garage shelf.

We’ve all enjoyed the creamy, smoky Dahl Makhani I made after months. My slow-cooked Hoisin Pork Shoulder performed like an index fund investment helping me make rice bowls, burgers, and fried rice. At the pot-luck last weekend, my lets-call-it-Tuscan bean stew that we scooped up with crisp lettuce shells went down a treat too. But with work starting properly this week, I’ve found myself packing away the slow cooker again.

I did some more reflection (again in the bathroom) and have come up with three things I plan to try instead to incorporate more ‘Slow’ into my kitchen.

Long and slow onions and tomatoes

As an Indian, I use so many onions and tomatoes that I often find myself chopping up onions and opening a can of diced tomatoes before I’ve even decided what I’m cooking. While I can’t slow-cook all my food, I’m going back to using my weekends to caramelise my onions and cook those tomatoes low and slow. 

Caramelising onions adds a deep base of flavour of sweet, savoury and extra oomph to curries, stews and my favourite mid-week treat, pies. When it comes to tomatoes, I’ve known that slow-roasting them in the oven helps mellow their acidity until they are deliciously sweet. What I didn’t know until recently is that you could do that to canned tomatoes too! 

While both of these ingredients stay good in the fridge for a week, I plan to take advantage of the cheap summer prices and freeze a bunch of them for my weekday curries. Maybe I’ll go a step further and then freeze those curries too for an endless supply of yum.

Cooking with family

After seven years in the role, I have relatively low standards for what makes me a “good mom”. But one of the dreams I still hold dear is raising boys who love spending time in the kitchen.

The problem is, they currently have a mum that swats them away impatiently because it’s faster and less messy if I cook by myself!

But something’s changed this summer with them turning five and seven. We’ve been practising our numbers by counting the chocolate chips for our pancakes and learning to spell by writing the grocery list. Last Friday the boys “made” their own pizzas for pizza night and as I write this, we’ve spent the morning rolling up and freezing spring rolls I can fry for their lunchboxes once school begins.

Cooking together is now more fun than it is messy and I’m dreaming up things we can easily make with one another like paratha, dahl and maybe, even a curry paste!

Cooking the unknown

Easy, familiar and healthy often sits at odds with exciting. This might explain why I’m bored with everything I cook. I could make my meals exciting by adding piles of cheese or cream to everything I make like Facebook urges me to constantly. Or, I could stop reading my cookbooks at bedtime and actually cook some of the recipes hiding in there. 

In 2024, I’m challenging myself to take inspiration from the Instagram creator Jake Dryan (@plantfuture) and take a deep dive into regional Indian food a la Julie & Julia, cooking something new from the recipe books weekly. I’m hoping that not only does it make mealtime easier but it also provides fodder for my essays here.

It remains to be seen how many of my slow resolutions I put into practice. What I can say is that a few weeks into my year of slow, I seem to have reignited my love for toodling around the kitchen, even if I’m not very productive.

Maybe this word-of-the-year palaver has some merit after all.

Questions for you!

• What is your word of the year? Bonus points if it’s food-related!

• How might you embrace ‘slow’ in your kitchen?

• When was the last time you toodled around in your kitchen and what did you cook?

Leave a comment

Thank you to and for their encouragement and edits to get this piece over the line.

Before I could decide, the stalking began.

Businesses selling sauces, meat thermometers, and pizza peels relentlessly tried convincing me that barbecue season was here. What was I doing, still cooking dinner on the stove? But, I showed Meta who’s boss, and spent three hours de-rusting my trusty $100 Warehouse grill. While others went shopping at Kmart for the endless Secret Santa’s, I went to my local butchers because I wanted, no needed, to have a grilled meaty meal.

Meat in hand, the only thing left to decide was which desi (Indian) marinade I should use first.

One of the best parts about an Indian barbecue meal is that there are never any sausages on the menu. Nor do we eat meat that is seasoned only with salt and pepper. An Indian barbecue is spicy, tangy, tender, and colourful. Think, fiery red and smoky Tandoori Steak, earthy and bright green Hariyali Chops or creamy, garlicky Malai Chicken Tikka. Sounds tasty but complex? Think again. The magic is in the marinade and they’re all relatively easy to master.

Tandoori

A Tandoori marinade is an Indian staple that works on every meat and also with paneer, potatoes or tofu. The internet is full of recipes but be warned that they’ll have a long list of ingredients. If you’d like the spicy, smoky Tandoori flavours at home, you’re better off starting with a ready-made Tandoori Paste instead. A good quality paste will contain fenugreek leaves, black cardamom and cinnamon. If it doesn’t just add those in at home. Mix the tandoori paste with yoghurt and lemon juice and you’re good to go.

Malai

Malai translates to cream, making it the perfect marinade for children and spice-averse guests. If you’re feeling brave, combine ginger-garlic paste, cream cheese, cream, salt, pepper, thick yoghurt and a green chilli. Allow the meat to bathe in the marinade for a couple hours before popping it on the grill. The result? Garlicky, creamy, succulent chicken or paneer.

Hariyali

Hariyali translates to lush greenery and if you love herby, earthy flavours this is the marinade to try. Process together coriander, mint, green chilli, garlic, ginger, cumin, garam masala and lemon juice to create a chutney. Coat your beef, fish or paneer in the chutney and you’re ready to grill. You can also use this chutney to create en papillote style steamed fish parcels.

Achaari

Spicy and pungent, an Aachari marinade is made with spices that are normally used in an Indian pickle and will give a robust, zesty kick to your barbecue. Grind together fennel, mustard, fenugreek and nigella seeds with chilli powder and dry mango powder. Combine the spice mix with mustard oil to create a paste that you can coat onto the meat. If you’d rather not muck around with multiple spices, invest in a bottle of Mother’s mango pickle instead and use that after you’ve brined the meat.

Kesari

If you love a more subtle earthy flavour then opt for this golden saffron-infused marinade which goes best with chicken, fish or paneer. Soak a generous pinch of saffron in warm milk to release its aroma. Mix the milk with yoghurt, turmeric, ginger-garlic paste, green cardamom, cumin and coriander powder to form a smooth paste. Allow the protein to marinate in the paste for 2-3 hours before charring on the grill for a mild, smoky meal.

So ditch the salt, pepper, ketchup and mustard this summer and get desi with your marinades instead.

And, if it all gets too hard (it’s school holidays after all!), head to your local Pakistani/Indian butcher where you can buy the meat already marinated for a few extra dollars.

Have you tried any of these marinades before at home? Is there an Indian marinade you’ve tried that I missed above? Let’s talk food in the comments!

It reminded me of when someone praises me for something I’ve cooked when all I’ve done is follow a well-written recipe to the letter. Does the praise belong to me or the recipe writer?

Hungry for more, I borrowed Derek’s book, ‘Anything You Want’ from the library. And, devoured it immediately. Derek says it's a book about entrepreneurship, but I thought it was a pretty good book about learning Indian food, too. Here’s why: 

Proudly exclude ingredients

When I ask my Kiwi friends why they don’t cook Indian food at home more often, they tell me they are overwhelmed by recipes with long lists of ingredients. 

The solution? Head to the Indian store and only pick 10 Indian ingredients*. Indian stores often have aisles and aisles of spices so this will be hard but listen to Derek and “loudly leave out 99% of it.”

Now, don’t buy any new spices until these are finished. And, you only have three months. Go!

How would asparagus taste if you roasted it in ghee?
What will happen if you only add cumin and mustard seeds to your stir-fry?
Or your tomato soup?
Where else can you add ghee?
Could you add it to spaghetti? The answer is yes, by the way.

Not only will buying fewer ingredients free up your pantry, but the constraints will take you closer to mastery. You might not make a traditional Indian dish, but you’ll lose your fear of spices.

Your curry is one of many options

Years ago, I was a recipe stickler.

The problem with following recipes strictly is that if your curry doesn’t look picture-perfect like the one in the book, you start thinking that what you’ve cooked is not good. Or even worse, you don’t attempt cooking it at all because it all feels too overwhelming.

When in reality, your curry is one of many options.

As Derek says, “You can’t pretend there’s only one way to do it”.

So you can make my grandmother Dolly Mumma’s prawn curry. But you can add coconut milk to it rather than dry coconut. Make it with beef and slow-cook it. Serve it with fried salmon. Add more stock and make it brothy. Or heck, not make a curry at all but rather some curry-cheese toasties with the curry paste!

And these are just the options from a single curry recipe.

Now think of the thousands of curries that make up Indian cuisine and set yourself free. Your curry can taste just as good as my Dolly Mumma’s if you give yourself permission.

Focus on being a good cook rather than having the perfect recipe

Years of bingeing on cookbooks, recipe blogs and shows like Masterchef with their 6-page recipe challenges ruined me. I’d ask Mum for “the recipe”, and she’d give me loose instructions like “fry till the garlic doesn’t smell raw” or “add a little garam masala, but not too much”.

For a while, I even became that annoying Instagram follower who goes around commenting “recipe please” on every post.

But something magical happened when I set the recipes aside, went to play in the kitchen and focused on the how, why, what and when. 

How could I make buttermilk from yoghurt?
Why should I soak my lentils? 
What would happen if I used whole chillies instead of chilli powder?
When was the right time to add garam masala to my Kosha Mangsho?

Yes, this process of experimenting has meant that even after ten years of cooking Indian, I’m still a novice. But I now consider myself an eating expert. Someone who can taste the earthy umami of kasuri methi (fenugreek leaves) and knows when a biryani is made with chicken breast rather than thigh.

Derek ends one of my favourite chapters by saying, “When you sign up to run a marathon, you don’t want a taxi to take you to the finish line”. So next time you find yourself asking for “the recipe” for your favourite Indian dish, take a breath and cook Indian food like Derek Sivers would.

*If you want to know which ingredients to start with, my Indian pantry shopping list might be handy. It’s the shopping list I wish I had when I got married and had no idea what spice did what job.

New to learning Indian food? Here’s why Chai Latte and Chai have nothing in common and why you need to start your cooking journey with roti, not naan.

Thank you to and for their feedback and notes while I dithered putting this together.