Same Dish Different Ways

Today, some friends came over for lunch, and we put all our culinary eggs in one basket by serving only biryani. Not the stately Awadhi affair from Lucknow, nor the grand Mughlai production from Delhi, but a cheerful, fragrant creation of its own. Everyone enjoyed it with enthusiasm or did they tell me so out of their humbleness? Though, I myself had several generous helpings, each more satisfying than the last, so I guess it was delicious to others too. And now I find that the very thought of supper makes me feel like a python that has recently swallowed a goat. I will skip it tonight or maybe just a mug of warm milk will do.

Everyone has a set mind as to what tastes good and what does not. A lot depends on upbringing, culture, region, and religion. The same dish can be prepared in multiple ways, and each person will always vouch for the version they are most familiar with. What tastes divine to one may appear odd to another, and that is where the great charm of Indian food lies.

Take the above biryani, for instance. The one from Hyderabad is rich, layered, and full of spice, while the Lucknow version is more refined, gentle, and aromatic. Both are delicious in their own way, yet worlds apart in taste and temperament. Then there is the Delhi version, hearty and robust, and the one from Calcutta, mild and mellow with that famous addition of a potato and boiled egg. Each region claims its own as the most authentic, and perhaps, each is right.

I have often noticed a similar debate when it comes to the two popular stars loved by most Indian vegetarians – shahi paneer and malai kofta. I like them best with white gravy, a silken blend of cream and cashew that lets the spices speak softly. But lately, in Delhi and surrounding areas, they are served in red gravy, thicker, sharper, and more dramatic. To many, that is the proper way, and they look at my pale version as if it has lost its courage halfway through cooking.

Even a humble scrambled egg can take on a completely different personality. During my college days, I used to relish the evening scrambled eggs sold from the back of a mini van, served with a steaming bowl of mutton clear soup. That was on the days when I actually had a bit of money in my pocket. These days I am rather fond of the luxurious version with plenty of butter melting on top, served with soft buns and a cup of milky chai. A friend of mine swears by scrambled eggs paired with stuffed aaloo parathas, though I still suspect that his true devotion lies with the parathas rather than the eggs. My wife prefers hers plain and pure, made only with milk fats and now and then crowned with a little cheese. I, on the other hand, want mine bursting with red chillies and garlic. The kids love theirs with fresh oregano and thyme, straight from the garden. Different people have different tastes, and depending on what they have grown up with and what they have discovered along the way, the cooking changes too.

My guests from Gujarat often smile when I mention Poha. For them, it must be sweet and sour, an interesting combination that wakes you up better than any alarm clock. I prefer the Punjabi version, with a hint of green chillies and the crackle of mustard seeds, less of sweetness but full of warmth. Both are good, both are right, but each speaks a different culinary language. Jains don’t eat with potatoes but for me Poha is incomplete without potatoes, and a generous sprinkling of chopped onions.

Then there is Kumaoni cuisine, with its distinct, grounded charm. Based on lentils, local herbs, and ghee, the dishes here take on a character of their own. Bhatt ki daal, a favourite across the hills, is cooked with generous amounts of garlic and has a thick, earthy gravy that feels both rustic and comforting. Even meats are prepared differently, often slow-cooked with minimal spices to let the natural flavour shine through. Though villagers love the burnt mutton that is popular here, I find the smell a bit too strong for my liking. Millets, too, are part of everyday life, appearing in rotis, porridges, and even desserts. And thanks to social media, their prices seem to be rising faster than any investment one can think of.

Travel across India and you will see this endless variety everywhere. The same dish keeps changing its clothes as it moves from one state to another. The sambhar of Tamil Nadu will frown at the one in Karnataka for being too sweet, while the paratha of Punjab will find its cousin in Bihar a little too rustic. Yet, the joy of Indian food lies in these small quarrels of taste.

Our kitchens are shaped by climate, soil, and centuries of tradition. What grows in one region influences what cooks there. And so, every meal becomes a story of the land, the people, and the mood of the cook who stirred it. Perhaps that is why no two dishes ever taste the same, and thank goodness for that. Uniformity may be comforting, but it is the variety that keeps our plates and our hearts alive.

It has been quite an effort to pen down thoughts on food while sitting here with a stomach stretched to the limit. It is rather like trying to discuss thrift after being handed a suitcase full of cash. No wonder people advise going to the supermarket only after a meal, to avoid unnecessary purchases and sudden impulses involving exotic cheeses and expensive bites. Still, despite feeling as if a gentle nudge would send me rolling towards the bed, I have managed to type something, and that I believe, is an achievement worth a large celebratory burp.

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