Masala, my Spice for Life?

Indian food never really appealed to me. While I’ve always been a fan of Thai cuisine, Indian food somehow slipped through my memory for a long time. Once I went to an Indian restaurant with a friend – and today I honestly couldn’t tell you what we ate there.

But instead of ending up in Thailand, we landed in India. And since we’ve been living in Delhi for quite a while now, I am, of course, confronted with Indian cuisine. Just not as much as one might expect. In Delhi itself, we hardly ever eat Indian food. At home, we cook as we always have – mostly German dishes or Italian pasta – and when we don’t cook, we order via Zomato. Even then, we clearly prefer continental food or Asian wok dishes. We usually only order Indian food when guests from Germany come to visit.

In fact, I think I’ve never been to an Indian restaurant in Delhi. Writing this now feels almost a little embarrassing. But of course, I haven’t remained entirely untouched by Indian cuisine – whether I wanted to or not.

Our first conscious encounter with Indian food took place at the Leela Hotel, where we spent our first weeks. At the buffet, I could try things cautiously, and I still remember how immediately appealing the butter naan was. That was also where a waiter surprised us with pani puri. My husband filmed the moment. I remember feeling completely overwhelmed by the many flavours all at once – and of course, the aftertaste was spicy.

My first pani puri experience

On our first trips through Rajasthan and the Himalayas, Indian food became unavoidable. Rice and dal were almost always on the table. Sometimes they were accompanied by fresh onions, cucumber and carrots as a kind of salad, and if we were lucky, there was yoghurt as well. Yoghurt, by the way, is the best way to soften the heat.

Whenever we had the luxury of ordering food, even the children quickly learned that the sentence “Not spicy, please” is essential for survival. Although Indian not spicy is often still quite hot. I keep wondering how spicy spicy actually is.

My husband often tells the story of being served such an incredibly hot meal in a rural area of the Himalayas that he couldn’t even tell what he was eating anymore. Potato or carrot – everything was just fire in his mouth. When the waiter looked at him expectantly, he was incapable of answering. With tears in his eyes, he desperately ordered some bread.

Later on, we had a cook who introduced us to Indian cuisine very gently. Butter chicken was one of the dishes he prepared in an exceptionally “German-friendly” and mild way – and therefore one we genuinely liked.

Another favourite became biryani: a layered rice dish with meat and lots of spices, served with a cold yoghurt and mint sauce called raita. I still enjoy ordering this dish to this day.

I’ve also grown very fond of thali. A large plate with many small bowls filled with different dishes. I love it because I’m curious and like trying many things. There’s usually rice with dal, vegetables – often with potatoes, but also carrots or cauliflower. At first, I found the combination of rice and potatoes strange, since in Germany they are both classic side dishes. There’s also pickled vegetables, for example bitter gourd. It’s considered very healthy, but its bitterness still makes it hard for me to enjoy. Add chapatti, Indian flatbread, and something sweet – because every taste should be represented. That’s what Ayurvedic health teachings recommend.

Bitter gourds at the market

Through school lunches, I came into contact with more Indian dishes that I’ve grown to really like. The food there is mildly spiced and therefore perfect as an introduction to Indian cuisine. You just shouldn’t be surprised if the same dish ordered on Zomato turns out to be significantly spicier.

One of these dishes is pav bhaji: a vegetable curry served with soft, slightly sweet bread rolls.

Of course, there were also some very unpleasant encounters. Once, at an Indian cooking event at school, paan was served at the end as a mouth freshener. It’s a green betel leaf filled with spices like aniseed. Since it looked so green and healthy, I enthusiastically put the entire package into my mouth at once. I chewed and chewed. The mass kept growing, the taste was indescribable, and at some point I realised my saliva would not be enough. I simply couldn’t bring myself to swallow what was in my mouth.

Still, I’ve now built up quite a list of Indian dishes I genuinely like. These include palak paneer, a spinach dish with a special Indian fresh cheese, sambar, a spicy soup, and even the rather hot samosas – fried, filled pastries that belong more to street food.

Although we don’t eat Indian food all that often, our sense of taste has unexpectedly adapted. After more than four years in India, German food often tastes surprisingly bland to me. Maybe I’ve become more “Indianised” than I realised. Who knows – maybe I’ll soon start adding masala to everything, the way many Indians do. It’s not without reason that this spice sits on almost every restaurant table in India – even in Italian pizzerias.

And because I wanted to get to the bottom of the whole spiciness issue, I did a bit of research. The heat actually has a very practical function: in warm climates, bacteria multiply more quickly, and capsaicin – what we perceive as spiciness – doesn’t suit them very well. This also explains why India has the highest chilli consumption in the world. Luckily, chillies grow so well here that masala will probably never be in short supply.

Sacks of Masala

Indian food is still not something I take for granted. It remains something I choose deliberately. And yet I notice that something has shifted. Perhaps that’s the real effect of living in India: you are changed, whether you want it or not. And in the end, you don’t just miss masala in your food – but in life.