Indian cuisine has evolved from colonial roots to become a global sensation, reflecting resilience and cultural pride while reclaiming its narrative in the culinary world.
There’s a certain irony in how the story of Indian food mirrors the story of India itself. For centuries, colonial powers took our spices, our recipes, and our people—exporting flavor while erasing its origins. Many have read literature and seen movies depicting white people cringing at the thought of Indian food.
Friends who grew up in various American states have shared experiences of being bullied because their clothes carried the scent of curry leaves or cumin seeds. They were met with strange looks when they brought Indian food in their lunch boxes. However, the same places that once marginalized Indian cuisine now boast Haldiram’s frozen kebabs in grocery store freezer aisles and even Nanak’s Rasmalai at Costco.
Today, Indian food has traveled farther and more freely than the empire that once tried to control it. This evolution represents a satisfying course of decolonization.
An African American colleague’s daughter enjoys masala chai paired with a samosa before heading out to school. At a meditation retreat I attended, lunch was catered from a healthy Indian chain, and attendees were delighted by the burst of flavors. Everyone, including myself, inquired about the catering service.
My travels took me to Spain in September 2025 for a conference on Ayurveda. After several days of work, we planned to enjoy some vacation time. For us, vacation often means hiking through challenging terrains and exploring local cuisines.
In the beautiful town of Granada, I struggled with food choices. The heat made it difficult to find refreshing options, and the local cuisine was heavy on red meat and pork, lacking in green vegetables. Spaniards typically eat lunch after 3 p.m. and dinner often begins around 10 p.m.
After hiking nine miles daily and networking at the conference on little more than orange juice and coffee, I realized I needed real food. On the fifth or sixth day of the trip, I told my husband, “I need real food.” My body was starting to rebel against the lack of nourishment.
We discovered a wonderful Indian restaurant just a ten-minute walk from our hotel, owned by a young man from Mumbai. The food was light and non-spicy, reminiscent of home-cooked meals. The service was exceptional. My body danced with joy as I savored dishes like Palak chicken, vegetable medley, dal tadka, and tandoori roti.
Colonial hangovers still linger—in accents, aspirations, and appetites. For decades, Western palates treated Indian cuisine as a curiosity. Butter chicken and tikka masala became shorthand for “Indian food,” while countless regional dishes—each steeped in geography, ritual, and memory—were overlooked.
I recall over two decades ago when my husband brought homemade saboodana khichdi to the office. A colleague remarked that it looked strange. However, food, much like history, refuses to remain confined. The Indian diaspora, through resilience and creativity, has reclaimed those recipes and reshaped global eating habits.
Looking beyond the United States, London once catered to colonial nostalgia with “curry houses.” Today, the city celebrates chefs like Asma Khan, who leads all-female kitchen brigades and champions authentic recipes. The same Britain that once ruled India now considers chicken tikka masala—a dish born in Britain—a national treasure. Balti chicken, a unique dish, can be found in British pubs, often served with fries, or as they call them, “crisps.”
Recently, I met a doctor from Durban, South Africa, who raved about Bunny Chow. This dish consists of a loaf of bread hollowed out and filled with spicy curry, which could be mutton, vegetables, or chicken. The bread serves as both a dish and an edible utensil, allowing diners to enjoy the flavorful curry without utensils. Bunny Chow stands as an emblem of Indian ingenuity under apartheid and a beloved symbol of South African street cuisine.
Food tells stories that textbooks cannot convey. Each pinch of turmeric and swirl of ghee carries centuries of migration, memory, and resistance. When colonizers labeled Indian food as “too spicy,” they were not merely commenting on heat; they were reacting to the independence of taste.
Today, Indian cuisine is reclaiming that narrative, with several Michelin-starred Indian chefs emerging worldwide.
Ayurveda, once dismissed as mysticism, now informs the wellness industry from New York to New Zealand. The humble haldi doodh has been rebranded as “golden milk.” Cumin-Coriander-Fennel Tea is gaining popularity due to its reputation for aiding digestion and detoxification. The ancient concept of ahimsa (non-violence) aligns perfectly with modern veganism. The global shift toward plant-forward diets owes much to Indian culinary philosophy, which has always celebrated vegetables as stars rather than mere sides.
At a non-Indian friend’s Galentine’s Day potluck, I brought homemade vegetable kebabs and saboodana tikkis. Guests were curious about how I made them and appreciated the warm, spiced, homemade vegetarian appetizers over the usual cold cuts and cheese platters. At an Italian-Jewish friend’s engagement party in the upscale Upper East Side of NYC, he requested that we bring vegetable samosas.
The rise of Indian food is not about assimilation; it’s about expansion. My non-Desi clients rave about how Indian cuisine has transformed their health journeys. It serves as a reminder that authenticity need not seek Western validation. The turmeric latte may be trending, but your grandmother was sipping it long before Instagram existed.
We often discuss decolonizing history, art, or fashion. However, food may be the most delicious place to start. Colonial hangovers persist when we perceive “French cuisine” as refined but consider “Indian food” as heavy; when “fine dining” is defined by white plates and Western sauces instead of banana leaves and chutneys.
It’s time to change that narrative. To refer to “food,” not “ethnic food.” To recognize that the masala dabba is not a relic—it’s an archive. Our spices didn’t just flavor trade routes; they shaped civilizations and continue to heal those who are unwell.
Today, chefs of Indian origin—whether in Copenhagen or New York—are redefining luxury dining while staying true to their roots. They demonstrate that khichdi can be plated as art, vodka pani puri can be served, and rasam can be paired with wine—all while honoring tradition. The decolonization of food is not about rejection; it’s about re-centering.
When I travel and see mango lassi on a bar menu in Berlin or dal featured at a wellness retreat in upstate New York, I smile. It’s not just that Indian food has gone global; it has come home everywhere. We are no longer chasing validation; we are setting the table.
Indian food, with its diversity and depth, tells a story that transcends geography: one of endurance, adaptation, and joy. It has survived conquest, migration, and misunderstanding. It has healed communities, built bridges, and inspired generations of cooks who dare to season boldly.
Indeed, colonial hangovers are so last century. The future tastes like cardamom and courage, cumin and connection, with mustard seeds popping with possibility. History has taught us one undeniable truth: you cannot suppress a civilization that knows how to cook.
Source: Original article