On social media, there exists a multitude of videos where people share their culinary heritage in the form of a much beloved recipe that has been in the family through generations. These aren’t merely videos, but tales of a family, a culture and a people. These storytellers chronicle their ancestors in this process, which I think is such a poignant tribute to their hard work — a moving way to connect with those who came before us. As a foodie and a history buff, I love watching these videos, and I often wonder about the dish I would make if I got such an opportunity. But I am never able to answer this question, and it almost always puts me in some sort of an identity crisis, leading me into a spiral of thoughts like: ‘Who am I?’ ‘What is my identity?’ ‘Am I dishonouring my ancestors by being unable to answer this ‘simple’ question?’ ‘Am I really who I say I am (a Malayali from Karnataka) if I can’t even make a single authentic dish from either culture?’ Food has certainly made me ponder about the person that I am more than once. Truly, the connection between our culinary habits and our identity cannot be ignored.
Consider this scene from the Bollywood movie ‘Queen’, where the protagonist Rani (Kangana Ranaut) starts salting the pizzoccheri placed in front of her by an Italian chef. The chef is aghast at this and sarcastically asks her whether she’d like anything else, to which Rani naively replies with “sauce, ginger, garlic, burnt”, much to his incredulity. From here, the exchange devolves, with him stating that the dish is Italian, not Indian, ranting that Indians put chillies in everything. Needless to say, the conversation ends badly.
Now, depending on whether you ask an Italian or an Indian, you’ll find them agreeing with one of them. I think this is what makes this scene brilliant — it clearly illustrates how easily people get offended when someone criticizes one’s cuisine when it isn’t made the “right” or “authentic” way; it showcases how relevant food is to the identity of a person. Evidence of this lies in the hundreds of videos on social media, of Italians gasping in horror when spaghetti is broken in half; or comment sections filled with Nigerians, Senegalese and Ghanaians quarrelling over who makes the best jollof rice; and of Indians and Pakistanis, who share a culinary history, arguing about whose biryani is superior — which is fascinating because even us Indians cannot come to a consensus regarding which of our many regional renditions of biryani is the best. Is it the green coloured Donne biryani from Karnataka? The delicate Hyderabadi one? Or is it the Thalassery biryani with its short grained rice? And what about the spicy Andhra biryani? How do we decide who is in the right here?
I think they are all right and all wrong. Because the truth is, we are all biased towards what we’ve grown up with. It shapes us into the adults that we are. It shapes the generations who come after us. Traditional dishes and their recipes are, after all, passed down from one generation to another like precious heirlooms. These cherished recipes are a legacy, acclaimed for their authenticity.
But what happens when this chain breaks? What happens when a person chooses to move away from their culture of origin to a different city and raise their children there? Such is the case of my family. My sibling and I are Malayalis, born in Kodagu, Karnataka, raised in Rwanda, Africa, and later in India again.
While raising us there, my parents made sure that we spoke in Malayalam, celebrated Malayali festivals and ate Malayali food. Well, some version of Malayali cuisine, because my Malayali mother herself grew up in Kodagu, with a mix of Kerala and Karnataka cuisines. Also, since we were in a foreign country where Indian ingredients weren’t available then, she had to adapt recipes to local ingredients —frying up canned sardines to serve alongside rice (a Kerala meal staple), for example, instead of the impossible-to-find fresh sardines in landlocked Rwanda, or using burger buns as a substitute for the classic pav in pav bhaji.
To further complicate these comestible matters, my father, an avid foodie, ensured that we were introduced to many cuisines, and my mother, an avid cook, experimented with every recipe she could get her hands on. Over time, the food we ate at home became an amalgamation of everything our family loved to eat. The dishes on our table came from all over the world, with only a dozen or so looking like the real, original dish.
This is how my brother and I, and so many others like us, became Third Culture Kids, or TCKs. Wikipedia describes us as “people who were raised in a culture other than their parents’ or the culture of their country of nationality, and also live in a different environment during a significant part of their child development years.” We identify with more than one cuisine, because how do you choose one amongst your many identities? And even if we could, many of our favourite dishes are far removed from what they look like in their countries of origin. For people like us, authenticity means something vastly different, if anything at all. Could you imagine what my ancestors would say if they found out that we have been frying up fish from a tin to go with our meals? They would probably be very confused and slightly disgusted at the (perceived) lack of freshness. But for me, that meal was a simple, delicious symbol of my childhood.
My mother’s dishes were a product of experience, exposure, preference, accessibility and affordability. And as an adult who started cooking for myself, I quickly realised that it was the same for me. After eating my first bowl of dandan noodles abroad, I was enamoured. But much to my chagrin, I couldn’t find anything close to the real deal here in India. As time passed, the cravings increased. I knew I had to get things into my own hands and make it myself. I scoured the internet for authentic recipes, but I hit a roadblock — some ingredients were either unavailable or prohibitively expensive. I realised that if I needed to satiate my cravings, I had to compromise a little and make do with what was accessible and affordable to me.
The biggest challenge was replicating the mala – that numbing, tingling heat that comes from a mix of Sichuan peppers and Chinese chilli powder which gives dandan mian its distinct flavour. These two ingredients were hard to find here. All I had were a variety of local chillies. So that’s what I used, at least until I got my hands on the native ones. Initially, the purist in me cringed at this, because it wouldn’t be authentic and as good, you know? But as time passed, I grew to love these inauthentic concoctions. They were good enough.
Turns out that the masses agree with me, because one of the most popular cuisines in India today is also one that evolved out of the ingenuity and creativity of immigrants and TCKs – Indo-chinese cuisine. Created by Chinese immigrants in Kolkata around the 18th century, this was a cuisine born out of necessity. Faced with a lack of key ingredients, and a local clientele that wasn’t familiar with their food, they quickly adapted their dishes to incorporate whatever ingredients were available to them, with a flavour profile that was more familiar to Indian palates. Indian chillies smoothly replaced Chinese chillies, turning Sichuan pepper into Schezwan, and the culinary technique of deep frying an ingredient and then cooking it in sauce, called liu in China, became the Manchurian/chilli. These dishes have become street food staples all across India, something that even blue collar workers can access and enjoy. You’ll see generations come together at tea time over a plate of Hakka noodles and gobi manchurian at, of all places, South Indian tiffin centers. In fact, these are dishes you’ll find on most multi-cuisine menus of various budgets all over the nation.
So, while Indo-Chinese food has a short history of existence compared to many other cuisines, and doesn’t bear much resemblance to traditional Chinese cooking, it has become a cuisine of its own right — beloved by the people and becoming a part of their core memories. To dismiss this cuisine as invalid because it isn’t “authentic” would be an erasure of the lived experiences of so many.
Cuisines like these can be found the world over, be it Swahili cuisine—influenced by Indo-Afro-Arab communities, that gave us delicious beef sambusas and roti, both very different from their native versions—or African-American cuisine that gave us dishes like gumbo, similar but different to its Nigerian counterpart, the okro soup.
There is a certain snobbery in many elite food circles, when a dish is deemed inauthentic. But this snobbery completely disregards factors like accessibility and affordability. Is delicious food meant to be accessible only to those who can afford to travel abroad or splurge at expensive restaurants that serve the authentic dish? No, I think everyone should be able to experience the joy of good food, in whatever form it may be available to them.
Traditionalists tend to look down upon any slight change in original recipes, fretting about their erasure, which is a valid concern. However, the above mentioned cuisines are great examples of how cuisines can evolve into something new, even without the loss of cuisines from which they originate. And with the rise of globalisation, the strengthening of the global village and shifting dietary lifestyles like veganism, the emergence of more such blended cuisines and dishes is inevitable.
Through my years as a foodie, I have gone from being a judgemental snob who refused to eat certain things unless they were “authentic”, to eating things because they may be authentic to the individual person, specific family or their life experiences, just as my style of cooking is authentic to the person that I am and the way that I have lived my life. When I think of my identity now, chillies are what come to mind. Currently a staple of some of my favourite cuisines — Indian, Chinese, Thai, Korean, Vietnamese and Malaysian — they were not even present on the continent just a few centuries ago! So I’m truly grateful that some people decided to disregard adherence to ‘authentic’ recipes that used black pepper for heat, and instead replaced them with hot chilli peppers to create what are now some of the best cuisines on this planet. I love them, and clearly, my ancestors did too, so I like to imagine that this is how we connect across centuries.
This is the story of every single cuisine that exists in the world today, and I realised that I can either choose to bemoan a lack of authenticity, or I can embrace these changes and look forward to exciting new culinary traditions. As someone who cannot imagine life without chillies, I’m definitely choosing the latter.
Neha is a pastry chef and an instinctive foodie whose most cherished memories have always revolved around food. Raised across multiple cultures, she grew up observing how eating habits reveal stories of history, identity, and the quiet ways people express care. Her own journey with food — from childhood indulgences to a more nourishing, plant-forward diet — reflects an evolving relationship with herself, her values, and the world around her. She believes food is one of humanity’s most profound creations: a source of joy, connection, and understanding.
Translations and detailed descriptions are provided to give a better understanding of the story to people from different cultural backgrounds across the globe.