Cooking Class, Kerala. Photo / Sarah Meikle
In India, ‘curry’ is not a dish but a loose Western label for many foods. In reality, regional dishes can change village to village, shaped by climate and faith, writes Sarah Meikle.
In New Zealand, we use the word “curry” with confident familiarity. We order it on a Friday night, debate our preferred heat level and assume we understand what we’re getting. But in India, the word barely exists in the way we use it.
After nearly three decades of travelling around India, I still find myself explaining that “curry” is a Western shorthand. It’s originally derived from a word meaning sauce or gravy, which has come to label thousands of vastly different dishes. In India, food is defined not by a generic term, but by region, technique and balance. Calling it all “curry” is a little like calling European cuisine “stew”.
What became clear quickly, certainly on my early visits, was that Indian food changes not just state to state, but district to district, sometimes village to village. Geography, climate, religion and trade routes shape what appears on the plate. Coastal regions lean heavily on coconut, seafood and rice. Inland plains favour wheat breads, dairy and slow-cooked meats. Even a humble bowl of lentils will taste entirely different depending on where you are standing.
Spices sit at the heart of it all. Long before refrigeration, they preserved, flavoured and elevated food. Black pepper from the Malabar Coast was once so valuable it was worth its weight in gold. The spice trade drew merchants to ports such as Kochi and Calicut centuries before colonial rule.
But spices are not about heat alone. They are about structure and balance: earthy cumin, floral cardamom, pungent mustard seed, warming clove. I have stood in Mumbai spice markets watching traders toast whole spices before grinding them, the aroma rising in waves. It is immediately obvious this cuisine is built on layering rather than aggression. Heat, when present, is simply one element in a much larger composition.
At a broad level, northern and southern cuisines offer different starting points.
In the north, shaped by Mughal influence and cooler climates, wheat breads such as naan and roti accompany rich gravies, dairy, nuts and slow-cooked meats. Think korma, biryani and smoky tandoori dishes. These are generous plates, creamy and comforting. I remember tasting a true dal makhani in Amritsar, simmered overnight until velvety, and realising how little resemblance it bore to the lentils I thought I knew.
In the south, rice, lentils, coconut and tamarind dominate. The flavours are brighter and often sharper, with curry leaves and mustard seeds playing leading roles. Dosas and idlis are central to breakfast and seafood defines much of the coastline. I will never forget my first sweet and tangy prawn curry on the Kerala coast, coconut milk softening the chilli, mango lifting the dish, black pepper quietly humming beneath it all. Fermentation, too, builds depth and digestibility in ways many Western diners rarely consider.
Yet even north versus south barely scratches the surface.
Kerala’s cuisine reflects centuries of maritime trade and cross-cultural exchange. Syrian Christian communities add distinctive beef and duck dishes to the repertoire. In Delhi, Mughal gravies sit alongside street-side chaat – yoghurt, tamarind and spice colliding in perfect balance.
Lucknow, in Uttar Pradesh, is synonymous with refinement. Awadhi cooking relies on the technique of dum (slow cooking in sealed pots) producing kebabs so tender they were once said to be designed for toothless nawabs (princes). In contrast, Punjab’s Amritsar celebrates boldness: smoky tandoori meats, buttery dals and kulchas straight from the oven.
Further east, Kolkata showcases Bengali finesse – mustard oil, freshwater fish and a sophisticated sweet tradition where sandesh and rasgulla are central, not afterthoughts.
Across all these regions, what unites Indian cooking is not a single flavour profile but a devotion to balance and seasonality.
Indian cuisine is also deeply rooted in memory and tradition. Recipes are rarely written down; they are absorbed. Masalas, those signature spice blends, are adjusted by instinct rather than measurement. A dear friend of mine, food writer Rushina Munshaw-Ghildiyal, has written entire books on chutney alone, revealing it to be complex and regionally diverse rather than simply sweet and jarred.
The question I am asked most often is: “Is it spicy?” In India, “spicy” means flavourful, not fiery. I have lost count of the puzzled looks when I have asked whether something is spicy, meaning hot. Of course it contains spices, that is the foundation. If you prefer less chilli heat, say so. But don’t mistake subtlety for blandness.
If you want to order confidently in New Zealand, specificity is your friend. Instead of asking for “a curry”, look for regional markers. Is it Punjabi? Chettinad? Goan? Notice whether the base is tomato and cream, coconut milk or yoghurt. Ask about the house masala. When the food arrives, share it. Tear the bread. Let rice and sauce mingle. Eating with your right hand is not unsophisticated; it is tactile and entirely practical.
It is also important to recognise that Indian food abroad reflects adaptation. Butter chicken, while rooted in Delhi, has evolved outside of India, often sweeter and richer. That is not inauthentic; it is cuisine doing what it has always done: shifting to new contexts.
Meanwhile, within India itself, the food scene continues to evolve. In Mumbai, chefs push tasting menus into contemporary territory. In Bengaluru, restaurants champion hyper-local produce. At the same time, home cooks continue to guard recipes that have never appeared in print.
After decades of returning to India, what continues to surprise me is not the heat, but the depth. The way a dish can hold history, geography and memory in a single mouthful.
Indian cuisine is one of the world’s great culinary systems, ancient yet contemporary, regional yet interconnected. It carries the imprint of trade routes, migration, faith and family. It is shaped as much by grandmothers as by emperors.
And for Kiwi diners willing to look beyond that one convenient word, it offers far more than warmth. It offers history on a plate.