Consume what’s good where you are. Simple. Honest. No philosophy degree required.
See, my old man’s the stubborn type. Built like an ancient stone, brain wired like a transistor radio that still picks up 1970s frequencies. If he likes idli-vada, that’s it. Life begins and ends with fermented rice and deep-fried comfort.
So one day, he drags us to Baroda: me, my mother, my wife and his ego. Morning train, rough sleep, a city still yawning awake. And before we could even rub the sleep from our eyes, he declares, “Let’s find a South Indian hotel.” I thought maybe he was kidding. He wasn’t.
We walked like almost five bloody kilometres in that dry March sun. Five. For one plate of idli-vada. Mom’s knees gave up first. My wife, the silent warrior, looked at me like she was mentally Googling divorce lawyers. Dad kept marching, like Frodo on some weird pilgrimage, except instead of the ring, it was breakfast.
At some point, I snapped. I didn’t care if the place served tea in old socks. We stopped at a dingy tapri... one of those half-alive joints that smell of ambition and burnt oil. Ordered Pohe and Chai. It was warm, yellow, and unapologetically mediocre. But I swear to god, it tasted like victory.
Then, we had to go all the way to see the "Statue of Unity." Because dad likes political figures (DOA), so no questions asked.
That night, I took charge. Enough of this culinary colonization. We were eating local, proper spicy Kathiawadi. Dad hated the idea. Said we should’ve stayed in the hotel. Mom was ready to throw him into the tandoor. The dinner was a mess of chillies, sweat, and redemption. But it was real. It belonged to the place.
Next day, he chose a Gujarati restaurant: sweet food, sweet staff, sweet everything. Even the napkins looked polite. But hey, at least he played by the rules.
I once ordered Pav Bhaji in Bangalore. They served it with cashew nuts. Cashew nuts! That’s when I knew... this world’s gone mad.
So, I made my rule official: Eat what belongs where you are.
South? Dosa, idli, sambhar. Maharashtra? Misal Pav and existential dread. North? Thalis, tandoor, and a thousand versions of gobi.
Truth is, there’s no bad food. Just bad restaurants, bad chefs, and people who order paneer butter masala in Kerala. Even Patta Gobi Sabzi... that cabbage monstrosity, turned beautiful when my North Indian school friend shared his tiffin with me. Maybe it was the oil, maybe it was his mother’s love, or maybe hunger makes everything taste divine.
So yeah... eat local, write honest, live stupid, and stay hungry.
That’s my take. What’s yours?
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