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Not a foodie

Let’s talk about the word ‘foodie’ – overused, frequently misunderstood and massively annoying. Saying it, hearing it and reading it all make me feel things I don’t particularly like feeling, and for some reason it seems to be following me around like a bad smell you can’t shake off. In an attempt to understand these unexplainable unpleasant feelings, I decided to do a little (very very little) research into the word.

The word allegedly first appeared in print in the 80’s and was actually intended to be a more inclusive and less snobby word to describe people who consider food a hobby. The quote I came across was: ‘not as elitist as a gourmet, more discriminating than a glutton’. Yes, even the world of food is not safe from thinly disguised class based prejudices.

A little further digging revealed to my surprise that it is actually listed in the dictionary with a proper definition:

‘A person with a particular interest in food; a gourmet’
Oxford English Dictionary

Now why would I be averse to that, surely it’s something I should proudly identify as?

Unfortunately years of (over) use have resulted in the original good intentions of the word being totally lost. Nowadays it is irresponsibly thrown around by anyone who describes themselves as someone who likes to eat. Spoiler – we all like to eat, we are biologically programmed for it. In addition to its flagrant overuse, the term itself sounds awful. The ie sound at the end makes it sound patronisingly infantile and therefore cringe inducing.

There there foodie
Come here foodie foodie
Who’s a good little foodie

Ironically, people who announce themselves as foodies are usually most likely to be the ones that actual ‘foodies’ will take considerable measures to dissociate themselves from. You know the kind I’m talking about – the ones who list ‘going gym’ amongst their top hobbies, the same poor sods who quickly fall prey to the latest ‘trends’ in the foodverse, consuming vast quantities of greasy, overly cheesy foods whilst documenting it all on the ‘gram usually accompanied by the caption ‘Night Out xxx’.

Ok I know I’m being elitist here, but humour me would you, I am famously inconsistent. (Actually maybe I’m just an asshole…)

The word has been used so frequently in connection with me that I now consider it a trigger word. Every-time someone refers to me as a foodie, my eyes start twitching and I can feel the rage forming in my gut as I swallow down the impulsive need to defend myself against the ridiculous accusation.

‘Oh yeah your family are big foodies right?’
‘Ayushi is a foodie. She’ll know where we can go munch’
‘You’re gonna love this place, it’s for foodies like you’

Anyone who takes food (and themselves) seriously probably considers it an insult. It’s an unnecessary label to make honest, innocent eaters feel like freaks for taking pleasure in beautiful culinary activities like; preparing a meal with quality ingredients, tasting carefully cooked creations, hearing the stories behind restaurants, the inspiration behind cooks and generally revelling in a shared love of taste.

I was once chatting to a guy who described himself as a ‘foodie’ in his Tinder bio. ‘Great’ I remember thinking to myself ‘Maybe we can bond over the right way to cook a carbonara, whether naan is better than roti and what our favourite condiment is’. As soon as I steered the conversation foodwards, I realised just how naive I had been.

‘Oh my god yeah I love food, I literally put mayonnaise on everything’

A friend (and fellow foodiefobe) shared another shocker with me recently. A new guy in her office introduced himself as a foodie and then proceeded to quiz the team about the best lunch options nearby. They took him out for a 4 cheese pizza and he said that it was the most exotic thing he had ever eaten. EXOTIC. As the youth say, I cannot even.

All this said, I do want to come to a place of tolerance (acceptance is still a good couple of years away, remember I am still an asshole). The word still makes me want to whip my belt off and start chasing the offender down the street, but maybe with a little bit of practice I can get to a place where it merely elicits an eyebrow raise, a little wince of discomfort and then I forget about it and get on with my day.

In the meantime, my beloved readers (the few of you that are out there) this is a safe space – please share stories of the so called ‘foodies’ in your life.

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‘You should start a food blog’

I wasn’t even hungry though

Why am I here? I love food. ALOT. Not like in the way that most hungry people do, but in the way obsessives do. Almost every conscious moment of my days are spent wondering about what I can possibly create and consume next; compulsively drooling over (what should be NSFW) food pages on Instagram, trying to break my addiction to watching Nigella alliterating amongst the alliums on YouTube and wandering the aisles of supermarkets overwhelmed by the sheer possibility of it all.

I have been known to cite reading menus amongst my favourite past times and request post meal belly rubs on my Tinder bio (hit me up all you hot, single, hungry folk).

So far on my journey of consumption and obsession, I seem to have gathered a pretty decent collection of lovely things to eat that bring me and the people around me joy. I also seem to have amassed a great many opinions on what brings me and the people around me joy. So I have decided its probably time that I start writing them down because they take up too much space in my brain and frankly, they are too brilliant not to share… that would just be selfish.

The HeartBake

Round One: Gateway Cupcakes

I discovered I enjoyed baking after experiencing an earth-shattering, world-ending breakup in my early twenties. One where the memory of the relationship itself is extremely patchy because I’m convinced my brain actually 404 errored and then erased the hard disk to protect itself from the virus of heartbreak pain.

It happened at an age when I believed myself to be invincible, immune, God’s gift to this generation… the golden child. So much so that the one thing I do remember with surprising clarity is yelling mid-breakup, “YOU WILL NEVER FIND ANYONE AS GOOD AS ME.” Not my most gracious moment…

The sting of rage eventually wore off, leaving a hangover of sad. I craved feeling needed, feeling valued, feeling instantly useful. I needed to do something—something that would produce immediate results and make me feel like I wasn’t totally useless.

I was very randomly gifted a Hummingbird Bakery cookbook for my birthday. As a student operating from a cramped student kitchen with very little equipment, I decided to give it a go. I took myself to Argos and procured a cheap mixer and dug out a muffin tin from under the oven and started to bake.

I started with cupcakes. Simple things that required very little technical skill and just required me to follow instructions. I was really surprised that I could quite easily produce 12 fairly similar, pretty nice looking and relatively tasty little treats. With a teensy bit of discipline, intent and time I had produced tangible, edible results. How easy it was to feel gratified—mix, bake, eat, receive praise, repeat. The ritual of it started to soothe something broken inside me.

Round Two:He’s Your Manager, Not Your Best Mate

Many years later, I found myself desperately sad again. I had experienced yet another earth-shattering, world-ending breakup… but this time it was a job that broke my heart. I turned once more to baking to save me.

I’m not going to pretend I’m an excellent baker. I’m just pretty good at following recipes and derive calm from the ritualistic nature of measuring out flour and sugar and butter, creaming and folding and whipping, and then offering careful goop into the oven, not knowing what will face you when the timer goes off and you open the oven again.

Its always an emotional rollercoaster. Worrying whilst the goop cooks: Is the goop the right texture? Did I beat the butter and sugar together enough? Is the oven the right temperature? Did I use the right kind of tin? And then frantically stopping myself from worrying in case the bad juju of the worry goes into the cake, and then chanting om namah shivah and blowing good juju into the oven.

And then pure relief when the goop comes out edible, joy when people other than myself enjoy the goop, and finally the deep sense of accomplishment when the goop is completely gone. Its a longer lasting dopamine hit than my night-time doomscrolling…

Never intentionally but almost compulsively, tarts and cakes flew out of my oven. The joy they brought to my the mouths of friends and family was addictive. I would wait expectantly whilst they took their bites, hungry for feedback, for validation, for appreciation. I was greedy for it. Sometimes I produced utter stunners, like the onion tart that was consumed within minutes of being out of the oven. Sometimes they were utterly butters,* like the Bakewell tart that just tasted greasy.

But each one made me feel once more useful and valuable and appreciated.

Round Three: The Cheating Cheesecake

Most recently, having found out the hot mess of a guy I’d been seeing was two-timing me with an ex-partner of ten years AND was also window shopping on Hinge (greedy bastard), I was emotionally adrift once more. I was in Kenya staying with a family friend, without my usual support system, without a job (see above re: professional heartbreak), and with no direction. I needed to bake to soothe myself. I needed the familiarity of my quiet kitchen and its selection of carefully curated bowls and spatulas. I needed the certainty of a well-tested recipe. I needed to produce something to prove to myself that I was not a piece of garbage.

I decided to keep it simple and do a fridge-set cheesecake. It was for my Mami’s birthday, who had expressed a love of Biscoff, and so it would be a Biscoff cheesecake.

But of course, nothing was simple. The bowls were all too wide and too shallow, and they were stainless steel. There wasn’t a whisk in sight. I had to use cup measurements instead of a scale (something I loathed—ew, American baking). The ingredients were all different and tasted different. The cream cheese was salty for some reason, and I couldn’t find double cream in the supermarkets without an E number in it. It transpired that Lotus Biscoff was a goddamn luxury ingredient in this part of the world. My father managed to source a packet of biscuits for the equivalent of £5, and I tracked down a jar of Biscoff spread that cost me just over £10.

I could have chosen to interpret all of this as an unmistakable sign from the universe to give up on baking to soothe myself and just take up smoking instead.

But a little of my hope returned thanks to the trusty mwiko (God bless the universality of the wooden spoon), and a cheesecake was beaten, poured, chilled and assembled. I delivered it to my Mami with my usual trepidation. I knew it didn’t taste exactly like it was supposed to, and my usual pre-taste test anxiety monster was alive inside me saying all manner of mean things. I had just taken my seat upon the Emotional Rollercoaster once more.

Mami loved it. And my cousins loved it. And she was really grateful that someone had brought her a cake for her birthday. Her appreciation soothed me, made me feel like I was in fact not a piece of garbage, and that I could still produce something of value.

Fully Baked…Almost

Numerous heartbreaks and countless tarts and cakes later, having developed my skills as a baker and my confidence in the kitchen, I still turn to baking when life feels beyond my control. I’m not claiming to be the best baker in the world, but baking does remind me of the resilience I have within me. That I know how to make myself feel better no matter where I am, regardless of which kitchen I find myself in or what the butter might taste like. And that eventually, everything works out for the better (or at least I get to eat cake).

I think back to 21-year-old Ayushi yelling at the pasty white boy who had just told her he no longer loved her. She was right, and she is still right. How in the world would any of these boys or jobs ever be able to level up from me? I was and will always be the best thing that ever happened to them.

In the epic words of Cardi B: “I’m a boss bitch, who you gonna leave me for?”

*Butters is the youth people term for ugly… I think.

Dishes that define me

Nanima’s Chicken Biriyani

Food has the power to evoke a deep sense of emotion and that’s just one of the reasons certain foods are so important to me. Just the smell of onions frying in butter or a shaak no vaghar (tempering of spices) can bring me a sense of safety, comfort and togetherness. All emotions that I crave more and more as I age.

If I were to tell the story of my life through dishes that have made an impression on me, Nanima’s chicken biriyani would feature very significantly. In fact, my Nanima probably carries a lot of the blame for my obsession with taste.

Growing up as one of the few womenfolk in her family, she was expected to cook for her many brothers. So feeding her six children came easy to her. Feeding her family was the maternal duty from which she drew immense pride and mercifully, genuine enjoyment. When the time came, this maternal duty of course extended to her numerous grandchildren who spent countless after-school evenings gathered around her table.

She is probably the most spectacular cook I have encountered in my entire life. Her understanding of flavour seemed to transcend anything scientific… she just ‘knew’. I never saw her follow any recipes or measure quantities (if she did, this happened in her mind). By no means was her cooking standard Gujarati fare. Her childhood in Madagascar meant she knew how to use coconut milk and cook seafood, living all over Kenya made her curious about Swahili techniques, and a genuine desire to delight her family meant that she was constantly curious. I vividly remember her response whenever she tasted something impressive outside of her own kitchen ‘kasu jaanva malyu’ (we got to learn something new today).

The mere mention of chicken biriyani elicits a feeling of incomparable warmth. It takes me back immediately to the memory of Nani’s vast saree-clad behind shuffling down the sunny narrow verandah of Wambugu Grove to get to her al fresco kitchen – the temple of taste.

Any return to Kenya for the holidays meant it was only a matter of time before the mystical words would circulate among the Sarvia grandkidlets: ‘Nani is making biriyani this weekend’. Preparations began at least a day in advance: with the chopping of vast amounts of onions and potatoes for deep frying, soaking of masoor (lentils) , Sarah the househelp grinding fresh coconut on the balcony, sourcing the chicken and preparing the jiko (charcoal stove).

‘I knew what was cooking when I saw that weird coconut machine on the floor’

_Nikita

I followed her around, asking for things to do – she had me running up and down the balcony fetching ingredients, peeling potatoes, grating tomatoes and – my favourite job – tasting deep fried onions and potatoes. Nana would always want to get involved and Nanima would graciously let him stir the chicken as she marinated it with garlic, yoghurt and various spices. He would boast about his contributions, cigarette dangling from his lips, and she would roll her eyes with a smile.

The day would unfold with various family members filtering in throughout the cooking process. I would stand proudly next to my Nana as he stirred the giant sufuriya (pot) on the kitchen balcony, greeting the family as they filtered in.

Once the chicken curry had been appropriately cooked down; ‘thel chutvo pade’ (the oil should release) – the biriyani was finally assembled. Fluffy par cooked coconut rice would be alternatively layered with deep fried potatoes, onions, masoor and thick chicken curry. As the final layer of rice was installed, Nana would be summoned back to the balcony to lift the sufuriya onto the jiko and the lid would be crowned with a few glowing charcoals to bring heat from the top. This final stage created the most delicious anticipation of all. The kids would all return to the living room to sit on the carpet whilst the dads talked about dad things around us, Nana a constant presence in the corner with a glass of beer in one hand and the telly remote in the other. The mums would hold the fort in the kitchen, helping Nani make salad and lay the table.

Finally, Nani would announce the biriyani was ready and we would rush to sit down at the oval lacquered dining table covered in the trademark pink and blue checked table cloth. The children and men would eat first, followed by the women (something that the Sarvia grandkidlets would never let fly today). It never felt chaotic, it was just the right amount of pleasantly busy that always felt comforting. It was always a celebration – not just of a day’s worth of cooking, but a celebration of the sheer achievement of having gathered the entire PN Sarvia family.

Like many in the family, I noted down the recipe for this magnificent dish many years ago. I have attempted to recreate it, once or twice and my mother has tried more times than this. And even though our valiant attempts were commendable enough, as my cousin Keena puts it ‘no-one will ever be able to make it quite like her.’

‘No-one will ever be able to make it quite like her’

_Keena

Recreating the experience in Walsall was never the same as it was in Nairobi. Making it secretively in our climate controlled Walsall kitchen and eating it furtively whilst watching the clock waiting for my devout Hare Krishna Dadima to return never did hit quite the same.

Today I promise my Nanima, that never again will shame or guilt ever be associated with her wonderful legacy of a recipe. When we remember her by trying to recreate it, it will be with pride and respect for the dish that has given us the gift of so many happy memories. Her iconic biriyani remains a reminder that the most important recipes aren’t just about the food – they’re about the stories we tell, the memories we create and the safety, comfort and togetherness of family.

Pizza and the problem with ‘perfection’

One of my good friends from London came to visit me recently. Being vegan and an active member in their online community, she had heard:

‘You can’t go to Birmingham and not go to Mr Singhs’

Most of my family, being vegetarians, have long been fans of Mr Singhs Pizza. My grandma loves it because its all vegetarian and that means no meat has ever entered its kitchens, my cousin loves it because they can make most of their menu vegan and my other relatives love it because they can get ‘spicy’ pizza with coriander and paneer on it. Its reasonably priced, clean and, given its Handsworth location, even has some surprisingly tasteful exposed brickwork.

Despite all of this, I have never been the least bit curious to check the place out. In fact, the more people raved about it, the more it made me determined to never go. Now, before you all hastily label me pretentious and never visit this site again, please, please, let me explain myself. It’s not entirely my fault, I promise!

I used to appreciate American style deep dish pizza. More than appreciate, I actually liked the stuff, aspired to eat it even. When I was in my mid-teens, I enjoyed a visit to the Pizza Hut buffet as much as the next man/woman/child. I craved it, looked forward to it, immensely enjoyed it and then experienced all those emotions again when it was time to eat the cold leftovers the day after.

In my university days, I discovered the semolina covered doughy goodness of Dominoes Pizza (big up good old Two for Tuesday always saving the day). There was something about the way the cheese stretched and pulled as you picked a slice off the soggy cardboard, the way the bright red grease pooled inside the little curls of pepperoni and, of course, the utter satisfaction of dunking the great big wodges of leftover crust into the too good to be true Garlic & Herb dip.

I’m not sure when it happened but then slowly, something changed.

I wish I could pin down my pizza turning point (lets call it the PTP), but I don’t think it exists as an arbitrary point in time. I wish I could tell you that I had a religious experience when I took my first bite of a proper pizza in Naples and vowed never to put anything else in my mouth again because nothing else would ever compare. But I think in reality it was more of a journey (even though that first Napoli pizza was pretty damn good)

I think its because I began to eat more pizza, and the more pizza I ate, the more it interested me. I started to prefer Pizza Express to Pizza Hut, then happened to move to London at the same time as the sourdough pizza revolution hit and places like Franco Manca and Pizza Pilgrims became hard to avoid. I took a pizza making class at E5 Bakehouse and couldn’t believe how few ingredients it took to create the perfect mouthful.

Now I knew what San Marzano tomatoes were and the difference between buffalo mozzarella and just mozzarella, I started looking for leopard spotted bottoms and soggy middles and actually went on a quest (yes, I believe it was quite noble) to find and eat Londons best pizza.

To my surprise, I even started shunning the condiments. Today, I believe the mark of a good pizza is if you ate the whole pizza and even the crusts without feeling the need to dip them in anything.

(Side note before my nearest and dearest start coming at me: Chilli oil is the ONLY acceptable pizza accoutrement)

‘All those condiments are just sad, it means your food isn’t good enough on its own’
The wise wise words of my father

So hopefully that explains it, I went on a frikking journey. I had experienced a multitude of different pizzas. Ones that had made me feel things and taste things that I thought to be impossible from flour, yeast and tomatoes. Lets face it, after all that, going to Mr Singhs to eat plastic cheese on a paving slab of tasteless dough with some fake meat on it was never going to float my boat. But in the spirit of being open minded and a good host to my friend that travelled all this way to see me, I summoned some enthusiasm and we gave it a go. Let me tell you, float my boat it most certainly did NOT (although I have to say the curly fries were pretty on point).

Go ahead, call me a ‘pizza snob’, call me ‘patronising’, look around in contempt and ask yourselves ‘who the hell does she think she is?’. I totally deserve it. I fully appreciate that I’m a privileged twat.

But, you know what, in the end it’s just sad. Sad that I can’t derive enjoyment or satisfaction anymore from a Pizza Hut buffet or from a Two for Tuesday or even a paneer tikka coriander covered Mr Singhs. I’m ruined for life, my older and wiser tongue is like a bitter old lady and all she does is complain about most of the pizza she eats because it just.isn’t.good.enough.

Here’s a little advice – fuck refining your palate. It doesn’t need it, you are better off not knowing your food is mediocre. You’ll be happier and richer for it.

That samosa life

There was a time, in my younger years, when the humble Hargun samosa was a source of great comfort to me.

Having swapped (quite against my will, I assure you) the temperate climes of East Africa for a life in bleak middle England, 14 year old Ayushi found herself quite lost.

My first day at the local comprehensive consisted of citing the Pythagorean theorem to prove I should be in set 1 maths, being appalled that kids didn’t get detention for making teachers cry and spending lunchtime hanging out with my 11 year old sister and her one newly made friend. Everything was grey, the weather, the buildings and even the kids (although I later learnt that this was predominantly due to the fact that most of them ate £1 chicken and chips for lunch and little else).

A few months on and nothing had really changed. People were still as surprised at my perfect English (though upon reflection I think they were just disappointed I didn’t speak exclusively in clicks) and I was beginning to think I should just let people believe that I used to ‘ride an elephant to school everyday’ and even added ‘with nothing but a loincloth of leaves on’ as an embellishment.

I had acquired a few friends who lost no time in introducing me to the aforementioned £1 chicken and chips and the magical combination of chilli sauce and garlic mayo. These friends, however, occasionally fancied a little variety in their beige diet and so they also introduced me to Hargun’s Sweet Centre. Here, £1 could get you 2 samosas and a paneer roll complete with pot of chutney.

My previous experience of samosas were more the 2D Gujarati variety, with fillings such as peas + paneer, egg + onion, or the best of all spiced kheema. This was the first time I was faced with the pyramidical, potato filled structural masterpiece that is the punjabi samosa.

At first, I remember being slightly bewildered at the sheer amount of potato inside. I then surrendered to its pillowy warmth and allowed it to let me forget that my toes were almost always cold (I learned the hard way that ballet flats are not appropriate winter footwear).

Multiple visits to Hargun’s later and I was still a little bewildered. Why did they only ever contain exactly 3 peas? Did they somehow count them in? How come the chutney tasted so good? How did the pastry retain its perfect crispiness?

At this point, it is worth sharing that the proprietor of Hargun had a son with whom I shared some of my classes. Him and his gang of Asian bad boys ensured that the Hargun samosa achieved cult status amongst the Asians at school by claiming that as it was a triangle, it had illuminati super powers (remember this was the early 2000’s) . Rather creatively, they called it the Samosalati.

However, it was only during lent, that the Samosalatis started to work their super powers on the rest of the school. Boxes of them were donated to a fund raising effort outside the canteen, where they were sold at cost price to hungry children at breaktime. Listening to white people eat samosas for the first time continues to amuse me to this day.

‘Ooh its so spicy. I do love Indian food’

‘You guys are so lucky you eat this stuff everyday’

‘Whats the sauce made out of? Can I have it with ketchup?’

‘Nah bruv, I don’t wanna eat that I’ll stink of curry innit’

This samosa revolution filled me with a warm happiness. This little potato parcel gently introduced me to the fact that I was now a ‘British Asian’ and despite not really being from here, there or anywhere, I could feel like I did belong in this strange, grey town.

I recently ate a Hargun samosa again after a long time. It doesn’t quite bring me the same comfort. The little pastry handle on the outside is still perfectly crispy and the chutney still stellar. But the filling is a little dry, a little halfheartedly spiced, and still has too much potato and not enough pea. There are definitely better samosas out there (shoutout to ma Ambala fam) and I would still argue that Gujarati samosas are far superior, but I am still thankful to the OG punji samosa. Thank you for making this culturally confused East African Gujarati feel like she could belong here and thank you for continuing to stalwartly serve the people of this town.