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First Edition
Of Spice The Soul
Exploring india’s Vast Culinary regions
Keith sarasin
B
y dr . K ur us H dalal
having realized after many years that it is the similarities contained within Indian cuisine’s incredible diversity that make Indian food what it is, I decided that I wanted to share this epiphany with others. The COVID pandemic provided the perfect opportunity—via social media—for me to take the time and reach out to people hungry for knowledge, content, and entertainment the world over. This led to a series of online videos and eventually a certificate course under the umbrella of the “Studying Food Workshop.”
One day, I realized that a chef from the United States named Keith Sarasin was following me on Instagram. I was intrigued. I followed him back. We got to writing to each other, commenting on posts and sharing our stories, and I realized that I had come across a die-hard Indian food lover and chef, someone who was looking at Indian food beyond chicken tikka masala and naan bread, and definitely beyond the gimmickry of many a social media chef. Keith took a couple of my certificate courses and became a student and a friend—he fondly calls me “Guruji,” an epithet I don’t really think I deserve. Keith was someone with whom I began to enjoy long talks and video calls, discussing food in general, as well as Indian food and its ingredients, styles, and complexity. We soon realized we were kindred souls—and then Keith told me he was coming to India.
I must say: for an incredibly well-known and highly respected chef in the United States, author of multiple books, and founder of The Farmers Dinner and the Aatma pop-up series, Keith is a truly humble seeker. And that, perhaps more than anything else, led to serious bonding and a deepening friendship. So, I was overjoyed when Keith said he was coming to India, and then really saddened when he had to cancel at the eleventh hour! But the Fates had already conspired, and he finally made it to Mumbai, in November 2023. We had a fabulous time. My wife, Rhea, and I took Keith with us to sample some of the street food of Mumbai, and he came home with us to our little house in the hills in Lonavala, where we hosted him and his sous-chef BJ, along with another mutual friend, Ishan Sadwelkar. We cooked, ate, and talked almost nonstop over umpteen mugs of Parsi choi (made with tea leaves, mint, and lemongrass). We discussed food and the future of food, we talked about the bogeyman of appropriation—something that concerned Keith greatly—and we discussed the absolute nonissue of authenticity. In those few days we strengthened our bond and he asked me to write this foreword to his book on Indian food—I was deeply honored and overjoyed to do so.
Keith has had a fantastic journey in food. There have been ups, downs, and epiphanies. He has learned much, applied it solidly, and taken his passion to the people. And those people who have eaten his food have been the real arbiters and critics of his work—almost across the board there have only been superlatives. This is the true dividend of his passion and hard work. I wish him the very best with this, his latest book, and look forward to his next visit to India.
This is not just a cookbook.
It is a love letter to the people, culture, and places that I have been so fortunate to encounter over the last 16 years of my journey.
The premise of this book is to showcase food from the Indian subcontinent in a way that moves beyond the butter chicken and garlic naan that so many in the West understand Indian cuisine to be.
Through The Soul of Spice, you will embark on a culinary odyssey that goes beyond taste, offering a glimpse into the essence of a nation through its vibrant and diverse culinary heritage. With every turn of the page, the book invites you to immerse yourself in the sights, sounds, and aromas of India, fostering a deeper appreciation for the cultural richness and culinary intricacies that define this captivating land. Each recipe serves as a portal to a different facet of Indian life, from bustling street markets to tranquil family kitchens, all of them combining to weave a narrative that celebrates the profound beauty of discovery and the universal joy of sharing a meal with loved ones.
To be crystal clear, this book is far from being the definitive guide to Indian cuisine. The sheer magnitude of dishes that exist within a 30-kilometer radius in the country would leave most Westerners dumbfounded. Food in India is a living, breathing entity that is in a constant state of evolution and transformation. To even attempt to encapsulate its essence would require volumes upon volumes.
So, the recipes contained within these pages merely skim the surface of a culinary tradition that stretches back over 5,000 years. In India, cooking has long been an art passed down through generations, often through intimate, hands-on instruction rather than written recipes. It’s a tradition that’s been nurtured and upheld by countless generations of women who have served as the heart and soul of Indian cuisine. As a professional chef, I stand in reverent awe of their wisdom and ingenuity.
Reflecting on my own journey, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for my first mentor, Indira. Her guidance and expertise in the kitchen were nothing short of miraculous to a humble student of Indian cuisine like myself. Even now, her mastery of flavors and spices continues to inspire me. There was a certain magic in the way she effortlessly crafted dishes that resonated with every bite, a delicate balance of heat and spice that transformed each meal into a symphony for the senses.
I believe to my core that Indian food doesn’t need elevation, it needs representation. As such, the aesthetic for the pictures in this book is purposeful. I wanted to showcase the beauty of Indian cuisine without utilizing the highly stylized approach that features in many modern cookbooks. Instead, I wanted to portray the food in its simplest form, the way it would look when Indira placed it on the table.
If you are unfamiliar with Indian cuisine, have no fear. This book will guide you through the basics and fundamentals of the cuisine, and take you on a journey that will have you cooking up traditional dishes in no time.
a C HEF ’ s
JOU rn e Y
“Keith, hurry up. We can’t be late.”
It’s a crisp fall day in Nashua, New Hampshire. I slip into a red puffy jacket and am rushed out the door by my mother. We walk quickly through the city, my five-year-old legs doing their best to keep up while I focus on keeping snot from streaming down my face.
We arrive at a large stone church on Main Street and find a line that spans for what seems like miles. Through the stretched wool of my mitten I can feel the warmth of my mother’s hand, but when I look up, I see that she is staring straight ahead, deeply concerned.
I can’t figure out why we rushed out the door just to stand in this never-ending line. But I can also feel that whatever sits at the end of it matters.
At the front of the line, we find a grey-haired nun passing out boxes of food. Her face bears the marks of time, but retains a gentle, welcoming look. As we approach, she smiles and motions for us to come and take some food, sympathy apparent in her eyes.
“Jesus loves you,” she says, handing us a box containing canned goods and a few other items. My mother, ever the believer, tells the nun we need all the prayers we can get, and thanks her for the food. We start home in silence. Eventually, I stop and look at my mother.
“If Jesus really loved us, wouldn’t he give us money instead?”
This is met with a sharp look of disapproval.
“Don’t be wise, Keith. God loves us.”
Back in our apartment, it feels like Christmas morning as we rummage through the box. The fresh smell of yeast. The warm sweetness of berry jam.
And then I find it. A rectangle of yellow cheese. Too-yellow cheese.
“What do we do with this?” I ask.
“I’m not really sure,” says Mom.
She goes to the drawer and pulls out a knife. She cuts through the cheese’s gleaming surface and hands me a thick chunk.
I close my eyes and put the cheese in my mouth. It feels like melted wax and tastes something like plastic. It’s cheese, but cheese produced from a chemistry set.
I spit it out, and my mother scolds me.
“Why don’t you like it?”
“It tastes like chemicals.”
“Well, I like it.”
This is my first memory of childhood. Though it was not the last time I would show my disdain for a particular food. And not even close to the last time we stood in line for a handout. ( ( (
As the above story indicates, I was the quintessential picky eater as a child. My mother, an unwavering advocate of the nutritional merits contained in canned vegetables and other flavorless items, waged a culinary crusade against this stubbornness. And I, staunch defender of my own tastes, greeted these maneuverings with witty quips about how they were in fact punishments for failings such as not cleaning my room.
In the lead-up to my 14th birthday, I began to pester my mother for a mountain bike, fostering enough courage to explain that it was the emblem of teenage freedom. With a heavy heart, she shared the sobering news—we couldn’t afford it.
Thankfully, a local pizza shop was looking for a dishwasher. I applied, and went to speak with the owner the next day. To my surprise, I was asked to start right away.
My orientation consisted of three notable items:
1. Make sure to change the dishwater regularly, because we need these dishes to be clean.
2. You must clock in on time and be reliable.
3. You are allowed one small pizza per week. Limit one topping.
A pizza per week—cue the dopamine cascade through my cells. I could not wait to share this bit of information with my mom. But the delivery of good news would have to wait—the downside of my new reality hit home, in the form of a sink crammed with dishes.
When I cleared those, more hot pans clattered into the sink. The symphony of sizzles as they met the colder water and the intoxicating, rich aromas they gave off captivated me, pulled me firmly into the restaurant world, that beautiful, chaotic realm where I would eventually make a life.
By the end of that first week, my hands were shriveled and calloused. But I looked past them, to my ultimate reward. A disheveled cook asked me what I wanted on my pizza. I quickly ran through the numerous options and landed on mushrooms.
The cook laughed.
“Mushrooms, huh, kid?”
I smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“Want to see how it’s done?”
I sprinted to the assembly station and watched as the cook delicately laid a soft dough into a pan. He then carefully stretched the dough over the pan’s bottom, wielding a docking tool to combat any rising bubbles. A generous ladleful of rich red sauce was artfully spread over the dough with the ladle’s bottom, followed by a lavish heap of mushrooms. Concluding the masterpiece, he spread a layer of shredded cheese. The culinary artistry entranced me, and not just because each move brought me one step closer to my prize.
As he placed the pizza in the oven, I glanced over at the dishes starting to pile up. Not wanting to disappoint anyone, I returned to my duty. The restaurant industry has many lessons to teach. One that I have always found immensely helpful is that it rewards hard work—that pizza was my first hint of this maxim’s existence.
New Hampshire is known for a style of pizza produced by a group of Greek immigrants who opened pizza shops in the 1970s. It is thicker than your standard pie, almost focaccia-like.
My initial encounter with it was nothing short of euphoria. As I bit into it, I closed my eyes, enveloped by the intoxicating blend of leavened bread and sweet sauce. The acidic kick from the sauce supplied a beautiful counter to the creamy richness of the cheese. The delicate crunch of the exterior yielded to a soft, doughy interior, supplying a texture that was both delightful and utterly irresistible. To my young, brash palate, that pizza was nothing short of a symphony, each flavor and texture forever etched into my mind.
Weeks turned into months at the pizza shop, and I soon was the owner of a brand-new mountain bike and a healthy obsession with pizza. I’d been initiated into the industry, and looking back I can see that this early period shaped not just my taste buds, but also my worldview. The Greek-style pizza, a humble creation born from hustle and hard work, became a metaphor for life—a reminder that beneath the layers of dough and cheese, profound lessons awaited those willing to savor the process.
The kitchens of my youth were occupied by a group of remarkable chefs, each a custodian of culinary wisdom handed down through generations. But, in spite of the wealth of knowledge bestowed upon me during those years, my true culinary revelation came via a lost bet.
One of my friends loved to play video games. We would spend days and nights at his house playing games and having sleepovers. His family was from India and owned a small Indian restaurant in Nashua. Always the gracious hosts, during these sleepovers his family would cook for us, in case we got hungry.
As I’ve said, my young palate was picky, and I was anxious about the unfamiliar aromas that permeated the kitchen at my friend’s house. So I declined all offerings from my friend’s mother in favor of chicken tenders and French fries.
After one especially long night of gaming, my friend presented me with an offer I couldn’t refuse. He explained that if he won the next match, I would have to try Indian food. Being the eternal optimist, I asked what was in it for me when I won. He smirked and said that he would buy the next pizza.
Filled with the infallible confidence of youth, I accepted.
And, blessedly, lost.
The following day found us cruising to a local Indian eatery. As the door creaked open, I was ushered into a realm that was entirely foreign. Powerful aromas embraced me, triggering a memory of my friend’s mother’s kitchen during our late-night escapades. Once seated in an ornate wooden chair, I surveyed the room and found it adorned with vibrant tapestries that created an atmosphere as rich as the flavors to come. Observing that the patrons around us were digging into their meals with their bare hands, I turned to my friend and inquired about the unconventional dining style. He chuckled, assuring me it wasn’t mandatory.
Our server approached, and, embracing the full measure of my debt, I declared, “I’m up for anything.” With a grin, my friend ordered chicken vindaloo and garlic naan.
My anxiety grew to a fever pitch as we waited for the food to arrive. Moments later, the server placed a plate of reddish-brown gravy on the table and a bread that smelled pleasantly of garlic butter.
I looked at my friend and smiled.
“This smells amazing, dude.”
“Welcome to Indian food.”
There are moments in your life when you remember exactly where you were. My mother would tell me she remembered her exact location the moment she heard the news of JFK’s assassination. I never really understood what she was trying to convey with that statement until that moment in the Indian restaurant.
That first bite of Indian food was akin to Neo seeing the Matrix for the first time, an explosion of flavors that somehow kept evolving as I chewed. In that moment, I discovered my true passion—all I wanted was to know what kind of magic was at play in a kitchen that could create something so delicious.
The next day, my friend called me up and asked me if I wanted to come to a spice shop. Walking in, I was again overwhelmed by new sensations. As I walked around, I could feel a smile taking shape on my face.
At the back of the store stood a short lady chopping vegetables. My friend approached her and muttered something in Hindi as I wondered at the unfathomable number of unfamiliar items in the store. From snacks to sweets, a whole new world was opening up to me, and my apprehension was quickly giving way to enthusiasm.
The short lady in the apron must have noticed my wide-eyed excitement, because she smiled and asked, “Want to try something?”
Not wanting to be disrespectful, and eager to avoid the foolishness I’d greeted my friend’s family’s offers with, I nodded. She went to the back of the kitchen and put a vegetable mixture into a small container. She came back and handed it to me, along with a plastic spoon.
“This is called Indian breakfast,” she said.
I took a bite—the beautiful balance of spicy, sweet, and sour brought yet another smile to my face.
“This is delicious.”
“What is your name?”
“Keith.”
“I am Indira, welcome.”
Thus began a connection that would reshape my culinary path, uncovering my profound fondness for, and kinship with, Indian cuisine and culture. Indira, a humble auntie from a Gujarati and Ugandan lineage, learned the art of cooking at a tender age, and generously shared the fruits of her passion. A woman of kindness and candor, she reveled in serving lunch five days a week from her store’s kitchen, crafting dishes filled with soul, unbridled love, and whimsy.
From her impeccably tempered masoor dal to the festive thalis crafted for sacred occasions, her fare transcended mere deliciousness—it warmed you, body and spirit, like an embrace from a grandmother.
After that first lunch, filled with awe, I was compelled to approach Indira, eager to express gratitude for what she had given me, and hopeful that she would one day teach me to cook like her.
About a year after that first meeting, I began to badger her to teach me to cook. I was promptly, yet pleasantly, dismissed.
Despite this dismissal, I wasn’t ready to give up. After months of showing up at her store to prove that I was serious, she finally gave me an opportunity—she needed help with her website, so we made a deal: she would allow me into one of her cooking classes, and I would help her with her website.
Stepping into Indira’s kitchen allowed me to discover that there was more than talent and quality ingredients behind her incredible food. As her morning prayers, a symphony of chants and songs, accompanied my onion-chopping ritual, Indira showed me that the essence of food transcends taste—and instead emanates from the soul (aatma). Emotions, thoughts—everything finds its way into the end result.
Having worked in Western kitchens, my training had ingrained the mantra that we feast with our eyes first, that presentation is paramount. Yet, Indira’s culinary ethos defied conventional beauty. Her creations weren’t picturesque in the fine-dining sense, but they were no less alluring, because the person crafting them was so present, so palpable.
As the months went on, so did the lessons.
One day, I received a call from her, asking me to come to the shop. She told me that she was catering a wedding, and the party wanted tandoori chicken. Because of her faith, she couldn’t cook chicken, so she asked me to make it. I remember the feeling of anxious joy that overcame me as I thought about catering my first Indian wedding. I wanted to prove to Indira that I could do it, so I spent weeks making tandoori chicken. I ground all the spices, experimented with different ratios. Finally, my big moment arrived.
My team arrived at the wedding and set up for the long day ahead. Dish after dish went out to the wedding party, and finally my tandoori chicken was carried out. I watched anxiously before turning my attention to preparing the next dish.
At the end of the wedding, Indira told me that the bride and groom wanted to say thank you. I walked out into the reception area not knowing what to expect, but was greeted warmly. When the bride and groom turned to Indira, they said, “The chicken was great, thank you for that.” Indira smiled and said, “The white guy made it.” We all laughed, and behind her joy I could also sense that she was proud.
Years have passed since my encounters with Indira, yet her legacy endures with every spice I grind and every dal I soak. In her humble store, she welcomed me with open arms, bridging cultural divides with kindness and grace, yet another testament to food’s power to unite and enrich.
In my pursuit of entrepreneurship and personal growth, I ventured into the food business, yet surprisingly, Indian cuisine remained conspicuously absent from my endeavors, save for the occasional staff meal. The allure of Indian flavors lingered within me, despite my unconscious resistance. I hesitated to embrace this calling, grappling with my identity as a simple New Hampshire native amidst the bold flavors of Indian gastronomy and culture.
Indira and the author
Before they called me back, there was another mission that consumed me. In 2012, I founded The Farmers Dinner, a simple idea born out of a deep respect for food and the people who grow it. I wanted to bridge the gap between diners and the farms that nourished them, create a space where food wasn’t just something on a plate, but an experience, a connection to a story that began long before it reached the table.
What began as a single event quickly grew into something far greater. Over the years, The Farmers Dinner fed over 25,000 guests, each of whom sat at long communal tables under the open sky on the very land that had produced their meal. We returned over $500,000 to local farms, helping to sustain the farmers who worked tirelessly to cultivate the ingredients that defined New England’s landscape. More than 120 farm dinners later, the project had become a movement, a celebration of community, sustainability, and the timeless connection between land and table. I even wrote a cookbook dedicated to this journey, collecting the recipes and stories that had shaped The Farmers Dinner. As I looked back, I saw the impact the dinners had made, the families gathered around candlelit tables, the farmers standing proudly beside the food they had nurtured, the sense of community that only a shared meal can bring, and realized that it was more than I could have ever hoped for when I started.
And yet, something still gnawed at me.
Even in the midst of this success, I found myself restless. Every time I crushed fresh coriander seeds or smelled the smoky scent of cumin seeds toasting in a pan, I felt the echoes of my journey with Indira, the warmth of her food that felt like home even though it wasn’t my own. The feeling that I was meant to further explore Indian cuisine nagged at me. It was as if a door had been left ajar in my mind, a world waiting to be fully embraced.
( ( (
The phone rang on a cold April day. I looked down to see an unknown number. I answered with a frosty tone, expecting a telemarketer, someone trying to sell me a time-share.
Instead, it was a nurse, who informed me my mother was in the hospital. I asked why, and was told they’d found a lesion on her brain.
Time stopped, the fear took hold, and I raced to the hospital.
When I arrived, the doctor asked me to step outside of my mother’s room. He showed me the MRI, explained that she had cancer, and that it had metastasized. Looking at the image with disbelief, I asked him what stage. “It’s stage 4,” he responded with certainty.
A part of my heart crumbled. Sadness, rage, guilt, and shock swirled in me, clamoring to fill the recently opened void. One by one, I pushed these feelings down and walked back into the room where my mother lay. She was confused but smiling, a smile no doubt born out of all the long odds she’d bested before.
“Did they tell you what’s going on?” I asked, barely holding myself together.
“The cancer is back.”
My mother, ever the optimist, didn’t understand that this time was different. All of a sudden, her life wasn’t measured in years, but months.
Our roles shifted. I became the caregiver and she the cared-for as we soldiered through the treatments, hospital visits, and weight loss that became her norm. I kept a vigil at her bedside, doing my best to be strong for a woman who had always been my greatest source of strength. The pain of this impending loss pushed me back, out of the world and into myself, caused me to grow reflective in the especially quiet moments, consider how our lives come to be woven out of love, sacrifice, and grief, each of these threads inextricable from one another.
As frailty eclipsed her once-vibrant spirit, I saw that we were down to our final moments. Tears and grief visited often during those fragile days, but as I reflected on the journey that we’d taken together, an overwhelming sense of awe started to seep in. What we’d done was more than I can ever express in words.
Looking back to that young boy in the red puffy jacket who stood in line expecting a miracle that seemed to be sorely needed, I realized that, because of her, because of her love and strength, I’d received more than anyone could ever need. In a world filled with so much darkness, she’d always managed to supply a miraculous light.
When I was a child, she would say, “I love you two and three and four/I couldn’t love you any more.”
I repeated these very words as she passed away.
( ( (
While my world had crashed, the world had not, and my considerable grief had to take a backseat to my professional life—there’s no time for depression when you’re opening a new restaurant and writing a cookbook.
I went through the motions, buried my emotions, and returned to the comforts of my teenage self— late nights on the sofa with pizza and video games became the norm.
I faked my way through the day and was eventually greeted by a stranger in the mirror.
I didn’t want to quit, but my soul had already checked out.
I knew that I needed help, so therapy became a weekly occurrence for me. In therapy, I realized that food, grief, and love were woven into each part of me, and that I was unraveling.
I started to understand that grief is all of the love that was never expressed. I started to understand that you never move on following the death of someone whom you were deeply connected to, but you do have to learn to move forward.
So I did. I threw myself into building the restaurant, working tirelessly to make it into something I could be proud of. From the outside, it looked like I had: a place of my own, a packed restaurant booked for months in advance. It was the kind of “success” most chefs dream of. But the truth was, I felt completely lost.
I may have been running my own restaurant, but I wasn’t truly creating anymore. The passion, the fire, the thing that made me love cooking in the first place, it was slipping away. And even though I had built something people respected, I didn’t feel proud of who I was.
More than anything, the pain and grief that I’d attempted to deal with became even more acute during this time. Throughout the restaurant’s opening weekend, I remember looking around, watching guests fill the space, hearing the buzz of excited conversation and the clatter of silverware against plates. It was everything I had worked for. But there was no family there to congratulate me. No one to wish me well or celebrate with. I had spent years dreaming of opening my own restaurant, but when I finally got there, the one person who would have been the proudest of the accomplishment was gone.
Then, just a few weeks later, came Mother’s Day.
We had planned a Mother’s Day brunch, one of the biggest services we’d ever done. It was exactly seven months after my mother passed, and my first Mother’s Day without her. I tried not to think about it. Instead, I worked the expo station all morning, calling out orders and pushing through the day as we served a packed dining room. I kept my head down, moving from one moment to the next, just trying to get through it. Hours went by before I even thought about taking a break. Finally, during a brief lull in service, I realized I hadn’t had a single sip of water. I walked over to the bar, poured myself a glass, and took a breath.
That’s when I saw her.
An elderly woman sitting at the bar, calmly eating a burger. She had this gentle warmth about her, something kind and familiar. I asked how the burger was, and she smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
And that’s when something inside shattered.
Her hands, they looked exactly like my mother’s. The same delicate wrinkles. The smile was the same. The quiet grace in the way she moved was the same.
I barely made it out of the room before the wave hit me. Halfway down the stairs, I collapsed. My breath caught in my throat, and I started crying. Hard. The kind of crying that leaves you gasping for air.
I had spent months pushing everything down, telling myself I was fine, that I was moving forward. But in that moment, it all came bubbling up.
As I sat there, coming undone, my business partner’s uncle happened to be downstairs. He heard me, came over, and quietly asked if I was okay.
I told him what had happened, how I saw this woman, how her hands looked like my mother’s, how it hit me like a ton of bricks. As I spoke, he started to cry too. He told me about losing his mother, about the pain that never really goes away, about how some days are harder than others.
We stood there, two grown men, crying in the basement of a busy restaurant on Mother’s Day. We didn’t say much more. We hugged. We cried. We shared something that only those who carry that kind of loss can feel.
And when I finally pulled myself together, I wiped my face, took a deep breath, and went back upstairs to finish service. Because that’s what you do. You keep going. Even when it hurts. Even when it feels unbearable. You keep showing up.
But that moment stayed with me. It was the first time I truly understood how deeply alone I felt, how much I was still carrying, and how desperately I needed to find something that would bring me back to life again.
In 2020, I left the restaurant and decided to take some time off. During this time, I came across “The Real Food Podcast,” hosted by Vikram Doctor. This podcast touched on Indian food, history, and culture, and I listened intently as Dr. Kurush Dalal expounded upon the intricate interplay between food and politics.
Dazzled by Dr. Dalal’s brilliance and eloquence, I sought him out on Instagram, where I discovered that he was conducting an online class on the subject he’d discussed on the podcast. I was intrigued, but still had no idea of the profound transformation this class was about to create.
Not only did I meet two remarkable individuals, Ragini Kashyap and Ishan Sadwelkar, through that course, but, to my astonishment, Dr. Dalal immediately took a keen interest in my journey, extending guidance, support, and unwavering generosity. A genuine friendship blossomed between us as Kurush assumed the role of mentor, imparting invaluable wisdom and propelling my desire for education to unprecedented levels.
It is impossible to fully express my appreciation for Kurush—words are woefully inadequate. His selflessness and wisdom have left an indelible mark on my soul, shaping the chef I am today and providing an enduring source of inspiration. In the years since that course, I have traveled to India to spend time with Kurush and his lovely wife, Rhea. In their home, I’ve been nourished not only by their delectable Parsi and Bengali meals, but also their boundless hospitality and profound teachings. All of their gifts to me are a debt I can never completely repay.
And in the bustling streets of Mumbai, I’ve shared culinary adventures with Ishan, embracing the transformative power of food and basking in the welcoming warmth of homes containing people who were complete strangers just moments before.
Through these experiences, I’ve discovered that even in the desolate sprawl of grief, opportunities for solace, communion, and rebirth continue to bloom.
And I’ve come to believe that, of all the world’s cuisines, none encapsulates the essence of its homeland quite like Indian food. It’s a vibrant symphony of flavors—a spirited dance that dazzles the senses with each bite. From the fiery heat of chilies to the subtle interplay of sweet and sour, the tastes of Indian cuisine mirror the vitality of the diverse culture that fostered them. While mastering its complexities may take a lifetime, falling under its spell requires but a single encounter.
One must learn a good deal to become a chef, and most of it can be gleaned from recipes, schools, cookbooks, and videos. But one cannot be taught how to cook from their soul. To do this, you must discover who you truly are. And only then can you discover who you are as a chef.
This is what Indian food has come to represent for me: a connection with your aatma, the true self that transcends the everyday world and produces food that nourishes you as much as the people you are feeding.
Since I my first encounter with Indian food years ago, I knew that this cuisine was different. Here was a cuisine as difficult to pin down as a definition of one’s life—both change all the time. This realization led me to establish a pop-up dinner series called Aatma, where I could pour my heart and soul into every dish and attempt to blend traditional Indian flavor profiles with modern plating techniques. Along this journey, I connected with a vast audience on my YouTube channel, reaching millions of people each month, and had the privilege to spend time with esteemed Indian chefs like Chintan Pandya of Dhamaka, Vikas Khanna of Bungalow, and Hussain Shahzad of O Pedro and The Bombay Canteen. In discovering the immense wealth of insight available in the world of Indian cuisine, I found a sense of family, forged friendships, and uncovered aspects of myself that reignited a passion capable of transforming not only my life, but also touching the lives of many across the globe through sharing the love that was shown to me.
In finding Indian cuisine, I found myself. My hope is that this book helps others do the same.
WH a t i S “ indian FO o D ” ?
B
y dr . K ur us H dalal
My earliest serious memories of food go back to my childhood. We spent the summers with my maternal grandmother in a sleepy suburb of Bombay. Hanging out with the neighborhood kids, eating raw mangoes, jamuns, tamarinds, and love apples which we “foraged” from our neighbors’ yards. Invariably there were upset stomachs, and my gran would put me on a special diet of stewed apples. Red apples would be cored, peeled, and sliced, then cooked with sugar and some precious cinnamon, along with lime juice and raisins. I remember feigning an upset stomach just to eat this!
Years later, as I started to research Indian food and struggled with the question—What is Indian food?—I remembered this childhood memory. The memory of a Parsi matron using American apples, which were introduced to India in the 1930s, and cinnamon from Sri Lanka to make a simple dish which was, to her, as Indian as anything else. But was it Indian? I spent the next couple of years trying very hard to understand the concept of “Indian food.”
The simplest way to define it would have been to take the geopolitical boundaries of the modern nation of India and say that everything in it is Indian food. This then would give Indian food a history dating back to August 15, 1947, when India became independent, which would be nonsense. The British dominion known as India wouldn’t really help either, as it encompassed almost the entire Indian subcontinent and parts of Burma (modern Myanmar). To include this region, whose history begins in 1757, would also be an injustice, as a colonizer would then be dictating the cuisine of a colonized land.
Suffice to say, the first conclusion that I had to accept was that Indian cuisine was the cuisine of the Indian subcontinent in its entirety, and that it dated back to the Neolithic-Chalcolithic past, approximately 8,000 to 7,500 years ago.
Here, then, was the clear beginning. Wheat and barley were the main staple crops, and meat and milk from sheep, goats, and cattle were the proteins and fats. To this were added wild foraged vegetables and fruits; boar, deer, antelope, and wild buffalo meat; and fish, with perhaps a bit of monitor lizard and a few other odds and ends like chickens, ducks, and game birds. Peas, vetch, and a few other legumes were also grown and added complex carbohydrates to the menu, along with additional minerals.
As the farmers spread into the valley of the Indus and the Ganga-Yamuna Doab, they encountered new crops and new species of animals. Buffalo and pigs soon joined the list of domesticated animals, and chickens were most definitely being raised by about 4,500 years ago. In the middle and lower Ganga Valley the conditions were perfect for growing rice, and this got going about 6,000 years ago. Various millets were added to the mix, especially in the southern regions of India, where horse gram also began to be cultivated. Here the people were mainly pastoralists who also farmed, as opposed to farmers who also kept animals, as it was in the northern half of the subcontinent.
Brinjal, okra, ginger, elephant foot yam, mango, and banana were all being consumed in the country, as were oilseeds such as mustard, black sesame, and safflower. Pigeon pea (tuvar), moong, masoor (lentils), green gram, moth/matki, and many other pulses were grown and relished. Ghee was most definitely known to the people of this ancient time and was greatly treasured. Hunting excursions were constantly carried out to supplement the larder. Gourds and cucumbers were grown in summer, and honey was the primary sweetener. In the coastal areas of India, people most definitely ate coconuts, along with large varieties of fish, crustaceans, and mollusks.
Salt was either being mined in the remnants of the Tethys Sea in the Himalayan region or being farmed in salt pans along the coasts.
Long-distance trade as well as local trade spread all of these commodities far and wide, and the transporters of them were the nomadic and seminomadic pastoralists of the Deccan Plateau and other regions.
As time passed, and wave after wave of newcomers entered the subcontinent, they brought with them their various ways of eating and a whole host of new crops.
The Iron Age (approximately 3,500 years ago) saw the introduction of new implements. Iron axes made it easier to clear forests, iron hoes and plowshares facilitated the breaking of ground, and soon farmers occupied almost every corner of India. Most farming was monsoon dependent, and only one crop was guaranteed every year, but in good years, many a farmer got in two harvests. The summer/monsoon-based crop was usually the staple, whilst the winter crop was a bonus.
Sugarcane started to be grown in India, as were a number of indigenous spices. Sugar was made in India between 2,000 and 1,500 years ago, and as a matter of fact the term “sugar” comes from the Sanskrit word “shakkara.” Whilst round pepper was confined mostly to the southwestern coast and parts of the southeastern coast of India, its cousin, long pepper, grew all over the peninsula. Indian cinnamon (cassia bark), Indian bay leaves (malabathrum), carom/ajwain, fenugreek, and black cardamom spread all over the country, as did fennel, coriander, and cumin. The south saw the use of nagkesar (ironwood tree flowers), whilst the east saw the use of radhuni. Mustard and sesame seeds had been known much earlier and were most definitely being used to create oils by around 2,000 years ago.
In fact, there was a very clean divide in terms of these seed oils—the north preferred the use of mustard oil, whilst Gujarat, the Deccan, and the south favored sesame oil. Herbs like coriander, curry leaves, fenugreek, amaranth, red amaranth, Malabar spinach, and dill were being eaten by the beginnings of the Christian era.
Huge trade with the West commenced in the third century BCE, and after the fall of Alexandria in 55 CE, it went ballistic. Black pepper flowed out of India, as did cardamom, myrobalan, rice, long pepper, cinnamon, Indian bay leaves, and many other products. Indian peppercorns were soon being consumed along Hadrian’s Wall at the northern borders of the Roman Empire. The collapse of the Roman Empire saw a slowing down of overseas trade, and traders shifted their focus to the Persian Sassanid Empire, Southeast Asia, and China. Soon (from the eighth century CE onward), traders from the Persian Gulf were sailing all over the Indian Ocean, trading exotic spices and foods. True cinnamon from Sri Lanka, green cardamom, nutmeg, mace, and cloves from the Moluccas, and various exotic fruits like the baobab were soon growing on Indian shores and being eaten by the locals.
The medieval period saw some really radical changes in the eating habits of the people of the subcontinent, as cooking techniques, souring agents, sweetmeats, and other dishes from the West soon flooded the courts of India and began to trickle down through the society. Almost all of the sweetmeats that India is so rightfully famous for are a result of Persian influences. The use of dried fruits and nuts in cooking and garnish, ditto. One of the very quiet but large Persian influences was the introduction of asafoetida to Northern India in the middle of the sixteenth century. Its introduction to the south (via the sea route) was probably much earlier.
The arrival of the Portuguese in the last decade of the fifteenth century resulted in a huge upheaval, as all of the plants involved in the Columbian Exchange suddenly slammed their way into India. Chilies spread like wildfire, and soon replaced peppercorns as the No. 1 hot spice on the subcontinent. In fact, all of the Indian names for chilies are a variant of the word for “pepper” in their respective languages. They grew everywhere, and were way more economical compared to peppercorns.
Potatoes, tomatoes, squashes, and beans all came in with the Portuguese, Dutch, French, and British colonizers. Sapota (chiku), guava, papaya, pineapple, custard apple, bull’s heart, and so many more new fruits were also unleashed on the populace, an influx that changed the food of India forever. Indeed, Indian food today is unimaginable without potatoes, chilies, and tomatoes.
But was the food of India monolithic? Was the food all over the country the same? Did Indians eat all the same dishes, made up of all the same ingredients, cooked identically? Of course not.
If you take the food of Kashmir and compare it to the food of Tamil Nadu directly, there will seem to be no similarity whatsoever. But when you look a little closer, you will start to see some common elements. The use of rice, chilies, and spices like black pepper and cloves; the use of ginger. All of a sudden, the ingredients and combinations will begin to look familiar. Not identical by a long shot, but very similar. The souring agents might change over distances from vinegar to dried raw mango powder (amchur) to garcinia (kokum) to bilimbi to tamarind, but they will keep overlapping before they become prominent, thus giving us a continuity as we follow the slow trail across the subcontinent. Similarly, whilst the north appears to be all about wheat flatbreads and the east and south all about rice, this is not necessarily accurate. The north has always used rice and the south has taken to wheat, and it also has a plethora of millets to make flatbreads from.
The love of all things milk is another great unifier in Indian cuisine. Milk by itself; butter and ghee as the “best” fats; curd as a digestive and an important constituent for “cooling” the body, be it as curd itself, lassi, or salted buttermilk. Milk to make sweetmeats is a pan-Indian phenomenon, as is paneer. Paneer, both as a crumbly cottage cheese and malai paneer, is a huge delicacy, as is the great Indian cheesecake it is part of, chhena poda. In all its forms, milk is almost worshipped. The most common sweetmeat and the most common prasadam (offering to the gods) is sweetened, spiced (bay leaves and cardamom, if nothing else) milk with rice, aka payasam, payesh, kheer, etc.
Other consistencies in the cuisine of India: the use of spices to up the ante flavorwise; the various pickles, with mango pickles becoming almost ubiquitous in the country; the papads/papadums and badis, eaten by themselves and as a part of other dishes—all of these things make up the amazing kaleidoscope that is Indian cuisine.
So be it the food of dry Kachchh or Rajasthan, the rain-soaked deltas of the Mahanadi or the Ganga, the plains of the Punjab and Haryana or the Ganges Valley, the vibrant green coasts of the Bay of Bengal and the Arabian Sea, the plateaus of the Deccan and Chota Nagpur, the hills of the Eastern and Western Ghats, the Aravallis, the Vindhyas, or the mountains of the Himalayas—it is the similarities contained within the incredible diversity that make Indian food what it is.
V e ge T a rian E n T r E es
Masoor Dal 56
Pumpkin Shorba 58
Bhindi Masala 59
Kashmiri Saag 62
Palak Paneer 63
Paneer Chettinad 66
Rajma 67
Soya Makhani 70
Dum Aloo 71
Kela Ka Subji 75
Dal Makhani 76
Poha 79
Vegetable Pulao 80
Rasam 83
Ven Pongal 84
Sambar 87
Chole 88
Pav Bhaji 91
Aloo Chaat 92
Aloo Gobi 95
Bharli Vangi 96
Masale Bhat 97
Khichdi 100
Avial 102
Chili Gobi 103
Dhansak 106
Aloo Puri 107
Baingan Bharta 111
Chili Paneer 112
Cholar Dal 115
Dimer Dalna 116
Navratan Korma 119
Parippu 120
This recipe is drawn from one that was handwritten by my mentor, Indira. It was the first dish I ever ate that she made, and it blew my mind, and ultimately changed my life. Today, I pass this on to you, the reader, in hopes that it will inspire you as well.
ingr ED ients
3 cups masoor dal
3 tablespoons canola oil
Pinch of asafoetida (hing)
2 teaspoons cumin seeds
2 teaspoons carom seeds (ajwain)
1 cup chopped onion
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger
2 dried red Kashmiri chili peppers, stemmed, seeded, and chopped
1 tablespoon turmeric
¾ cup chopped tomato
1 tablespoon dried fenugreek (kasuri methi)
1 teaspoon Classic Garam Masala (see page 287)
¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro
Place the dal in a fine-mesh sieve and rinse it under cold water until the water that drains runs clear.
Place the canola oil in a large skillet and warm it over medium heat. Add the asafoetida, cumin seeds, and carom seeds and cook until they stop sputtering and change color. Add the onion and salt and cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is translucent, about 3 minutes.
Stir in the ginger and chilies, cook for 2 minutes, and then add the turmeric and tomato. Add the dal and cover the mixture with water. Bring to a simmer, partially cover the pan, and reduce the heat to low. Cook until the dal has absorbed all of the liquid and is mushy, about 20 minutes.
Stir in the fenugreek and garam masala. Sprinkle the cilantro over the dish and serve.
pu MP K i n s H o r B a
Shorba, a flavorful and aromatic soup prized for its salubrious character, has a long history in Middle Eastern and South Asian cuisines. It originated in Persia, then traveled to India and other areas where it was adapted to suit local flavors and ingredients.
ingr ED ients
3 small pumpkins
2 tablespoons canola oil
Salt, to taste
4 onions, chopped
¼ cup Ginger & Garlic Paste (see page 311)
4 green chili peppers, stemmed, seeded, and chopped
6 (14 oz.) cans of coconut milk
4 star anise pods
1 tablespoon coconut oil
2 tablespoons fennel seeds
1 teaspoon black mustard seeds
1 sprig of fresh curry leaves
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Cut the pumpkins open, remove the seeds, and either discard them or reserve them for another preparation. Cut the pumpkins into quarters and arrange them in single layers on baking sheets. Drizzle the canola oil over the pumpkins and season with salt. Place them in the oven and roast until they are tender, about 45 minutes. Remove the pumpkins from the oven and let them cool.
When the pumpkins are cool enough to handle, scrape the flesh into a large pot. Add the onions, Ginger & Garlic Paste, chilies, half of the coconut milk, and the star anise and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat so that the soup simmers and cook for 1 hour.
Place the coconut oil in a small skillet and warm it over medium-high heat. Add the fennel seeds, mustard seeds, and curry leaves and cover the pan. Cook for 1 minute and then pour the mixture into the soup.
Remove the soup from heat and let it cool completely.
Stir the remaining coconut milk into the soup, season with salt, remove the star anise pods, and discard them. Use a blender or immersion blender to puree the soup until it is smooth.
Heat the soup until it is warmed through and serve.
BH i ndi M asala
Bhindi Masala is a classic North Indian dish centered around okra (bhindi), treasured for its savory and slightly tangy taste. Y i E ld : 4 ser V ing S a CT i V e T i M e : 20 M inu T es TOT al T i M e : 40 M inu T es
ingr ED ients
2 tablespoons canola oil
1 lb. okra pods, rinsed well, patted dry, and cut into 1-inch pieces
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 large onion, finely diced
2 green chili peppers, slit lengthwise (optional)
1 teaspoon Ginger & Garlic Paste (see page 311)
2 tomatoes, finely diced
½ teaspoon turmeric
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon cumin
½ teaspoon Kashmiri chili powder
½ teaspoon Classic Garam Masala (see page 287)
Salt, to taste
Fresh cilantro, chopped, for garnish
Place 1 tablespoon of canola oil in a large skillet and warm it over medium heat. Add the okra and cook, stirring occasionally, until it loses its stickiness and starts to become crispy, 4 to 5 minutes. Remove the okra from the pan and set it aside.
Place the remaining canola oil in the pan and warm it. Add the cumin seeds and cook until they stop sputtering and change color. Add the onion and chilies (if using) and cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is golden brown, about 8 minutes.
Add the Ginger & Garlic Paste and cook until it is fragrant, about 1 minute. Add the tomatoes and cook until they have softened and the canola oil separates and rises to the surface, 5 to 10 minutes.
Stir in the turmeric, coriander, cumin, and chili powder and cook for 2 minutes.
Add the okra, stir to combine, and reduce the heat to low. Cook until the okra is tender, about 6 minutes.
Sprinkle the garam masala over the dish, season with salt, and stir. Cook for 1 minute, garnish with cilantro, and serve.
My wonderful friend’s mother first taught me this simple and delicious recipe years ago. It uses a Kashmiri garam masala, which is slightly different from the version primarily used in this book.
ingr ED ients
1 lb. fresh spinach
2 tablespoons canola oil
Pinch of asafoetida (hing)
1 tablespoon Kashmiri Garam Masala (see page 316)
1 teaspoon Kashmiri chili powder
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground fennel seeds
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
Salt, to taste
Rinse the spinach well and let it drain.
Place the canola oil in a large skillet and warm it over medium heat. Add the asafoetida and spinach and stir until the spinach starts to wilt, 1 to 2 minutes. Cover the pan and steam the spinach for 12 minutes.
Uncover the pan and cook until the spinach is tender and some of the water has evaporated. Stir in the Kashmiri Garam Masala, chili powder, ginger, fennel seeds, and cumin seeds and cook until all of the water has evaporated, about 5 minutes.
Season with salt and serve immediately.
pala K pane E r
This rich, flavorful, and nutrient-dense dish is from Northern India. The vibrant green color of the spinach and the soft texture of the paneer make for a visually appealing and easily enjoyed meal.
ingr ED ients
6 cups baby spinach
2 tablespoons ghee or canola oil
1 cup cubed paneer
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 onion, finely diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and minced
1 green chili pepper, slit lengthwise (optional)
2 tomatoes, finely diced
½ teaspoon turmeric
1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander
½ teaspoon Classic Garam Masala (see page 287)
Salt, to taste
¼ cup heavy cream (optional)
Bring water to a boil in a large pot and prepare an ice bath. Add the spinach to the boiling water and blanch for 2 minutes. Remove the spinach and plunge it into the ice bath until cool. Drain the spinach, place it in a blender, and puree until smooth. Set the puree aside.
Place 1 tablespoon of ghee in a large skillet and melt it over medium heat. Add the paneer and cook until it is golden brown all over, about 5 minutes, turning it as necessary. Remove the paneer from the pan and set it aside.
Add the remaining ghee to the pan and melt it. Add the cumin seeds and cook until they stop sputtering and change color. Add the onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until it is golden brown, about 8 minutes.
Add the garlic, ginger, and chili (if using) and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute.
Add the tomatoes and cook until they have softened and the ghee separates and rises to the surface, 5 to 10 minutes.
Stir in the turmeric, cumin, and coriander and cook for 2 minutes. Add the spinach puree and stir to combine. Add a little water if the consistency of the gravy is too thick for your liking. Simmer for 5 minutes.
Add the paneer and cook for another 5 minutes.
Sprinkle the garam masala over the dish, season with salt, and stir. If using, stir in the cream. Cook for 1 minute and then serve.
F r o M THE au T H o r
As I reflect on what is contained within these pages, I’m struck by a profound sense of gratitude and humility. What began as a personal quest for fulfillment has blossomed into a love affair with a country and its people. The countless friends I have made during this journey, and the invaluable lessons they have taught me, have shaped this book, and continue to shape my life.
For the past 16 years, I’ve devoted myself to the study of Indian cuisine, diving deep into its flavors and traditions, and often finding myself overwhelmed by all that is available. I’ve been guided by esteemed mentors like Dr. Kurush Dalal, and I’ve journeyed to India to learn from incredible chefs, home cooks, and teachers who have forgotten more about this cuisine than I will ever know.
While in India, I found more than just mouthwatering dishes. I discovered a sense of belonging, a powerful connection to another culture, and numerous people who welcomed me with open arms. Through shared meals and heartfelt conversations, I discovered food’s power to transcend language and cultural barriers, bring people together, and foster common ground.
Just as Indian cuisine is more than curry and naan, India is more than the images many Westerners hold of it. I know those misconceptions are simply the product of inexperience, which so often fails to look past the surface for beauty, for time and again I have found beauty everywhere while walking down streets in India.
Amidst the vibrant chaos of those streets, there is a quiet strength that resonates deeply with me. You can feel the resilience of a people who face adversity with grace and determination, the unwavering spirit of a nation forging ahead despite the odds. And it is this spirit, which brings to mind my mother and all she exhibited during her life, that continues to inspire me, fueling my own growth and self-discovery.
Today, the journey toward these continues with Aatma, my pop-up restaurant. Inspired by the cuisines of various Indian states while emphasizing fresh local ingredients from New England farms and modern plating techniques, each dish at Aatma is the product of all that I have learned during my years of study. The concept has found success, moving well past the butter chicken most New Englanders understand to be Indian cuisine, and building a group of devoted fans who have fallen in love with dishes and flavors previously unknown to them. And though my own evolution as a chef focusing on Indian food continues, my mentor Indira’s early lessons still provide the foundation for all that happens at Aatma, echoing in each spice I freshly grind for the masalas we use.
My hope for this book is that it is an extension of what is happening at Aatma— managing to take people beyond what is available through a Western lens and provide them a glimpse into the wonders of India and Indian cuisine. While I may have only scratched the surface of all that India has to offer, I hope that these pages serve as a starting point for some out there, illuminating the magic present within the cuisine’s incredibly diverse offerings. At the very least, I hope it does away with the misconceptions that have plagued Indian cuisine for years.
To you, the reader, I extend my deepest gratitude for joining me on this journey. Whether you’re a seasoned traveler or someone embarking on their first adventure, I hope that the stories and experiences shared within these pages leave a lasting impression on your soul (aatma).
Now I pass the torch to you, and ask you the life-changing question my mentor Indira presented me with so many years ago: “Want to try something?”
praise F O r THE sOUl oF sPiCE & K e ith sarasin
The Soul of Spice is more than a cookbook, it’s a heartfelt pilgrimage through the flavors of India. Chef Keith Sarasin approaches Indian cuisine not as an outsider peering in, but as a devoted student who has walked its markets, cooked alongside its masters, and honored its legacy with humility and care. His reverence for our food, our history, and our spirit shines in every page. With over 150 timeless recipes, vibrant storytelling, and a deep respect for the soul behind every spice, this book invites you to not just cook, but to connect.
Keith, thank you for telling our story with such grace. As someone who grew up with these flavors, these rituals, these quiet moments in the kitchen, I felt seen in your words. You didn’t just document our food, you listened to it. You allowed it to breathe, to speak, to be itself. And through that, you’ve given us something beautiful: a bridge between memory and meal, tradition and today.
This book feels like coming home.
—Vikas Khanna, eight-time Michelin-starred chef
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Chef Keith Sarasin is a true culinary artist whose deep passion for Indian cuisine shines through in every dish he creates. His book is an extraordinary journey through the vibrant and complex world of Indian flavors, and it’s a testament to his dedication to both authenticity and innovation. With a masterful understanding of spices, techniques, and regional nuances, Keith invites readers into his kitchen to experience the soul of Indian cooking. Whether you’re an experienced cook or a beginner, this book will inspire, challenge, and delight your palate. Chef Keith’s ability to blend tradition with contemporary flair ensures that this book is not only a guide but an experience—a delicious exploration of India’s rich culinary heritage.
—Chintan Pandya, James Beard Award–winning chef at New York’s Dhamaka
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Keith Sarasin’s passion for Indian cuisine inspires people around him. For someone who has not grown up surrounded by these flavors—the love, reverence, and obsession for the cuisine shines through in this book and in everything he does. Over the years I have had the opportunity not only to connect with him over the love of Indian food but also to cook alongside him, and I am always left in awe of his knowledge and his constant thirst to learn more and more.
In The Soul of Spice, Keith offers a celebration of the beauty of one of the most ancient and diverse cuisines in the world. Not only is the book gorgeous with stunning pictures, it pays homage to the art of using Indian spices and techniques to make delicious food. It’s a book that is a must-have, and I cannot wait to start cooking through it.
—Maneet Chauhan, celebrity chef and judge on Chopped
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I am deeply proud of and inspired by Chef Keith, who has a remarkable passion for Indian cuisine and is dedicated to sharing it with the Western world.
—Vijay Kumar, chef at New York’s Michelin-starred Semma
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