Not long ago, I came across a post from Mallika Basu — food consultant and Indian food writer — on social media, about traditional Indian staples that still haven’t quite made it to the mainstream UK restaurant scene. And the first thing that came to my mind was the humble Bengali fish curry: Bangalir Maachher Jhol. It made me think — what is it about this dish that makes it such a defining pillar of Bengali culture?
Like many cultures across South Asia, food is not merely sustenance for Bengalis. It is identity. It is not something you simply eat to survive, or consume quietly within the walls of your home. It is something that brings the community together — that fosters a sense of togetherness in a way that transcends class, occasion, and season. In a land not always affluent enough to share material gifts, food is what you offer your friend, your neighbour, sometimes a complete stranger, as a token of appreciation, affection, and adulation.
In my personal observation — and I acknowledge this is unscientific — it tends to be the non-affluent cultures that develop the richest food traditions. When you think about the most celebrated cuisines in the world, they almost always come from countries that haven’t been economically dominant in recent centuries: Italian, Indian, Mexican, Greek, Japanese, Lebanese. You rarely hear British, American, or Scandinavian cooking generating the same fervour outside their native lands. Is it because populations consumed by economic ambition gradually forgot to nurture the simpler joys of life — like a really good meal? Perhaps a question to ponder another day.
Growing up with maachh-bhaat
Growing up in the Indian state of West Bengal, fish curry is something you cannot escape. For the gastronomically inclined Bengali, a day without maachh-bhaat — fish and rice — is considered a day wasted. And yet, I was never quite the fan. I always preferred meat. Perhaps it was the innumerable bones in the fish my mother cooked, making every mouthful an archaeological dig. Or perhaps it was the quiet rebellion of a young person refusing to be defined by a cultural stereotype. Either way, fish was never high on my list.
For the expat, food becomes a thread back to the self — a way of answering the question of who you are, when no one around you quite understands where you come from.
This changed when I moved to England in 2010. Sixteen years on, I can tell you with certainty: the longer I have stayed here, the stronger the craving for a simple fish curry has grown. For those of us living far from home, food is not just comfort — it is a form of cultural identity. In the constant internal (and sometimes external) struggle to remain yourself in a foreign country, food and community become the strongest anchors. I am not particularly religious — though like any good Bengali, I have a deep and abiding love for Durga Puja — so food has taken on an even greater weight. It is the thing that reminds me not just of home, but of who I am.
The first time I cooked it
It took me over two years after arriving in England before I finally attempted a fish curry of my own. I am a self-taught cook — I don’t follow recipes strictly, preferring instead to let instinct and memory lead, with the occasional call to my mother for guidance. The fish I chose was salmon, partly because it was readily available and partly because British fish, mercifully, tend to have far fewer bones than the freshwater varieties I grew up navigating.
I remember being genuinely surprised by the result — and genuinely moved. For the first time in my life, I understood what all the fuss was about. It was delicious, yes. But more than that, it felt like something had quietly come home. The smell of mustard oil and turmeric in a cold English kitchen in winter is, I have since learned, one of the most powerful things I know.
I have still not reached the level of the traditional Bengali who cannot last a day without it. I am content with having it every few weeks, sometimes less. But it is the one dish I crave most when I want to feel close to my family, my upbringing, my culture.
So why isn’t it on the menu?
Which brings me back to Mallika Basu’s original point. Why has Bangalir Maachher Jhol — one of the defining dishes of one of India’s largest and most culturally rich states — never caught the imagination of British diners? I have yet to see it in any Indian, Pakistani, or Bangladeshi restaurant in this country. Is it too simple? Too delicate? Too far removed from the narrative that post-independence subcontinental chefs built for British audiences — that Indian food means heat, richness, and theatrical colour?
I am glad that a new generation of Indian restaurateurs and food writers is beginning to challenge that narrative. More than ever, there is space in British food culture for dishes that are quietly, precisely themselves — not performing to expectation, but speaking honestly from tradition. Long may that continue.
And perhaps, one day soon, Bangalir Maachh Bhaat will come to a restaurant near us.