

For a while, modern Indian cooking seemed to have a very short memory. The ingredients that appeared most often on ambitious menus were the familiar ones: truffle, avocado, quinoa, imported cheeses and anything that could be described as artisanal. Meanwhile, Indian kitchens had quietly continued using ingredients that rarely made it beyond their region.
That is beginning to change. Chefs are looking again at the things that grew around them, were preserved by grandmothers, sold in local markets or used because there simply was nothing else available. Some are becoming sauces and ferments, some are being turned into desserts and cocktails, and others are simply being given more attention than they received before.
Kokum is a good example. In Maharashtra, Goa and parts of coastal Karnataka and Kerala, the dark purple fruit has long been used for its sharp, fruity sourness. Its dried skins are soaked to make aamsul or kokum extract, traditionally used in curries, sol kadhi and cooling drinks. Chefs have found that it can do much more than simply replace tamarind. Its acidity is clean and slightly berry-like, which makes it useful in marinades, reductions, sorbets and drinks.
Then there is kalpasi, the lichen also known as stone flower. It looks like something that has no business being in a kitchen, growing in dark, crinkled pieces on rocks and trees, but it is an important source of the earthy aroma associated with dishes such as Chettinad chicken and certain biryanis. Used sparingly, it gives food a smoky, almost mineral depth. It is the sort of ingredient that makes sense to a chef interested in flavour architecture because it does not announce itself immediately.
In Rajasthan and parts of north-west India, kachri has a similarly peculiar story. The small wild melon is dried and powdered, then used as a souring agent and tenderiser in regional cooking. It has the ability to bring acidity to meat and vegetables without the obvious citrus sharpness of lemon. Modern chefs working with regional Indian food have begun looking at such ingredients as flavour tools rather than curiosities.
Some rediscoveries are even more local. Bilimbi, the sharply sour fruit found in parts of South and Southeast Asia, has traditionally appeared in curries, pickles and chutneys. It is particularly interesting for chefs because its acidity comes with a green, almost cucumber-like freshness. Karonda, a small tart berry used in pickles, preserves and drinks, offers another possibility. It can be brined, cooked down or used much like a sour berry, bringing astringency and colour to a dish.
The same is true of ambadi, or roselle leaves, used in parts of Maharashtra, Telangana and Andhra Pradesh. The leaves have a pronounced sourness and are traditionally cooked into dals, chutneys and vegetable preparations. The flowers and calyces of the same plant are also used in different cuisines and drinks. It is an entire plant whose culinary possibilities have always been much bigger than its place in the modern pantry suggests.
Further north, bael has been used for generations in summer drinks and traditional preparations. Its hard shell and sticky pulp make it an awkward fruit to work with, but once opened it has a distinctive aromatic sweetness. Nannari, the fragrant root used in South India to make cooling syrups, has a similarly old-fashioned reputation. It is usually encountered as a bottled summer drink, yet its vanilla-like, earthy fragrance makes it surprisingly adaptable to contemporary desserts and non-alcoholic drinks.
There are also ingredients whose importance comes from preservation. Tirphal, a dried aromatic berry used in coastal Maharashtra and Goa, can bring a citrusy, peppery note to fish and curries. Kulith, or horse gram, has long been valued in Maharashtra, Karnataka and parts of South India for its ability to grow in difficult conditions and produce a nutritious pulse. It appears in regional soups, dals and chutneys, but its earthy flavour and sturdy texture also make it interesting for chefs looking beyond the usual lentils.
What makes these ingredients interesting now is not that they are suddenly fashionable. They were never really gone. A cook in a village kitchen did not need a menu description to justify kokum or kalpasi. They were simply what the recipe called for.
The rediscovery is happening elsewhere: in professional kitchens, where chefs are beginning to ask what Indian food might look like if its pantry were taken seriously on its own terms. That does not mean putting every forgotten ingredient on a tasting menu. Sometimes the more interesting thing is simply understanding why a particular fruit was dried, why a leaf was fermented, why a spice was used in such small quantities or why a souring agent suited one region better than another.
The old pantry is full of these quiet solutions. Modern cooking is only beginning to read them again.
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