"Dream, Dream, Dream! Conduct these dreams into thoughts, and then transform them into action."
- Dr. A. P. J. Abdul Kalam
22 Aug 2025
The first time I noticed my grandmother cooking in a clay pot, I remember asking her why she didn’t just use the shiny steel vessels stacked nearby. She smiled, tapped the pot with her spoon, and said, “Beta, mitti saans leti hai. Khana zyada jeevant lagta hai.” (Clay breathes; it makes the food feel more alive.) At that moment, I didn’t fully understand her words. But years later, when I saw chefs in upscale restaurants proudly returning to the same mitti ke bartan, her wisdom came rushing back. It reminded me that what we often dismiss as “old-fashioned” is in fact timeless knowledge, waiting to be rediscovered.
Cooking in clay has been part of Indian kitchens for centuries. My grandmother’s dal simmered in clay had a depth I’ve never found in steel vessels. Clay’s porous nature allows gentle evaporation and adds an earthy undertone. Scientifically, it balances acidity, making food easier to digest. Today, restaurants from Kochi to Gurgaon are reviving this method. Biryani in clay pots, curries thickened naturally, even desserts like phirni are making comebacks. Diners often say they don’t just taste the difference, they feel it.
The Mughal legacy of dum pukht is a lesson in patience: sealing food in a pot and letting it slow cook for hours, sometimes overnight. This method was nearly lost in the race for quick cooking, surviving mainly in Awadh and Hyderabad. But modern chefs are returning to the art of waiting. Sealed meats, vegetables, and seafood slowly release flavors, creating a layered aroma that’s impossible to replicate on fast stoves. Opening the dough-sealed lid feels like unwrapping a story centuries old. My grandmother often compared it to letting life unfold naturally: “sab kuch waqt se hi behtar banta hai” (everything becomes better with time).
Before gas stoves, cooking directly over fire was everyday life. My grandmother roasted brinjals on coal embers for smoky baingan bharta. She used to say, “Dhuwan hi asli swaad deta hai.” (It’s the smoke that gives real flavor.) Now, open-fire cooking is back in fashion. From tandoors to wood-fired grills, chefs are recreating that primal taste. Charred rotis, flame-kissed meats, and smoky vegetables carry the rawness of village kitchens. In a world of sanitized, electric kitchens, that rustic edge is exactly what diners crave.
In our storeroom still lies the sil batta, a flat stone slab with a roller. As a child, I would watch my grandmother crush spices into chutneys, her rhythm steady and sure. I once asked why she didn’t use the new mixer grinder. She replied, “Yeh pathar masalon ki rooh nikalta hai, machine sirf powder banati hai.” (This stone brings out the soul of spices; machines only turn them into powder.) Today, chefs agree. Grinding spices manually releases natural oils differently, giving chutneys and masalas a fresher punch. Some restaurants even make it performance art, letting diners watch chutneys ground live. What was once a daily chore is now celebrated as a sensory connection to the past.
Banana leaves were once both cookware and tableware in Indian households. I still recall festive days when food was served on glossy green leaves, their aroma mingling with rice and curries. In coastal kitchens, steaming fish in banana leaves gave it a unique grassy fragrance. For years, this practice was dismissed as rustic. But today, chefs embrace banana leaves for their eco-friendliness and flavor-enhancing properties. Leaf-wrapped puddings, rice parcels, and even desserts are making their way to fine-dining menus. My grandmother always said, “Khaana patte pe khaya toh prasad jaisa lagta hai.” (Food on leaves feels like a blessing.)
Each of these techniques is more than just a cooking style; it’s a philosophy. Clay pots teach balance, dum pukht teaches patience, open fire connects us to primal roots, grinding stones remind us of effort, fermentation speaks of science, and banana leaves reflect sustainability. They’re lessons wrapped in flavors—lessons that shaped how generations before us saw food as nourishment, medicine, and even ritual. Modern chefs are not just reviving old methods; they’re reviving wisdom that risked being lost in the noise of convenience.
When I think of my grandmother’s clay pot curry, I realize it wasn’t just food she was serving; it was memory, tradition, and care. Today, as restaurants bring back these ancient techniques, they’re not just cooking meals. They’re cooking connections: between past and present, tradition and innovation, grandmother and chef. India’s kitchen heritage proves that “old” is not obsolete. And as long as chefs continue to listen to the whispers of history, our plates will keep carrying stories worth savoring.