A sk virtually any North-Indian home-cook how they make a particular dish and they’ll start with the words ‘Fry onions and tomatoes, then add your usual masalas. You know – cumin, coriander, turmeric, chilli powder.’ To specialist chefs, it might be blasphemy, this adding of an astringent (cumin) simultaneously with a flavour as mild as coriander, because they would seem to cancel each other out, but to the vast majority of home-cooks in the northern states of India, as well as Gujarat, these two spices – together with turmeric and chilli powder – are what goes into virtually every dish that emerges from their kitchen.
Coriandrum sativum , to give coriander its Latin name, has a unique place in the spice world in several respects. While most other spices are assertive and strongly flavoured; coriander, on the other hand, has a mild, herby flavour with an earthy appeal. It is nutty and floral, as well as earthy with a mild hint of citrus too. Freshly harvested coriander seeds have a hint of insect pheromone, which some people find unbearable and others hardly notice. There’s another attribute that makes it so special: its versatility. Finely powdered coriander seeds have quite a distinct appeal, as do ones that are coarsely pounded or simply broken open. It is almost like using three different spices. Of course, if you are using the leaves, stem and roots of the plant, you have three more tricks up your sleeve. Each variation has a sizeable difference in the flavour, far more so than any other spice. And if you grow a few coriander plants in your garden or in a pot in your balcony, and you pluck them while the seeds are green and unripe, then you have access to yet another variation of this fascinating spice, one that resolutely hides under the radar, letting others take the limelight.
Coriander is also one of the oldest spices in existence. The oldest coriander seeds have been excavated at a pre-pottery era Neolithic site in Israel that dates back to 7000 BCE, and the use of coriander seeds in Greece has been chronicled since the Greek comedies of the 3rd and 4th centuries BCE, specifically, The Knights by Aristophanes.
The general belief is that coriander is native to Morocco. It is one of the spices to be mentioned in ancient literature like the Ebers papyrus, dating to 1550 BCE and the Knossos tablets dating to 1375–1200 BCE, written in the Mycenian language. The Book of Exodus (16:31) compares heavenly manna to coriander seed – both being supposedly white. It is also believed to have been used in Egyptian burials as early as 1000 BCE: A few coriander seeds (15 to be precise) were found in the tomb of the boy-king Tutankhamen (1341–1333 BCE), leading to the theory that it was either traded along ancient routes or was cultivated in Egypt in that era. Coriander also makes its appearance in Sanskrit literature, namely Panini’s Sanskrit Grammar, dated to the 4th century BCE, where it is called kustumburu , which is coriander’s Aramaic name, used in Persia, among other countries. But nobody is entirely sure how it made its way into the country. Apart from vaguely worded theories about the introduction of the spice into India during Alexander’s invasion (326 BCE), there is little in the way of recorded history. Today, it is not only found in every spice market in India, but also across the world, its use extending from all parts of Asia Minor (present day Turkey) to the Mediterranean, North Africa, sub-Saharan Africa, Peru and Europe.
For a spice that is ubiquitous, especially in the Indian kitchen, coriander evokes strong, and often polarizing reactions, much like asafoetida. My friend Sangeeta Khanna, a microbiologist, says that the top-notes of petrichor remind her strongly of coriander. She does have a point: the muskiness and earthiness of one is echoed in the other. But many Westerners detest the fresh fragrance of coriander, comparing it to soap or even bugs. (In fact, the name coriander is thought to have come from the Greek word koris , which means bugs.)
Scientists have been intrigued enough by this phenomenon to conduct studies. Apparently, it is the aldehyde in cilantro that provokes the violent reaction. There are insects that produce the same aldehyde, which is why some say that cilantro smells like insects or chemical-like soap. The people who dislike the fragrance of cilantro have one of the two olfactory receptor genes that are missing in the rest of the population. There is a way to lessen the unpleasant smell, however, and that is by pounding the leaves, chopping them or cooking with them, rather than separating the leaves from the stem and then adding them at the end of the cooking process as a garnish.
There’s one more attribute that coriander seeds, possessing little harshness, have: the power to tone down other spices. Coriander alone in the spice world has that attribute – every other spice not only has its own flavour profile, but is used solely on account of what it can add to a dish. It is a well-known axiom in the kitchen that if a dish has been over-spiced with too many cloves or cumin, the only way to counteract that is by adding a generous dollop of coriander powder.
Coriander seeds also have a far more varied flavour profile than any other spice. They are warm, nutty, almost buttery, even floral and slightly citrusy when left untoasted. When lightly toasted, the aroma turns nuttier and the citrus and floral tones recede. When the seeds are powdered, they lose some of their pungency and this is often used to bulk up a curry or tone down other sharp flavours. Coriander has the chameleon-like ability to change flavour not only with the amount of roasting but also with the amount of crushing. And this is just the seeds, let alone the leaves! One of the many surprises of this spice is that every part of the plant, from root to seed, is edible. Like the fenugreek plant that does double duty as an herb and a spice, Coriandrum sativum consists the familiar serrated-leaf fragrant herb that we get by the fistful from the vegetable seller, as well as the seed. In one of nature’s mysteries, the aroma of one does not resemble that of the other.
You can either choose to grow coriander for its seeds as a spice or as a herb for its leaves only. You cannot do both, because the seeds form at the end of the stem that holds the leaves. In one case, you have to refrain from plucking the leaves in order to let the seeds form at the end of a season; while in the other case, you can keep picking the fragrant leaves for use, but in the knowledge that seeds will not form.
Jyoti Jasol’s well-appointed home in a quiet, boulder-strewn hillside of Udaipur has a magnificent view: the City Palace, seen from a distance of about 3 kilometres as the crow flies. This bungalow is surrounded by sprawling lawns, on the periphery of which is a vegetable garden. One of the herbs they grow is cilantro. They grow it for the leaves rather than the seeds, so work on the impossibly large vegetable patch never stops. Where coriander is grown for the seeds, the only other labour that is required – besides watering – is during harvest. Where the leaves are being used, it is a year-round effort. You pluck somewhat selectively, which means that at least twice a week your field has to be gone through. Growing cilantro only for the fragrant leaves is easy enough even in a shallow pot inside a modest flat that has the benefit of direct sunlight. It is not painstaking to snip off a couple of stems to add to a cooked dish; in comparison, what happens on a farm is that labour is required all through the year which is a most painstaking task.
As I walk in Jyoti’s garden, I am mystified that I could not get a whiff of fresh cilantro. I had assumed it would be an integral part of the field. But then, it’s just one of nature’s little oddities. Jyoti tells me that it is only when you pluck the stems of cilantro that the fragrance is released and goes on to surround you all day long. It is the same with the seeds. When they are ready to be harvested, they change colour, the smell becomes fragrant and the carpel becomes tough.
Coriander is present everywhere you look in Rajasthan. Pal Haveli in Jodhpur’s old town, for instance, is another of my favourite haunts. Its terrace is one of the best places in the city to watch the play of sunlight on the beautiful Mehrangarh Fort. Plus, there’s another advantage of staking out a table at the only heritage hotel in Jodhpur’s walled city – the excellence of its food. Thakur Bhawani Singh and Mahesh Karan Singh, the father-son duo, who own Pal Haveli, are as passionate about food as they are about their farm near their ancestral village Pal, where they grow coriander seeds besides wheat, jowar and moong dal.
Occasionally, the plan to plant coriander has to be abandoned for want of rain the previous year, which in turn, decides the amount of water for irrigation. The soil in the ancestral village, though, is ideally suited for the growing of this spice, because coriander requires loamy soil that forms clods of earth, the better to trap moisture: sandy soil through which water filters in seconds will just not do. At the best of times, the family farm, which lies between Jodhpur and Udaipur never gets the quantum of irrigation that is the norm in, say, Madhya Pradesh (MP), another state that grows a considerable amount of coriander. Far from considering it a disadvantage, Thakur Bhawani Singh tells me – as he makes preparations for the signature lal maas that his hotel is famous for – how this is a huge advantage, because abundant sunlight and minimal water intensify the flavour in the seed. The coriander seeds that he works with are far, far more intense than anything you can get in the supermarkets of Delhi and Mumbai. It is the same, he tells me, with cumin. These two spices, grown in the deserts of western Rajasthan are much stronger in taste than their counterparts grown in lush soil, well-watered with rain. I was mystified, because he had just finished telling me how coriander plants need soil that forms clods that retain moisture, in order to compensate for the lack of rainfall. But, apparently there is a vast difference between the bare minimum water and plenty of it, and the former appears to work far better than the latter.
Sure enough, the coriander seeds transformed the lal maas that was served to me at the terrace restaurant just as the Mehrangarh Fort began to glow golden in the evening light. I made a mental note to take some locally grown coriander seeds away with me, but the quaint little market, crowded with cows and motor-bikes around the landmark clock tower, didn’t seem to have any locally grown coriander seeds. Perhaps the spice dealers weren’t quite clear on what exactly it was that I wanted, or perhaps I was looking in the wrong place entirely, but I came back from my trip to Rajasthan empty-handed.
It was in Madhya Pradesh, namely Bhopal, where I had another curious encounter with coriander. I was the guest of the royal family of the erstwhile state and they were explaining to me the salient points of their cuisine on one lazy Sunday afternoon. An entire range of cousins and aunts were seated under the mild winter sun in the garden of their bungalow at Shamla Hills, the family stronghold. I was told that the single best-known Bhopali dish is the chicken rezala. It differs from the better-known Bengali version of the dish because the gravy here is green in colour. It is because of two factors: the famously hard water of Bhopal’s lakes and rivers, guaranteed to give you indigestion; and the home remedy for it: cilantro. I had not previously known that cilantro was a digestive, but the entire family assured me that the reason why cilantro was so prominent in their cuisine was because it was an effective antidote to the hard water of the lake, from where the city’s water supply originated.
Indeed, the preparation that I sampled – along with a dozen others – that afternoon not only had a green gravy but the colour had permeated the meat of the chicken too. What struck me was the amount of chopped coriander leaves that was used, both as a garnish and as a cooking ingredient, in that elegant meal. The rezala did not have any coriander powder, however: just a dash of aromatic spices and a few cups of chopped coriander along with a few spoonfuls of yogurt. In Bhopal, my hosts told me, you can distinguish a great cook from a good one by the final colour of the rezala, which has to be cooked together with the chicken for a considerable time, till the coriander attains the consistency of butter. Under those circumstances, too-dark coriander would be the order of the day, but in the hands of a capable cook, it does not have to be anything darker than a pleasant shade of green. Even in the family’s hotel, Jehan Numa Palace, coriander is the single herb that goes into every last dish.
I was intrigued enough by this phenomenon to make my way to the innumerable farms outside the city limits, where coriander is one of the major crops grown. Hedging one’s bets is the primary aim of the farmers in this belt, as a protection against years when the monsoon fails, and so coriander, fenugreek, and vegetables like bottle gourd and garlic all co-existed on the patch of land that I visited. The crop of cilantro was lush and verdant and the perfume wafted on the breeze as a group of women plucked branches with deft movements. In the entire Bhopal belt, the crop is not grown for the seeds but the leaves, which are harvested twice a week. The trick, as I learnt, is to keep the growth of the plants steady: too little cropping and the plant begins to flower. Once that happens, the leaves lose their flavour because all the strength of the plant goes to the newly developing seeds: it is nature’s way of making sure a plant propagates itself. However, it is Bina and Ramgunj, two towns in MP near the border with neighbouring Rajasthan, that have the country’s largest coriander auction centres, because the area north and west of Indore is where coriander is grown as a spice. MP itself grows 15 per cent of the country’s entire coriander crop, while Rajasthan accounts for a whopping 58 per cent and Kota has become the largest auction centre in India.
The uninspiring road that runs through Yahiyaganj, not far from Lucknow’s Molviganj, that passes for the city’s wholesale spice market has a couple of tired, lonely dealers that trade in poppy and coriander seeds. Both spices sit in vast sacks, but instead of there being only one sort of each, there are at least six. I peer at the sacks of coriander seeds closely. One is off-white, another is brown, yet another pale green, a fourth is unevenly sized and coloured, a fifth looks like none of the others. After some wheedling, the dealer tells me where each sample has come from. They are all from around Lucknow except for one, which is from MP, but such is the difference in soil and water that each looks different. You’ll find this in Indori coriander as well, the most prized among all Indian coriander, where brown, beige, lemon and green seeds are all mixed together, and that is how you can tell it apart from the crop of any other state in the country.
Every other time I have encountered coriander seeds in sacks at wholesale markets around the country, I have observed the difference in size and colour. In the crowded bazaars of Ajmer, where I met a dealer who sits with exactly two sacks of coriander seeds – nothing more, nothing less – the colour differs substantially from one sack to another. At the other end of the country, in the row of shops in Coimbatore’s wholesale market, the colours of the coriander seeds are like an artist’s palette. Some are beige, others are darker brown and still others are of a hue between green and yellow. The only other object in the spice market with such an attractive colour variation is jaggery, whose hues vary from golden to toffee: it is what makes the story of spices such a fascinating one, at least to me.
I find another variation of the coriander seed in Srinagar’s old city, which always reminds me irresistibly of Central Asia, when I visit the oddly named Gaad Kocha market. ‘Gaad’ means fish, but for some mysterious reason that I’ve never quite understood, the market, a mere lane near the fourth bridge that straddles the river Jhelum, has metamorphosed into a spice and wedding-dress centre. I’m not even sure what the two products could possibly have in common: certainly the sight of metres of golden tinsel adorned dupattas has little to do with mountains of carmine chillies and crimson cockscomb flowers that every self-respecting waza adds to his rogan josh. As I walk through the lane, it suddenly strikes me that I have only seen one single sack of coriander seeds in just one shop. Far smaller and rounder in size than the coriander grown in the plains, the colour is dark brown as opposed to the myriad hues of greenish to pale straw to yellow that I’ve seen elsewhere in the country. In appearance, it is very much like the Romanian coriander that is sold in London. It is a feature of the spice when grown in cold climates. Perhaps the scarcity of coriander in Srinagar’s old market can be explained by the fact that is only grown in tiny amounts in Kashmir, in the area around Chadoora. Cilantro is used more often by wazas. In my own family home in Srinagar, all that my mother-in-law uses coriander seeds for is the spice mix called ver (which she makes better than anyone else we know), where coriander seeds are just one ingredient among several others.
Pahadi coriander that grows in Himachal Pradesh is multi-coloured, but far smaller than other varieties. On a visit to the Gunj in Shimla, I saw that not one of the shopkeepers could be bothered to store the precious sacks safely in the dry interiors of their store. Row after row of dingy store had gunny sacks right out in the mist and drizzle that gives Shimla its irresistible charm. The sight of the slightly damp seeds open to the elements made me change my mind about buying any.
For every nonchalant shopkeeper on a mist-filled hillside in a corner of the country, there is an impassioned dealer. One of the most impressive of these is Vipin Gulati of Wazir Spices who doesn’t just deal in spices, but also cooks, eats, sleeps and dreams of them. There is scarcely a hotel or a large restaurant in North India that does not source at least some of their spice mixes from Wazir.
Though his bread and butter comes from the wholesale market, his heart is in the spice blending business. Indeed, spices appear to speak to him. He claims that in his kitchen at home, he has three jars containing coriander: One with the seed coarsely pounded, a second with a fine powder and one that is the whole seed. According to him, it is the texture that is most important with this spice.
I’ve spoken to dozens of spice dealers, chefs, recipe writers and hobby cooks in the course of researching this book, but none know spices with the intimacy that Gulati can boast of. I mention an incident to him: Once while I was sitting in the reception area of a well-known spice dealer, a machine roared into life somewhere on the premises and the air-conditioned reception was suddenly filled with the glorious fragrance of coriander being ground. All coriander smells good, but this particular batch seemed so particularly fragrant that the incident was etched in my mind. Gulati at once asks me the month in which this incident happened. April, I replied. Gulati smiled with satisfaction and explained: April is when the crop is freshly harvested and if the seeds are ground around that time, they are more aromatic than they’ll be the rest of the year. Had his name been Sherlock Holmes, he could not have been more prescient.
Gulati also claims that no non-resident Indian could live forever on cumin and coriander from other parts of the world. For that indefinable flavour of home, you would have to use only Indian spices.
I realized the truth in Gulati’s sage words on my trip to Los Angeles soon afterwards. The first thing I bought, unsurprisingly, was a bottle of coriander seeds, not from an Indian store, but from a supermarket where every American went to shop for groceries. Most Indians who live in the United States make the extra effort to go to an Indian store because they know from experience that owing to the high demand, you are unlikely to get stale coriander seeds. But I wanted to taste the difference between coriander seeds grown in India and those grown in another country.
My 24 gram bottle by McCormick cost me over $4, for which amount I could have got several kilos here. Well, it was un-Indian, all right. It didn’t smell like anything we have here. Although the instructions on the bottle recommended toasting it with cumin and fennel and using it as a rub on meats, I didn’t take their advice, but crushed it coarsely in a limestone mortar and pestle a few seconds before sautéing it as part of a tempering.
The McCormick coriander had a lemony, almost grassy, flavour, quite unlike what we are used to in India
That, I later learnt, was because of the predominance of two terpenes – linalool and pinene. The varying proportions of these two natural oils in the spice determine whether it will have a woody, earthy aroma or a light, lemony one. Terpenes – a constituent of the essential oils of mainly medicinal plants, also occur in camphor oil and turpentine, and if you are ultra-sensitive to aromas, you may be able to make an extremely far-fetched, tenuous connection, but a connection all the same. Similarly, when you hear coriander seeds spoken of as lemony, it is because of the presence of linalool, an extract also found in lemon peel.
Kind friends often ring me up from the furthest corners of the globe, asking me if I want them to bring me any spices. I always say yes, and so I was able to procure coriander seeds from South China and from Iran. At first, I was excited. I had great plans for my samples. I would take them to a laboratory and have them tested for relative amounts of constituents. After frantic calls to several laboratories in Delhi and Hyderabad, one thing became clear: If there is any test for determining relative percentages of components of a spice, it does not exist in India. Every laboratory replied to my queries with the comment that they could detect any kind of impurity in a spice. But natural components? Heck, no.
The coriander seeds that I picked up from the superb Naqsh-e-Jahan square in Isfahan on my trip to Iran, was the greenest of all the samples. It was also the one with the most inclusions – grit, mud, sticks, insects – you name it and I found it in that half-kilo. When I tried to roast it, it remained the same colour, even though I roasted it on gentle heat for well over 20 minutes, stirring constantly. Another friend got me Turkish coriander, so tiny that it looked like it had been made for a doll’s house. The colour of this one was dark brown. On the other hand, the glass jar of Moroccan coriander that I pounced on in Harrods’ vast food halls on a trip to London were the diametric opposite of the Turkish variant: the colour of the seeds was the lightest, even lighter than the Chinese sample, and the size was huge. Far more common in London was Romanian coriander, packaged in simple see-through pouches by TRS, a UK-based importer. Romanian coriander, too, was dark brown, and though the seeds were small, they did not have the miniature appearance of their Turkish cousins.
Back home in India, most parts of the country use coriander in conjunction with cumin. In fact, every housewife in North India speaks of zeera-dhania as if it were a single spice. Gujaratis take this even further. They buy ready-made packets of the two spices together, called dhano-jiro. It is a bonafide spice blend, even if it is treated like a single spice. Gujarat giant Ramdev, the spice brand that has a huge presence not only in Gujarat but in Rajasthan as well, makes a dhano-jiro that is a 70:30 blend of the two – a fifty:fifty blend does not quite cut the mustard, apparently. (In fact, such is its popularity thatin London’s Drummond Street, the shop that proudly refers to itself as the ‘original Patak’ sells TRS packaged dhano-jiro, as does Dadoo’s in Tooting, a large venerable Indian-owned grocery store that clearly caters to Gujarati customers.)
Jagdish Patel of the iconic Mumbai spice store, Mangal Masala, tells me that the Parsi community too has a jira-dhano blend, though it is as different from the Gujarati version as it is possible to be. For one, the typical Parsi diet is meat and egg-based while the Gujarati diet is primarily vegetarian. So, there are a number of other aromatic spices that go into the Parsi version, making the name jira-dhano a bit of a misnomer.
Unlike the Parsi mix however, most meat-eating communities in India use a preponderance of just coriander seeds, since they are believed to have a cooling effect, the better to take away the ‘heat’ of meat. In the Muslim cuisine of Hyderabad too, coriander is much more widely used than cumin. In fact, I was told that using cumin ‘blackens the gravy’ and so, it is sparingly used and that too only in dishes where sourness is required. On the other hand, Lucknow’s Muslim quarter uses coriander with discretion. In fact, their signature home-style bandh gosht contains powdered cumin in conjunction with other spices, but no coriander powder. The reasoning is that cumin is far stronger than coriander, and in combination, the former will inevitably overpower the latter.
Though coriander is used in most parts of the country – the Nadar community of Tamil Nadu uses this spice with uncommon flair. In fact, the basis of their cuisine is dark-roasted coriander powder, which is actually made from dark-roasted coriander seeds, saunf, cumin and rice powder. When the need for coriander powder arises, they use this mixture, which differs slightly from house to house. Like all such spice blends, this one too is a closely guarded secret, and is available in all spice, pickle and papad shops that are run by this community.
Each community also has its own set of dos and don’ts. In Gujarat, coriander is never used in a dish which has curd, because of the belief that it will turn an unsightly black. Examples are kadhi, potatoes, black gram and gourd with curd. Few other communities share this belief. In Himachal, a dish of black gram with curd that is called madra makes use of coriander powder but with caution. ‘All you have to do is to take a bit of extra care,’ Kangra-based housewife Rashmi Sood assures me. ‘It’s only a terribly inexperienced or careless cook that would cause the gravy to turn dark.’ According to her, one way to ensure that the coriander does not burn is to keep it whole rather than powder it.
Even so, when you are sautéing spices to add to a dish, coriander usually goes in right after the onions, because it is generally acknowledged to be the spice that requires the longest sautéing time. Many experienced cooks are of the firm belief that you know the onions are sautéed when the coriander powder stops smelling raw. If you observe this cardinal rule, you will never suffer from partially cooked coriander powder.
Outside India, it is Portuguese food that uses the most coriander seeds in Europe. Soups, stews, even grills: It would seem that no dish is complete without a teaspoon of coriander seeds. So, it is entirely appropriate that Nando’s, the worldwide chain of Portuguese/Mozambique fast food, uses a smidgeon of coriander powder in its hot-selling peri-peri chicken. But that’s hardly surprising. Around the world, every time a cook wants to tone down the chilli component of a dish or round off the sharp flavours of cloves, he or she reaches out for powdered coriander seeds. And considering its mildness, it is almost impossible to make a mistake by using too much coriander. Some Moroccan and Algerian dishes even call for coriander seeds by the cupful as opposed to the teaspoonful!
Coriander root, stem as well as the leaves, form an integral part of many Thai curries. It is probably one of the reasons why Thai food, particularly their curries, tastes so different from coastal Indian food in spite of the fact that the spices used are almost identical. Cumin, coriander, turmeric, chillies – exactly what you’d find in India. But then, there’s lemongrass, galangal, lime leaf and coriander root (with all the mud carefully washed off, of course). Add a bit of coconut milk and lo and behold, you’ve landed up with a different cuisine altogether, even though you have started out with the same spices.
But in all my travels, nowhere have I come across a worse use of coriander than in Rome. Browsing through a gourmet store not far from the Trevi Fountain, I came across the funkiest object in Italy: sugar coated coriander. I bought it out of a sense of adventure, but as soon as I stepped out on to the street and popped some into my mouth, I wished I hadn’t. To begin with, the coriander seed was whole – no attempt had been made to pound the seed, even coarsely, which would perhaps have released some of their essential oils. Secondly, they were long past their sell-by date, judging by their woody texture and singular lack of aroma. And thirdly, whoever told the usually discerning Italians that sugar and coriander was a felicitous combination? It isn’t. Take my word for it.
On the other hand, one of the most delightful applications of coriander seed has to be the quintessentially Gujarati mouth-freshener cum digestive made out of the internal germ of coriander seeds. As flat as a disc, round and pale brown in colour, it is extracted, moistened with salty water and dried. The bustling street market around Ahmedabad’s Manek Chowk sells a variety of mouth-fresheners amidst gleaming tin vessels and cut-price garments. Each mobile cart has a varied range of products, but every one of them stocks dhania dal, as it is called.
Though it is somewhat of an obsession in Gujarat, I’ve seen it sold in stores around the country as well, though admittedly not often. Judging by its low price and the casual way it is sold in piles along with churan and other lip-smacking digestives on the side of the road in towns all over Gujarat, it cannot be a high-technology venture. However, a surprising number of my friends, who are happy to munch on it after meals, could not make the connection between it and the spice. It is probably because of the texture – smooth and crunchy and mildly salty, these probably won’t remind you of the spice you always associate with your spice rack at home.
But despite its many uses, and its prominent place in Indian kitchens, coriander, I feel, is not given its due, and often dismissed as a ‘non-spice’. But no other spice is as versatile, in both seed and leaf form, than this humble little plant: As a base, as a garnish, as an aromatic, coriander rounds up the flavours in a dish in a way few other spices can. And for that, I think, it deserves a place in the ‘big four’ of Indian spices.
CHEF ARUN KUMAR’S LAMB CURRY
Mild and soothing, the coriander and the coconut milk work together to counterpoint the chillies.
INGREDIENTS
• 500 g mutton cubes
• 4–6 whole red chillies
• 2 tbsps coriander seeds
• 20 small onions (or shallots)
• ½ tsp fenugreek seeds
• 1½ cup coconut milk (fresh/packaged)
• Salt, to taste
METHOD
• Roast the red chillies and coriander seeds.
• Cool and then grind to a fine powder.
• Heat a tablespoon of oil. Crackle the fenugreek seeds.
• Add the onions and stir-fry till translucent. Add mutton cubes and fry till brown.
• Mix the ground powder. Fry for a few minutes. Add coconut milk, mix well.
• Add salt to taste.
• Simmer while covered till meat is cooked. Serve with rice or appams.
SIMPLE SOUP WITH CORIANDER POWDER
While researching for this book, I had to deal with dozens of packets of spices. Ingredients without their own strong flavour tended to be the best showcase of the quality of a particular spice. My two most oft-used ingredients, therefore, were potatoes and rice, but there’s a limit to how much potatoes I could ladle down the gullets of my long-suffering family. So I hit upon this soup. As with many of the dishes that emerge from my kitchen, there’s no fixed recipe. Use your imagination to add or subtract.
INGREDIENTS
• 200 g root vegetables. Choose from pumpkin, potato, carrot, beetroot etc.
• 4 tbsp good quality olive oil
• 1 small onion, finely sliced
• 4 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 tsp coriander powder
• 2 vegetable stock cubes
• Salt and pepper, to taste
• 4 cups water
METHOD
• In a large saucepan, heat the olive oil and sauté the garlic and onions.
• When the onions are translucent (but not brown) add the coriander and immediately after, the coarsely chopped vegetables.
• Sauté for less than a minute. Add the stock cubes and 4 cups hot water.
• Pressure cook till the vegetables are cooked.
• Add seasoning to taste.
Note: I usually serve the soup in mugs or bowls with a blob of whipped cream floating on top, with a pinch of coriander powder on the cream.