39 recipes that use ginger-garlic paste, with photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Punjabi chole samosa chaat, takes 20 minutes. It is most often cooked with onion, turmeric and coriander.
Got a few things in the fridge? Search by everything you have
Big squares of capsicum and quartered button mushrooms, seared quickly so they keep their bite, then folded into a smooth gravy thickened with a little bengal gram dal, tomato and milk. Butter and split coriander seeds give the base a nutty, gently spiced flavour, finished with lemon. Serve hot with naan.
Short lengths of okra slit and stuffed with a spicy masala of peanuts, coconut, onion, coriander and gram flour, then cooked covered until tender and finished with tomato. The lemon juice in the filling keeps the okra from turning sticky. Serve hot with chapaties.
Samosa chaat is how the street stalls of Punjab and Delhi turn yesterday's samosas into the best snack of the day. Samosas are broken open on a plate, covered with a ladle of hot, tangy chole, then cooled down with sweet whisked yogurt, green and tamarind chutneys, raw onion, crunchy sev and a dusting of chaat masala. Every spoonful is hot and cold, crisp and soft, sweet, sour and spicy at once. Use bought samosas or the site's own samosa recipe. Chef's tip: warm the samosas in the oven until crisp before you crush them; a soggy samosa makes a heavy chaat, a crisp one soaks up the chole and still crunches.
Mirchi ka salan comes from Hyderabad, where it's the classic partner for biryani at weddings and Sunday lunches. Fat, mild green chillies are fried until blistered, then simmered in a nutty gravy of roasted peanuts, sesame and dried coconut, soured with tamarind. The result is rich, tangy and only gently hot, with the chillies giving a fresh, grassy bite. It also tastes very good with plain rice, jeera rice or parathas and is even better the next day. Chef's tip: roast the peanuts, sesame and coconut separately and slowly; each browns at its own pace, and one scorched spoonful of sesame turns the whole gravy bitter.
Bagara baingan is a Hyderabadi wedding dish of small aubergines cooked whole in a dark, tangy gravy of roasted peanuts, sesame, dried coconut and tamarind. Unlike a Gujarati stuffed brinjal, the aubergines here are only quartered at the base and fried until silky, then left to soak up a thin-but-rich sauce that is finished with a tempering, the 'baghar' that gives the dish its name. It's sour, nutty and gently spiced, and is served with biryani, bagara rice or plain rice. Chef's tip: choose small, glossy purple aubergines that feel heavy for their size; soft, light ones are full of seeds and turn mushy before the gravy has a chance to cling.
Khatti dal, 'sour dal', is the everyday dal of Hyderabad's old city, cooked in Muslim and Telugu homes alike and ladled over plain rice with a fried papad and a dry vegetable on the side. Toor dal is cooked with tomato and green chilli, mashed smooth, soured with tamarind and finished with a sizzling bagaar of garlic, dried red chillies, cumin and curry leaves. It is thinner and sharper than a north Indian dal, and on Fridays it often sits next to a biryani as the comforting partner. Chef's tip: let the garlic in the bagaar turn properly golden before pouring it over; pale garlic tastes raw and harsh in a sour dal.
Sindhi biryani is the biryani of Karachi, Hyderabad and the rest of Sindh, and it is the one people order by the deg (a huge pot) for weddings, Eid lunches and every big family gathering. What makes it Sindhi is the tang and the heat: plenty of tomatoes, yogurt, whole green chillies and sour dried plums (aloo bukhara) in the masala, with chunks of potato that soak up all of it. This vegetable version keeps all of that and swaps the meat for potato, carrot, cauliflower and peas, layered with half-cooked basmati, fried onions, mint and saffron milk, then steamed shut. A common mistake is boiling the rice until soft before layering; take it out when a grain still has a firm white core, because it finishes in the steam. Chef's tip: fry the onions until deep brown but not black, and keep the oil they fried in; it carries their flavour into every layer.
Chapli kebab comes from Peshawar, where Namak Mandi and the Qissa Khwani Bazaar are lined with cooks frying giant flat kebabs in shallow iron pans; the name comes from chaprikh, flat in Pashto. This chickpea version keeps everything that makes a chapli kebab taste right: coarsely crushed coriander seeds, dried pomegranate seeds (anardana) for sourness, chilli flakes, green chilli, onion, tomato and a little maize flour to bind it, with a slice of tomato pressed into each one so it chars in the pan. Serve them with naan, sliced onion and a sharp green chutney. The usual mistake is blitzing the chickpeas to a smooth paste in a processor; the kebab needs texture, so mash by hand and leave some pieces. Chef's tip: press them really thin, about 1 cm, and with ragged edges; the thin edges go crunchy, which is the whole point of a chapli.
Sarva pindi, also called ginne appa or tapala chekka, is a thick, crisp rice-flour bread from rural Telangana, pressed by hand into a heavy pan, studded with holes and baked slowly in oil until the base is golden and crunchy. The dough is full of soaked chana dal, peanuts, sesame, green chilli, curry leaves and coriander, so every bite is savoury and nutty. It is the snack that waits on the stove when children come home from school, and a favourite for Sankranti and long train journeys because it keeps well. Chef's tip: press the dough into a cold pan, not a hot one; it spreads evenly and the holes stay open as it heats.
In Dhaka, the first heavy monsoon downpour sends people home craving bhuna khichuri, and Eid mornings in old Dhaka often start with a pot of it too. Unlike the loose, porridge-like khichdi of north India, the Bangladeshi bhuna version is dry and fluffy: dry-roasted moong dal and short-grain rice are fried in ghee with onions and whole spices until fragrant, then cooked with just enough water so the grains stay separate. Serve it hot with begun bhaja, a bhorta or two and a spoon of pickle. Chef's tip: roast the moong dal in a dry pan until it smells like toasted nuts before you wash it; that roasted note is what makes this khichuri taste of Bangladesh.
Bunny chow was born in Durban, among the city's Indian community, where curry in a hollowed loaf became the takeaway lunch of dockworkers and caddies. Many Durbanites say the first bunnies were vegetarian, filled with sugar beans, and cafés around Grey Street still sell a bean bunny beside the mutton one. A quarter loaf of unsliced white bread is scooped out and filled with a fiery, red Durban curry, with the scooped-out bread (the 'virgin') put back on top for dunking. It is eaten with your hands, with grated carrot and chilli salad on the side. Chef's tip: the curry needs to be thick and saucy, not watery; a runny curry soaks through the loaf before you've finished the first bite.
This Malwa dish from around Indore and Ujjain is a lesson in thrift: wheat dough is washed under water until only its stretchy gluten remains, then steamed into a firm block and cut into rounds that look like little grinding stones, or chakki. Fried and simmered in a spiced yogurt gravy, the pieces turn chewy and meaty, soaking up flavour like a sponge. It is a Sunday or special-occasion sabzi in Marwari and Malwi homes, eaten with hot rotis or bafla. It takes time, but most of it is hands-off resting and washing. Chef's tip: whisk the yogurt with the coriander powder and add it off the heat, then bring it back slowly, so the gravy stays smooth instead of curdling.
In Patna and the towns along the Ganges, ghugni chura is the morning and evening snack people queue for at the tea stall: a spicy, onion-rich curry of small black chickpeas served alongside chura, flattened rice that is fried or toasted in mustard oil until it crackles. You scoop a bit of each into your mouth together, with raw onion and green chilli for crunch. At home it is just as likely to be breakfast on a winter Sunday or what is offered to guests with tea. Chef's tip: cook the chana until it squashes easily between two fingers; firm chickpeas never soak up the masala.
Ask anyone from Vadodara where to eat sev usal and you'll get a strong opinion and a street-corner name. Early in the morning the handcarts near Mandvi and Raopura have a huge pot of dried white peas simmering in a thin, fiery gravy, with a separate tin of brick-red chilli oil (the tari) on the side. A ladle of usal goes into a steel plate, a spoonful of tari is poured over, and then it disappears under fine sev, raw onion and coriander, with lemon and soft pav to mop it up. The gravy should be loose and soupy, not thick like a curry, so the sev stays crisp for the first few bites and then soaks in. Chef's tip: cook the tari separately and let each person add their own; the usal alone is only medium-hot, and the tari is where the fire comes from.
In Nagpur, winter mornings start at a poha stall: soft, turmeric-yellow flattened rice heaped onto a plate and then flooded with tarri, a spicy black-chickpea gravy with a slick of red oil on top, finished with raw onion, sev, coriander and a squeeze of lemon. It's Vidarbha's answer to the plain poha eaten elsewhere in India, louder and hotter, made for a cold morning and a cutting chai. Making it at home takes a little planning because the chana needs an overnight soak, but the tarri keeps for days. Chef's tip: don't skimp on the oil in the tarri; the red layer that floats on top is what soaks into the poha and gives the dish its name.
Patodi rassa (also called patwadi rassa) comes from the dry, hot districts of Vidarbha around Nagpur and Amravati, where gram flour often takes the place of vegetables. Gram flour is cooked thick like a polenta, spread on a plate, scattered with coconut, sesame and poppy seeds and cut into squares. Just before eating, the squares go into bowls and a spicy, thin rassa of roasted onion and dry coconut is poured over them so they soak it up. It's a dish for a Sunday lunch or a wedding feast in the region, served with jowar bhakri or chapatis and rice. Chef's tip: pour the rassa over the patodi at the table, not in the pot; simmered together, the squares fall apart.
The kathi roll was born on Park Street in Kolkata, where kebabs once came on bamboo sticks (kathi) and were later wrapped in a paratha so office workers could eat them walking. This is the egg-and-paneer roll the stalls on Park Street and Gariahat sell to vegetarians: a flaky, ghee-fried paratha with an egg cooked right onto one side, then rolled round charred paneer, raw onion, green chilli, lime and a squirt of chilli sauce. Chef's tip: wrap the bottom half in paper as soon as it is rolled; the steam softens the paratha just enough to hold together.
Aloo potala rasa is Odisha's favourite party curry: you will find it on the menu of every Odia wedding and thread ceremony, ladled over rice or eaten with puri. Pointed gourds (potala, parwal) are scraped, fried until blistered, and simmered with potatoes in a thick onion, tomato and ginger-garlic gravy perfumed with whole garam masala. Unlike the light everyday dishes of the state, this one is rich and slow-cooked. Chef's tip: scrape the potala lightly rather than peeling; the green streaks look pretty and hold the shape.
Rugra are small, round underground mushrooms that push up under sal trees in Jharkhand's forests after the first monsoon rains. Tribal villagers dig them out and sell them by the basket in Ranchi markets for a few short weeks, and families cook them into a dark, spicy curry with onion, tomato and mustard oil. They have a firm skin and a meaty, earthy bite. Outside Jharkhand, small whole button or chestnut mushrooms make a fine version. Chef's tip: rugra come caked in soil, so soak and scrub them several times, then halve one to check the inside is white; grey or black ones are past their best.
Up in the hill villages of Himachal Pradesh, where flocks are walked to summer pastures, lamb is often cooked in chhaachh, the thin buttermilk left after churning butter. Thickened with a spoonful of gram flour, it makes a pale, gently sour gravy that is milder and lighter than the red curries of the plains, and it is a favourite at dhams, the festive meals of the Kangra and Chamba valleys. Serve it with steamed rice or makki ki roti. Chef's tip: whisk the gram flour into the buttermilk until there are no lumps before it goes near the pot; once it hits the heat, any lumps stay lumps.
On winter evenings in Amritsar, roadside stalls near the old city fry river fish in huge karahis and sell it by weight, hot and crisp, sprinkled with chaat masala and lemon. The batter is made from gram flour rather than wheat and is fragrant with ajwain (carom seeds), which Punjabis say makes fried food easier to digest. It is a snack or starter, eaten with mint chutney and sliced onions; at home it is the treat that comes out when guests arrive. Use any firm white fish: singhara is traditional, but cod, haddock, basa or tilapia all work. Chef's tip: a little rice flour in the batter is what keeps it crisp for longer after frying.
Butter chicken was born in the Punjabi restaurants of Old Delhi after Partition, when cooks found a way to use up tandoori chicken by simmering it in tomatoes, butter and cream. It is not the same as chicken tikka masala: tikka masala builds its sauce on fried onions and is chunkier and spicier, while makhani gravy has no onion at all, is strained silky-smooth, and gets its gentle sweetness and smoky-savoury note from butter, cashews and dried fenugreek leaves. It is the dish families order for celebrations across Delhi and Punjab, mopped up with butter naan or eaten with jeera rice, and it's mild enough for children. Chef's tip: crush the kasuri methi between your palms right over the pot; that one step is what makes it taste like the restaurant version.
Tandoori chicken comes from Punjab, where clay tandoor ovens fired with wood or charcoal reach well over 400 °C and roast marinated chicken in minutes. In Punjabi dhabas and wedding buffets it arrives on a sizzling plate with raw onion rings, lemon and mint chutney, and it's the starting point for butter chicken. A home oven can't match a tandoor, but a very hot oven plus a final blast under the grill gets you charred edges and juicy meat. The two-step marinade (lemon and salt first, then spiced yogurt) is the key. Chef's tip: cut deep slashes right down to the bone; the marinade gets inside and the thick legs cook through at the same time as the thinner parts.
In the lanes around the Jama Masjid in Old Delhi, korma is cooked in huge copper degs for Eid and wedding feasts and sold from dawn with khamiri roti and sheermal. It descends from the Mughal court kitchens, where 'korma' meant meat braised slowly in yogurt and its own juices rather than in water. This one is not the mild, pale, coconut-sweet korma of British curry houses: it is golden-brown, fragrant with cardamom and mace, enriched with almond paste and fried onions, and medium-hot. Chef's tip: fry the onions slowly to an even golden-brown and grind them with the yogurt; the browned onion paste is both the colour and the backbone of the sauce.
Lucknow's galouti kebab is said to have been created in the kitchens of the Nawabs of Awadh for a ruler who had lost his teeth, and 'galouti' means something that melts. The minced lamb is ground again until it's almost a paste, tenderised with raw papaya, scented with a dozen spices plus rose water and saffron, and fried gently on a flat griddle. In the old city around Aminabad they are sold all day on small, flaky ulte tawe ka paratha with sliced onion and mint chutney, and they are a must at Ramadan iftars. Chef's tip: chill the mixture well before shaping; the patties are meant to be fragile, and a cold mixture is the only way to get them into the pan in one piece.
Safed maas is the quiet sibling of fiery laal maas, created in the palace kitchens of Rajasthan's princely states such as Jaipur and Udaipur, where cooks prized dishes that looked as refined as they tasted. There is no turmeric, no red chilli and no browning: the mutton is cooked white with yogurt, a paste of cashews and almonds, cream and white pepper, scented with cardamom and kewra. Its heat is gentle and comes from white pepper and a few green chillies. It's served at weddings and festive dinners with soft rotis or saffron pulao. Chef's tip: keep the heat low from start to finish; the moment the meat or the spices brown, the gravy turns beige and loses that ivory look.
Bhopal was ruled for over a century by the Begums, and its Muslim kitchens developed their own style: earthier and more robust than the delicate cooking of Lucknow, with a liking for red chilli, roasted coriander and a thickening paste of dried coconut and poppy seeds. This mutton korma is the centrepiece of Eid lunches and nikah dinners in the old city around Chowk Bazaar, eaten with sheermal or khamiri roti. Compared with an Old Delhi chicken korma, it is darker, hotter and nuttier, and it's made with goat on the bone. Chef's tip: crush the fried onions roughly with your hands instead of blending them smooth; the little flecks of onion are part of the Bhopali texture.
In the Champaran district of north-west Bihar, near the Nepal border, mutton is cooked in an ahuna or handi: a clay pot packed with raw meat, whole bulbs of garlic, onions, mustard oil and spices, sealed shut with dough and left for hours on a slow charcoal fire. Nobody adds water and nobody stirs; the meat cooks in its own juices and the garlic turns soft and sweet. Roadside dhabas on the highways out of Motihari made it famous, and it is now cooked at family picnics and parties right across Bihar, eaten with rice or rotis. This home version uses a heavy pot sealed with foil and a lid. Chef's tip: shake the pot instead of opening it; every time the lid comes off, steam escapes and the meat dries out.
In Kolhapur, in the far south of Maharashtra, Sunday lunch at a khanaval (a family-run eating house) means mutton cooked one way and served two: a thin, blazing-red tambda rassa and a soothing white pandhra rassa made from the same stock. Diners sip the white one between spoonfuls of the red, with bhakri, rice and raw onion on the side. The heat comes from Kolhapur's own chilli blend and a dark-roasted coconut and onion masala. Chef's tip: roast the dried coconut and the onions until they are properly brown, almost mahogany; that roasting, not extra chilli, is what gives the rassa its deep colour and smoky taste.
Along the Malvan coast of Sindhudurg, kombdi vade is what families cook for a festive Sunday or for guests arriving by the morning bus from Mumbai. Kombdi is chicken, simmered in a gravy of roasted coconut and Malvani masala; vade are rice-flour breads fragrant with fennel that puff like balloons in hot oil. You tear the vade, dunk them in the curry and finish with a squeeze of lime and raw onion. Chef's tip: pat the vade on an oiled sheet of plastic or banana leaf rather than rolling them, and slide them into the oil straight away; thin, even discs puff best.
Bombay duck is not a duck at all but bombil, a soft, almost jelly-like fish landed in huge numbers at Sassoon Dock and the Koli fishing villages around Mumbai. Pressed flat, rubbed with chilli and rolled in semolina, it fries up with a shattering crust and a melting middle, and it turns up at Malvani restaurants and Koli homes as a starter or beside dal and rice. Chef's tip: press the opened fish under a weighted plate for 10 minutes before marinating; it squeezes out water so the crust stays crisp.
The Nattukottai Chettiar merchants of Karaikudi and the villages around it in southern Tamil Nadu built grand mansions on the spice trade, and their kitchens show it. Their chicken curry is built on a masala roasted and ground at home: dried red chillies, black pepper, fennel, star anise, coconut and the earthy lichen called kalpasi. It is hot, aromatic and deep brown, and in Chettinad it is eaten at Sunday lunch and festivals with rice, idiyappam or flaky parotta. Chef's tip: grind the roasted masala while it is still warm with a splash of water; the oils release and the paste comes out smooth.
Guntur district grows more red chilli than almost anywhere on earth, and Andhra home cooking wears that proudly. Kodi kura is the Sunday chicken curry of Andhra homes, from Vijayawada to the Rayalaseema villages: thick, red and properly hot, with a little ground poppy seed and coconut to round out the sauce. It is eaten with heaps of plain rice, a spoon of ghee and a bowl of rasam on the side, or with jowar rotis. Chef's tip: fry the masala until oil pools at the sides before adding any water; that is where the colour and flavour come from.
Along the coastal Andhra delta, where the Godavari meets the sea near Kakinada and Bhimavaram, prawns come in fresh every morning and often end up as iguru. The word means cooked down: the onion-chilli masala is reduced until it clings to the prawns, with only a spoonful of sauce left in the pan. It goes onto hot rice with ghee, alongside sambar or pappu, and is a favourite in Telugu homes on weekends. Chef's tip: cook the masala fully first and add the prawns only for the last few minutes, so they stay plump.
Hyderabad's biryani grew up in the kitchens of the Nizams, and the kacchi style is its proudest form: the chicken goes into the pot raw, in a thick yogurt, mint and fried-onion marinade, and cooks only in the steam trapped under part-cooked basmati. In the old city it is wedding and Eid food, ordered in huge copper deghs, and at home it's the Sunday showpiece, served with mirchi ka salan and a cooling raita. Because the meat cooks without being stirred, small bone-in thigh and drumstick pieces work best. Chef's tip: marinate overnight in the fridge — the yogurt tenderises the chicken and the flavours go right to the bone.
Lukhmi are Hyderabad's answer to the samosa: flat, square, crisp little pastries with a filling of spiced mutton keema, fork-crimped at the edges. In the Deccani homes of the old city they are a fixture of wedding dinners and the evening iftar table in Ramadan, and a plate of them often arrives with Irani chai at the city's old cafés. They can be shaped a day ahead and fried just before guests come. Chef's tip: cook the keema until completely dry and let it cool fully; a damp or warm filling makes the pastry burst in the oil.
Small seaside stalls at Corbyn's Cove and the fish shacks of Havelock fry the morning's catch this way: red snapper, mackerel or pomfret rubbed with a tangy paste of tamarind, chilli and garlic, dusted with rice flour and fried in a heavy pan until the edges blister. On the islands it is lunch with rice and dal, or a beach snack with onion rings and lime. It takes very little time, so cook it just before you eat. Chef's tip: dry the fish well with kitchen paper before the marinade goes on, so the paste sticks and the crust crisps.
In the Imphal Valley fish comes from Loktak Lake and the paddy-field ponds, and nga thongba is how most Meitei families cook it on an ordinary weekday. It is a thin, gently spiced curry with potatoes, finished with a big handful of herbs such as maroi nakupi (a local chive) and coriander, so it smells green and fresh. It is eaten with sticky or plain rice, alongside a chilli chutney. Chef's tip: lightly fry the fish first so it stays in neat pieces in the thin gravy.
Kacchi biryani is the wedding dish of Old Dhaka: at every Bangladeshi biye the huge copper pots come out, and the lanes around Nazira Bazar are famous for it. 'Kacchi' means raw: the mutton goes into the pot uncooked, marinated in yogurt and spices, under a layer of half-cooked aromatic rice and fried potatoes, and everything steams together for over an hour so the meat juices cook the rice. Serve it with borhani, the spiced yogurt drink, and a salad of sliced cucumber and onion. The common mistake is under-marinating or using lean meat cut too large; small pieces of shoulder with some fat, marinated overnight in the fridge, cook through in time. Chef's tip: seal the lid with a rope of dough; if no steam escapes, the meat at the bottom becomes tender without you ever opening the pot.
