I am Father Sebastian Mundackal, a Catholic priest from Kerala, India, living the past 18 years in the U.S. Currently I serve the people of God at St. Monica and St. Richard Parishes in the St. Louis area.
Every now and then, after Mass or during a parish gathering, someone comes up to me with a big smile and says, “Father, I just love Indian food!”
I always smile back. Sometimes I even nod enthusiastically. Appreciation should never be discouraged. But inside, I am quietly amused — because that simple sentence carries one of the biggest misunderstandings in the world of food.
There is, quite honestly, no such thing as Indian food.
That may sound surprising, especially coming from someone born and raised in India and now living in the United States for nearly seventeen years. During these years, one of the most common questions I am asked — at parish dinners, school events, or casual conversations — is about Indian food: Is it spicy? Is it vegetarian? Is it heavy? Is it all the same?
Those questions come from genuine curiosity, and I welcome them. But they also reveal how easily a vast and ancient culture gets compressed into a single label.
India is not one culture, one language, or one way of life. India is a union of states, regions, districts, towns, villages, and communities — each with its own history and habits. Food in India is not a national idea; it is a deeply local reality. It changes as you travel. Sometimes it changes every few hundred miles. Sometimes it changes when you cross a river. Sometimes it changes when you enter the next village.
In America, travel often brings comfort through familiarity. You can cross several states and still enjoy a familiar hamburger, steak, or sandwich. The taste remains mostly predictable. In India, travel does the opposite. The moment you cross from one state to another, the plate changes. The grain changes. The spices change. The cooking method changes. Even the meaning of a “meal” changes.
Food in India depends on who is cooking, where they come from, what grows in that land, what season it is, and whom they are feeding. A mother cooking for children will cook differently than for guests. Food prepared for elders will be gentler. Festival food will be richer. Every day food will be simple and nourishing. There is no single standard — only relationships.
Geography alone explains a lot. In regions where wheat grows well, bread becomes central. Where monsoon rains bless the fields, rice takes pride of place. Coastal areas cook naturally with fish and seafood. Inland regions rely more on lentils, vegetables, and grains. Hot climates use spices not only for flavor but also for digestion and health. Cooler regions prefer slower, heartier cooking.
So even before taste enters the conversation, we must admit that India cannot have just one cuisine. And the title you often see, “Indian restaurant,” is very shallow and deceiving.
Northern India developed foods shaped by centuries of cultural exchange, including Persian and Mughal influences. Clay ovens, slow cooking, layered gravies, and rich textures became part of that regional identity. When Indian restaurants first appeared outside India — especially in Europe and North America — it was largely this northern, restaurant-style cooking that traveled first.
Then Indian food came into the soil of USA with Immigration of Indian communities.
As Indian food found its place here, it naturally adapted to the American palate. Spices were softened. Cream and butter became more generous. Sweetness increased. Dishes were standardized so people would know what to expect wherever they went. This was not deception; it was adaptation. Every cuisine does this when it migrates. Italian food in America is not the same as Italian food in Italy, and that does not make it dishonest.
But over time, this adapted, North Indian–style restaurant food came to represent all of India in the American imagination. One menu began to tell the story of an entire civilization.
South India alone tells a completely different story. Tamil Nadu’s food centers on rice, lentils, fermented batters, and tangy flavors. Andhra and Telangana cuisines are bold, confident, and famously spicy chilies are not optional there. Karnataka’s food balances sweetness and spice with quiet elegance. Kerala, though geographically small, contains extraordinary diversity. Food changes from one district to another. Coastal kitchens cook differently from those in the hills. Christian, Muslim, and Hindu households may use similar ingredients—coconut, curry leaves, mustard seeds, black pepper—yet arrive at very different dishes.
And even here, there is no single rule.
Kerala food is often described simply as “coconut-based,” but that description barely touches the truth. Coconut can be fresh, roasted, ground, fermented, or pressed into oil—each creating a distinct flavor. Some dishes are mild and aromatic. Others are fiery. Which one you encounter depends entirely on who is cooking and where they are from.
This brings us to the most common question Americans ask: Is Indian food spicy? The honest Indian answer is simple: It depends.
It depends on the region.
It depends on the cook.
It depends on the occasion.
It even depends on who is sitting at the table.
In India, spice is not a competition. It is a conversation. Food is adjusted for children, elders, guests, seasons, and health. What is “mild” for one family may be “very spicy” for another. There is no universal scale.
So, when someone eats one curry and decides they now understand Indian food, it is like visiting one parish and claiming to understand the entire Church.
None of this is meant to criticize Indian restaurants or those who enjoy them. Appreciation is always welcome. What we are gently questioning is the label. When everything is called “Indian food,” the beautiful diversity of India disappears.
There is a better and more honest way — and it is more joyful.
Imagine walking into a restaurant and being told:
“This is Punjabi food.”
“This is Kerala-style cooking.”
“This is Andhra cuisine.”
“This comes from Tamil Nadu.”
Suddenly, food becomes a story, not just a dish.
So, the next time you visit an Indian restaurant, here are a few friendly questions you might ask — not to challenge, but to discover:
Where is this food from?
Which region or state does it represent?
Who taught you to cook this way?
Is this home-style food or a restaurant-style adaptation?
How would this taste if it were cooked in a family kitchen?
If those questions are difficult to answer, that itself tells us something.
India does not need to be simplified to be enjoyed. Its food carries memory — of land and rain, faith and family, feast and fasting, ordinary days and great celebrations. There is no single Indian food — only many Indian foods, each worthy of being named and respected.
So let me end with a loving — but honest — confession, offered with a smile and deep affection: there is no such thing as Indian food. There is only food cooked by someone, from somewhere, shaped by the land they grew up on, the family that formed them.