Fusion food is supposed to be a bold culinary mash-up where tastes, textures, and colours collide to create something fresh and exciting. But Indian chefs seem to have lost the plot, taking it upon themselves to ruin the classics in the name of gastronomic creativity. Let’s face it – Gulab jamun tiramisu isn’t the culinary innovation you think it is. And neither are the chicken gujiyas and avant-garde pani puris. As Gordon Ramsay once put it, “don’t ever deconstruct if you can’t even construct”. Some things are just better left in their lane.
Last weekend, a friend of mine flew in from London, and we hit up a swanky spot in Connaught Place. The vibe was right, and the food was even better. Truffle mushroom and cheese-stuffed naan, mushroom tacos, and fiery chicken wings that could make your taste buds do a happy dance.
The bar menu had martinis that could rival James Bond’s, and the ‘Old Fashioned’ whisky cocktail was so smooth that it felt like velvet in a glass.
But then, we got to the dessert menu, where I chanced upon the Gulab jamun tiramisu. My inner foodie was torn. A part of me wanted to bolt for the door, but the other half felt adventurous. The restaurant had nailed everything else, how bad could this be?
When it arrived, it looked like a dessert that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be Indian or Italian. A lonely gulab jamun buried under a mountain of whipped cream and pistachios, dusted with cocoa powder that barely lent any flavour. Of course, one bite in and I was reconsidering every life choice that led me to that confusing spoonful.
As if street food vendors weren’t enough, with their ice cream dosa, Oreo biscuit pakora, dal rice sushi, chocolate momo and fruit chai.
Enough with fusion
The fusion food trend kicked off in gourmet kitchens and spread like wildfire. Now, it’s everywhere—from casual diners and bistros to cafes and even food trucks. They all want in on the action, creating chaotic food combinations people are better off without.
Take the momo burger. A popular fast-food chain thought they’d give this combination a whirl, but ended up with a Dabeli that’s trying too hard. It’s fusion for the sake of fusion, and that just doesn’t work.
Then there’s the vodka pani puri, which I found to be a quirky delight when I first tried it in Bengaluru. It was spicy and tangy with a vodka kick that oddly worked. But trying it in Delhi was a completely different story. The flavours just fell flat.
Not that Bengaluru restaurants don’t have their fair share of disgustingly bizarre fusion foods. One pub in Indira Nagar serves pani puri stuffed with minced beef or chicken, soaked in a mutton broth. It sounds ambitious, but honestly, a dim sum would’ve been a better carrier for such rich flavours. And then there’s the coconut pani puri in Rajaji Nagar, which simply strips the humble dish of its original charm.
Meanwhile, In Noida’s Sector 135, a Bollywood actor recently opened a restaurant with a fusion-heavy menu. You’ve got three-cheese chicken and avocado papdi chaat, and butter chicken gujiya. Sounds delicious, but far from it in real life.
The tiny gujiyas I tried there were stuffed with bone-dry marinated chicken. Sure, the butter chicken gravy on the side was fantastic—so good, in fact, I wanted to bottle it. But there was barely enough to salvage the dish. After a couple of bites, I was left with bland, flaky pastry and no gravy to save me.
I love a good culinary experiment and am all for pushing my taste buds to their limit. But some things, like my darling tiramisu and the evergreen gulab jamun, should just be left alone. Gulab jamun tiramisu is perverse, and fusion is fun until it seriously messes with your favourite food.
Views are personal.
(Edited by Zoya Bhatti)