On a warm summer afternoon in 2021, I caught the ‘crazy about aglio olio’ bug. After years of pondering over the million-dollar foodie question we all wrestle with, ‘what’s the one dish you could eat for the rest of your life?’ I had my answer. Spaghetti aglio olio.
But the real surprise wasn’t the pasta. It was me, happily munching on golden, crispy garlic without the usual wrinkled nose or dramatic sigh. Growing up, I wasn’t a fan of garlic on its own. I grew up slathering my mum’s punchy green chutney, heavy on the garlic, into parathas and happily binging on her signature desi-Chinese dishes. But when it came to the visible bits? Hard pass. I’d carefully pick out chunks from the red chilli tadka that came with pithla or bury it under rice in palak and methi sabzis. Watching me exile it to the edges of my plate, my grandmother and father would seize the opportunity for a mini health TED Talk—how garlic boosts immunity, reduces inflammation, and helps your heart. But my teenage self wasn’t buying it. I couldn’t get past the pungency, the chewy texture, the way it hijacked my taste buds.
And yet, there I was in 2021, twirling spaghetti and chasing crunchy olive oil-fried garlic bits around my plate. That’s when it hit me—maybe it wasn’t a sudden change. Maybe my love for garlic had been simmering quietly all along, infused into the food I’d grown up eating, waiting patiently to be noticed.
Garlic was never introduced to me boldly or with any special fanfare. It was just always there, in the chutneys, the curries and the ginger-garlic paste that showed up in our meals as frequently as salt. In a Maharashtrian kitchen like ours, garlic isn’t just an ingredient. It’s part of the family. If onions are the supporting actor, garlic is the dramatic, scene-stealing lead. And while a lot of Indian food in general is garlic-rich—hello, tadka, pickles, and chutneys—Maharashtrian cuisine lets garlic really flex. Take thecha, for instance. Remember that fiery green or red chutney that everyone suddenly got obsessed with after Malaika Arora shared her thecha paneer recipe? It’s been a staple in my house for years. Exclusively reserved for those with a high spice tolerance, it’s a no-nonsense garlic-chilli punch to the tastebuds. In Malvani cuisine, too, whether it’s chicken or fish curry, garlic doesn’t just participate, it dominates along with the coconut and fiery malvani masala.
But if I had to pick the garlic moment that changed the game for me, it would be my dad’s red lasun chutney. He makes it in batches, stores it in recycled jam jars, and it’s been a fridge staple for as long as I can remember.. Even today, a jar sits quietly at the back, waiting to be called upon to jazz up a dosa or uttapam, to be spread generously on breakfast burgers, or to lend a fiery kick to a humble roti-sabzi lunch.
You’ll find it tangled in all the pop-cultural food moments we love. It’s in the mayonnaise we dunk truffle fries into, the burnt garlic fried rice we order with extra manchurian, and the vada pav that’s nothing without a generous smear of red lasun chutney. It’s also trending content now. Sexy cooking ASMR content. Think slow-roasted garlic confit, honey-glazed cloves, fermented black garlic, or aioli whipped to silk. It tops every sourdough slice on the ‘gram and floats in buttery ramen bowls on food blogs.
Garlic never tries to play nice. It doesn’t blend into the background. It makes your breath smell like you’ve been growing a garlic plant in your gut. It’s like that friend who shows up to a party in neon and still manages to steal the show.
In a world that’s constantly asking us to tone it down and be palatable, garlic puts its foot down. It stands its ground and makes its presence known in both subtle and bold, fiery ways. And maybe that’s why I love it so much. It is an unexpected role model that teaches you to make your own way, retain your uniqueness and leave a sometimes pungent but always unforgettable taste in times where everyone wants us to conform to what’s acceptable.
So here’s to garlic. The original flavour bomb. The heart of every great masala. The reason I carry mint in my bag and still risk it every time. May you always burn just a little in the pan. May your smell forever cling to our fingers. And may you never, ever be replaced by ginger.
