Run, Butter Chicken, Run!

How One Dish Took Over the World While the Rest of Indian Cuisine Watched in Silence

India’s diversity is unparalleled—a vast, bewildering mosaic of languages, cultures, dynasties, and cuisines that have simmered together over millennia. It is a country where the past and present coexist in delicious chaos—where the warmth of Kashmiri kahwa shares space with coconut-laden rasam, where Punjabi ghee-laden rotis sit beside the delicate sharpness of Bengali mustard curry. The Mauryas and Guptas shaped philosophy and science, the Cholas left behind poetry in stone, and the Mughals? They left behind a culinary legacy so rich, so intricate, that it demands reverence.

And then came the British.

I’m Sarah—someone standing at the edge of university life, with a camera, some scraps of inspiration, and a head full of stories. If you're into design, writing, or figuring things out as you go, I’d love your company (and your feedback!) on this unfolding journey.

Our last colonial masters were not known for their love of bold flavours, nor did they possess the patience to decode the intricate layers of Indian cooking. Instead, they seemed determined to simplify, tame, and—heaven forbid—sweeten it to suit their palates. And perhaps, amidst this great culinary tragedy, butter chicken emerged—an accidental ambassador of Indian cuisine to the Western world.

I sometimes imagine the scene: a weary Indian chef in the service of an English officer, exhausted from yet another evening of explaining that no, not every curry sets one’s mouth ablaze, and yes, Indian food extends beyond spice and rice. Resigned, he concocts a dish so mellow, so impossibly creamy, that it could be served alongside tea-time scones with clotted cream and jam. The officer takes a bite, his face lights up, and just like that, a perfectly inoffensive, mildly sweet dish is anointed as India’s greatest culinary export.

I boast about my mother’s mastery of Indian cuisine. What do my North American friends eagerly shout? “We love Indian food! Butter chicken, right?” As inevitable as a ‘chai tea’ order at a coffee shop, as persistent as a mispronounced ‘naan bread.’

The one they have been told is the beginning and end of Indian cuisine, the flag-bearer of a civilization that predates most of their own. Thick, orange, vaguely sweet. Mild enough to offend no one, dramatic enough in colour to seem “authentic.” A dish that, in the grand scheme of Indian cooking, barely qualifies as a footnote.

And yet, this treacherous little dish refused to stay in its lane. Somehow, in the grand court of global gastronomy, butter chicken emerged as the undisputed ruler of Indian cuisine, overshadowing the fiery complexity of Hyderabadi Biryani, the delicate brilliance of Lucknowi Galawati Kabab, or the comforting embrace of a perfectly fermented dosa. Butter chicken became the thing, the lazy shorthand for everything Indian, as if centuries of culinary brilliance could be distilled into one bowl of mildly spiced tomato cream.

The Great Butter Chicken Takeover

I blame its adaptability. Butter chicken doesn’t challenge; it coddles. It doesn’t provoke the senses; it soothes them into submission. It is, in essence, Indian food with training wheels—a dish so disarmingly accommodating that even those who fear cumin find solace in its bland embrace. A gateway dish, if you will, designed to lure the hesitant into the broader world of Indian cuisine, only for them to stop at the gate, unwilling to wander further.

To My People—The Indians:

We have all been unwitting accomplices to this great culinary hijacking. Yes, our food is complex, varied, and deeply rooted in history, but we, too, have surrendered to the easy sell. We have pandered, we have simplified, we have let butter chicken become the mascot of a cuisine that spans thousands of years and countless traditions.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped insisting that the world experience the depth of our flavours and settled for giving them what they found comfortable. Do better. Demand better. Next time you introduce someone to Indian cuisine, don’t take the easy route. Lead them past the butter chicken.

To My Friends and Neighbors—The White Folks:

A famous Indian dish was the most popular item ordered by Canadians on the SkipTheDishes app this year. Any guesses? I’ll spare you the suspense—it was butter damn chicken. A dish so agreeable it asks nothing of you—no spice tolerance, no acquired taste, no effort to appreciate its complexity.

So the next time you find yourself at an Indian restaurant, faced with the inevitable butter chicken recommendation, pause. Ask yourself—is this really the best India has to offer? Because somewhere, in a kitchen filled with the scent of slow-roasted spices, a Mughal courtier, a South Indian spice trader, and a Bengali grandmother are wondering—how did it come to this?

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PS:

Are you orbiting endlessly in the Butter Chicken galaxy, or have you dared to explore the vast universe of Indian flavours? Drop your answers in the comments!

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PPS:

Now that I’ve gotten my butter chicken grievances off my chest, and yes, I do feel relieved and a little avenged, it’s only fair I offer something better in return. My humble contribution to the global rescue mission: Saffron Chicken.

And, in a strange twist of fate, I have butter chicken to thank. That fiery frustration was the spark behind something new on this Substack: Dishlore, a section where food gets a backstory, not just a recipe. Here’s the little origin story that started it all…

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