Article by ICG member Aakanksha Haran
In the quiet warmth of British kitchens, where rain softly taps windowpanes and the kettle’s
whistle breaks the morning silence, a deeper story simmers alongside the aroma of spices, pots
of dal, and masala chai. For South Asians in the UK- Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis food is
more than sustenance. It is a memory machine and a cultural anchor. Each fragrant dish evokes
bustling markets back home, family mealtimes around steel thalis, and the laughter of festivals
under monsoon skies. As detailed in the 2025 Smart Move Ventures research, new settlers often
find themselves overwhelmed not just by logistics, but by longing: calling mothers for recipes,
craving smells of home. In these kitchens, food is memory stirred into motion, spooned gently
over rice, steeped in tea, and sizzled in mustard oil. The clatter of pans becomes a language of
connection, of holding on, of quietly saying, ‘I haven’t let go.’
The first waves of South Asian immigrants arrived post-Windrush, during the 1950s and 60s,
amid Britain’s call for post-war labour. These pioneers came with grit, resilience and spice tins
tucked tightly in luggage. The UK Home Office acknowledges that over half a million people from
the Indian subcontinent settled in the UK between 1950 and 1980. At that time, British high
streets offered little beyond bland canned goods. Familiar ingredients like ajwain or curry leaves
were rare finds. Today, however, the contrast is striking. Back home, buying spices was often a
visit to a bustling bazaar; a dance of voices, colours, scoops of turmeric and Kashmiri chilli
weighed by hand. In the UK, South Asians now make weekly pilgrimages to Asian supermarkets
and local stores like Soho Road’s spice shops or use online platforms stocked with brands like
MDH, Rajah, or Shan. What was once hand-packed in cloth sacks is now clicked into digital
baskets. Yet, the search is still sacred. Each spice bought is a thread in the fabric of cultural
preservation.
Over time, South Asian food in the UK evolved from survival fare to shared celebration. Across
temples, mosques, and gurdwaras, flavours once confined to separate states and sects began
mingling. A Tamil sambhar might now sit beside Punjabi chole at community potlucks. The SMV
study found that while Bangladeshis missed fish curries and Pakistanis longed for biryani, all
turned to food during festivals to feel whole. In these kitchens, identity is not static; it simmers,
blends, and binds. And this isn’t a one-way street. Increasingly, British families are embracing
this culinary heritage. Chicken tikka masala, once dubbed Britain’s national dish, now shares
space with regional delicacies in high-street supermarkets. From tea lattes to biryani meal kits,
South Asian flavours are being folded into the British palate, and with it, a deeper appreciation
for the stories behind the food.
For the children and grandchildren of migrants, the kitchen has become a bridge between two
worlds. These generations, raised with roti in lunchboxes and shepherd’s pie at school dinners,
are not merely inheriting recipes but they are remixing them. The SMV report spotlights dishes
like “masala mac and cheese,” “cardamom-infused Victoria sponge cakes,” and “samosa
burgers” as acts of cultural creativity. One participant recall, “I FaceTime my mum while making
dal, and then finish it off with a fried egg of my version.” These mashups are not signs of dilution,
but declarations of ownership. The younger generation plates are palimpsests, layered with
memory, innovation, and identity. The act of cooking is no longer just remembrance, it is
Yet amid all this innovation, the emotional pull of heritage food remains unshaken. In the SMV
research, homesickness was most profoundly tied to taste. The scent of ghee, the snap of cumin
seeds in hot oil are not mere ingredients, they are portals. Government initiatives like the UK’s
Community Integration Grants have recognized this, funding kitchens and food festivals that
bring people together across differences. In multicultural hubs like Birmingham or Leicester,
where according to the 2021 Census, over 40% of the population identifies as Asian, and food
has become a shared language, not just within the diaspora but across communities. In these
places, South Asian food no longer whispers from the margins, but it speaks proudly from street
corners, school canteens, and Sunday markets.
Food’s emotional charge extends beyond nostalgia, it nourishes selfhood. In a world rushing
toward convenience, slow-cooked dal is rebellion. According to SMV data, even highly
assimilated professionals like doctors, engineers, researchers cling to culinary rituals passed
down generations. Lunchboxes are packed with care, and recipes are kept in WhatsApp
messages and memory. With the rise of home-based businesses, many South Asian migrants
have turned cooking into livelihood: over 12,000 South Asian food businesses are now registered
in the UK (UK Business Statistics, 2023). These ventures include catering services, spice sellers,
sweet makers who are both economic engines and cultural beacons. They tell a simple truth that
food sustains more than bodies, it sustains legacies.
And so, in every lovingly packed tiffin, in every chai brewed at dusk, a story is being retold- a
story of departure, longing, reinvention, and quiet pride. The British kitchen has become a stage
for memory and imagination, where naan meets Nutella, and curry simmers beside casseroles.
It is here, in the stir of a ladle or the soft press of dough, that migrants reconcile heritage with
home. As one participant said, “Cooking makes me feel I’m still me, even here.” It’s a reminder
that home is not always a place; it can be a smell, a taste, a ritual. And in a land where the rain
through every lovingly cooked meal.
Sources:
SMV 2025 research report
https://old.causewaycoastandglens.gov.uk/
https://www.ons.gov.uk/
https://www.cityoflondon.gov.uk/