The Indian Mustard that Deserves a Spot in Your Pantry
Kasundi-making is a specialised skill that people treated with deference. Theresa Varghese writes about the history of this beloved Bengali store cupboard staple.
On a warm summer evening, walking the busy streets of Tollygunge, I passed a crowd in front of a small shop, gesturing and talking animatedly.
I paused to take in the scene. Demanding customers called out their orders, asking for a little more of this and a little less of that. Men in damp banians sat around vats of boiling oil, others dished out the food. I glanced at the fare – noodles, parathas, kebabs, fish. Everything looked a bit greasy. But the customers seemed to relish it all; chowmein with specks of carrot and spring onion, glistening parathas, crumb-coated fish.
One of the men picked up a thick fillet of fish, slicked in marinade, dunked it into a bowl of beaten egg, dredged it through plate of breadcrumbs and deftly slid it into a waiting wok of hot oil. The fish was deep fried for less than a minute, with several expert flips. When he gently lifted the fillet from the wok, the crust was a dark shade of brown; I hoped it was cooked through, but didn’t dare voice my apprehension.
“Ekhane khabe?” Despite my limited knowledge of Bengali, I nodded and mimed to go.
Back home at my flat, where I was babysitting my granddaughter, I unwrapped the parcel carefully onto a plate. Along with the fish there was a pouch of finely shredded cabbage and onion, and a packet of yellow paste speckled with black. I broke off a piece and popped it into my mouth. It was perfectly cooked; a soft flaky interior offset by a beautifully crisp crumb, fried to exactly the right degree. The seasoning was spot on: tangy and fresh from the lime and coriander.
I tried a bite with salad: great crunch, plenty of texture. Then I added a smidgen of the yellow paste to a piece of fish. It felt like a brilliant symphony had come together; mellow fish complemented perfectly by piquant mustard. The only thought running through my head as I cleaned out the plate was, Why have I not tasted this before?
I have tasted mustard of course – sweet American mustard in squeeze bottles at burger cafes, and bland English mustard spread on sandwiches. Occasionally, I’ve dipped hors d’oeuvres at fancy parties into French mustard and appreciated its subtle bite. But now, I say: sing your paeans to Dijon if you must, but it comes a far second to kasundi. If the French call that sacrilege, imagine what my Bengali daughter-in-law’s family said when they learnt this was my first taste of kasundi!
Pagol na mathakharop? You need an education. Ekkhuni! Immediately.
Kasundi is pungent and grainy, used as both an ingredient and condiment.
Image credit Dada’s chops
The rest of my trip involved being plied by well-meaning family, with delicious snacks accompanied by kasundi. I learnt that outside the villages, hardly anyone makes kasundi at home anymore. Kasundi-making is a specialised skill that people treated with deference. In my daughter-in-law’s family it was the prerogative of her grand-aunt. She remembers watching her wash and sun-drying the mustard seeds, before grinding into a thick paste with green chillies and spices. This was then was bottled and left out on the terrace to ferment, sealed with a muslin cloth at the mouth. This fermentation process, and the spices used, are what cause variations in taste from household to household. Some homes use about 10 kinds of spices, other use up to 15. And experience mattered; the spicing had to be perfect, or everything could go awry.
Celebrated and revered in Bengali cuisine, there was a time when only Brahmins could prepare kasundi; specifically, Brahmin men. Women would wash and dry the seeds, but preparing the kasundi was done exclusively by men. Kasundi was also the preserve of the wealthy, which is not surprising since the mustard seed is an expensive commodity. Because of this exclusivity, elaborate rituals surrounded the making of kasundi. It would be made only during the first month of the Bengali calendar, which coincided with the harvesting of mustard. More troublingly, those considered to be impure, such as menstruating women or widows, were not allowed to touch the pots kept for fermentation. The choice of foods that accompany kasundi were stir-fried greens and steaming hot rice, not ‘polluting’ foods like meat, fish or eggs.
But as times changed and as social reforms came into force, these patriarchal, exclusionary rituals slowly faded. In many households, women took over the preparation – although in several families, the Brahmin male was retained for ceremonial acts like lighting the fire before cooking. When women began working outside the home, kasundi-making became a memory for most families. But just as with pickle-making, commerce stepped into the picture, and people were ready to pay for bottles of kasundi. When hotels began offering fried fish, devilled eggs and mutton chops with the sauce, yet another purist culinary tradition saw its end.
Kasundi’s popularity soon travelled outside the state of Bengal. International chefs now use kasundi as an ingredient in their dishes. But a Bengali purist will tell you that kasundi is strongest as a condiment, used sparingly. A little bit goes a long way.
Despite the plethora of companies selling kasundi in Kolkata, I could not find it when I returned home to Bangalore. At supermarkets, I found expensive imported varieties; most hadn’t even heard of Indian mustard. When I finally found a bottle, my relief was so profound, you wouldn’t have believed that until a few months ago, I hadn’t even heard of kasundi. But it is now a permanent fixture in my pantry. When I want an effortless meal, I simply marinate a slice of fish in lemon juice, salt and pepper, shallow fry it and smile, reaching for the wonderful sauce that will elevate my simple fare to great heights.
Theresa Varghese is passionate about history and culture, likes observing people and writing about food. Her socio historical food book Cuisine Kerala is available on amazon.in
Banner image by Rakshita Mittal.
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