Drying Roses, photo by Oziel Gómez

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Are You Crying Over Rose Petals?

by Arun Kapil

We live in the golden age of food fusion. From kimchi toasties to samosa tacos, the global pantry has never been more open. The streets of Cork, London, Birmingham and Dublin drip with imaginative remixes: tandoori chicken burgers, miso-butter pies, Thai curry scotch eggs. Bold cooks everywhere are shaking up heritage like a cocktail shaker. And honestly? I’m down with it. Most of it.

You ever seen sweet paprika flakes stand in for rose petals? I have. And I nearly wept. Too niche? This is not a story about snobbery. This is a story about substitution. About what happens when food traditions become marketing strategies, when cost-saving hacks quietly swap out culture for convenience, and no one blinks.

But there comes a moment, a subtle shift, when fusion becomes confusion. When remix turns into erasure. When cost-benefit logic trumps taste-memory and we start selling each other shadows of someone else’s childhood.

I had my moment in a quiet, spice-scented office in the Netherlands. I was working with a Dutch spice company, trying to scale up some of my blends. These weren’t just combinations of cumin and cardamom. They were deeply personal masalas, echoing the flavours of my youth. My grandmother’s hand-ground garam masala. The rose-scented biryanis of Lucknow. My Dad’s everyday Dahl.

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The company analysed the blends and came back with their optimisations: swap dried rose petals for sweet paprika flakes, they said. Replace black cardamom with mustard seeds. Not for taste reasons, but for supply chain efficiency. Cost. Colour. Market-readiness.

there comes a moment, a subtle shift, when fusion becomes confusion

They meant well. They just didn’t understand what I was bringing to the table. This wasn’t just business. This was a slow heartbreak. The same heartbreak you see when your Italian friend watches you snap spaghetti in half before it hits the water — like their whole face folds in on itself, betrayed by a thousand nonnas at once. Or when someone glugs olive oil into a mole poblano, smothering centuries of subtle depth in a slick Mediterranean shrug. Cream in risotto, sugar in salsa — all can turn a purist’s head. And not always without reason. But the spice company was used to working with conventional flavour houses. Clients who saw spice as a SKU (Shop Keeping Unit) not story. Their job was to make a viable product. Mine was to honour something older.

I refused their changes. Maybe naively. Maybe stubbornly. But I wasn’t going to sign-off on something that erased its own origin story. That moment opened my eyes. The industry had trained itself to reproduce the aesthetic of authenticity, not its essence. And worse: the public, fed on endless jars of ‘world flavours’ and boxed tikka masala, had stopped noticing.

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This is the crux of it. The difference between tastebud renegades and food pilots isn’t fusion itself. It’s the why behind it. This doesn’t mean we should bow at the feet of generational cooks, never daring to riff. Food evolves. It should. Dishes move, stretch, cross borders. But good evolution carries its past with care. Real change comes through sympathetic flavour — a deep understanding of texture, technique, memory. It’s not just about rules. It’s about resonance. Fashion will always flirt, but flavour must hold. If you mix black vinegar with mustard greens because the volatile oils kiss each other in the pan – great. But if you do it because both are trending on TikTok? That’s not fusion. That’s fashion. And fashion has a shorter shelf life than pickle oil.

Let’s get one thing clear: fusion is not the enemy.

Let’s get one thing clear: fusion is not the enemy. In fact, all food is fusion. Every cuisine is a story of travel, trade, colonisation, resistance, revival. The Portuguese brought chillies to India. The British brought kedgeree back. Biryani itself is a culinary hybrid, born of Central Asian technique and South Asian grain.

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So, let’s not punish curiosity. Let’s praise it. To cook from another culture is an act of bravery. To fail, spectacularly, is part of the learning. The first time you make dosa, it will stick. The first time you use tamarind, it might punch too hard. The first time you toast cumin, it might burn. Good. Try again.

But also: learn the logic behind the flavour. Ask why jaggery appears where it does. Taste the difference between black and green cardamom. Listen to cooks, aunties, uncles, street vendors. Google is not enough. Neither is ChatGPT. You want to use cotija in a Caesar salad? Fine. But don’t call it Caesar anymore — call it Julio and let it live its own life.

Because when fusion is done well, it sings. Take the ten-minute saag paneer I make with wilted Irish kale and other frozen greens, cooked in mustard oil, some spice and blitzed with a spoon of yoghurt. No cream, no stunt cheese. Just instinct and heat. A dish that didn’t come from a trend. It came from a Tuesday.

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Take the UK’s vibrant street food scene. Borough Market’s cobbles are crowded with thoughtful fusion: Sri Lankan hoppers filled with slow-braised Irish lamb; bánh mi with beetroot pickle and horseradish mayo. These aren’t gimmicks. They’re flavours with shared emotional logic. Acid and fat. Heat and crunch. Memory and imagination.

Food trucks are leading the way. In 2025, the trends are rich with possibility:

Korean BBQ tacos and Thai curry risotto blur the lines with umami brilliance.

Indian street food with swagger: butter chicken wings, chaat-in-a-cone, Balti-filled pies.

British fusion breakfasts: masala beans with fried eggs and paratha toast.

Latin-Asian crossovers: Argentinian ossobuco with Vietnamese pickles.

Middle Eastern fry-ups: za’atar-spiced fries, tahini drizzle, pomegranate crunch.

Emerging voices: Filipino adobo with Sichuan peppercorns, yuzu-slicked falafel.

These are the mash-ups that work because they respect the architecture of taste.

And restaurants are catching up. Places like The Double Red Duke in the Cotswolds are serving fire-charred vegetables with miso glazes and ghee rubs. Quo Vadis in Soho riffs on European classics with gentle nods to other shores. And, closer to home in County Cavan, Virginia Park Lodge is hosting festivals where local produce meets diasporic technique.

Richard Corrigan calls it “HOMEGROWN” – a celebration of terroir and tradition, with firepits, hands-on classes, and a spirit of shared nourishment. This is what I call forward cooking. Not trend-chasing. Not spreadsheet fusion. But sympathetic, sensory-led experimentation.

Cooking with your hands and your head and your heart. Because let’s be honest: there are still too many shortcuts in the name of spice. Too many jars labelled ‘authentic’ that taste like compromise. Too many mass-market blends made by people who’ve never crushed cumin or stood at the stove, waiting for the oil to whisper. Too many substitutions made without understanding the emotional freight a single spice can carry.

So what do we do?

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The problem is not that we’re mixing. The problem is that we’ve stopped asking why. We’ve mistaken aesthetic for authenticity. We’ve stopped being brave enough to taste properly, to study, to fail, to listen.

We cook with intent. We fuse with purpose. We taste with respect. We mess up, learn, and try again. We swap, yes – but never blindly. We ask: does this substitution enhance the flavour? Does it honour the logic of the dish? Would the person who first made this recipe recognise its bones? And if the answer is no? We pause. We open the spice tin again. We begin from flavour, not fashion.

To cook another culture’s food is not appropriation. It is not theft. It is an invitation. But it comes with responsibility. It demands more than a twist of lime and a trending hashtag. It demands care. Curiosity. Reverence. Realness.

So go ahead. Be a food pilot. Chart a new path. Remix that risotto. Stuff that taco. Drizzle that hot honey over paneer. But cook like someone’s grandmother is watching. Or better yet, like your own tastebuds are still learning how to listen.

Because bold is beautiful. But real? Real tastes better.

My monthly recipe for July….

Walnut & Celery Leaf Risotto (with Asafoetida Swagger)

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Risottos and asafoetida both divide the room. One’s too French, too faffy or Italian and overly intimate? The other’s too funky, too weird. So naturally, I threw them together. And you know what? They love each other. That pungent onion-garlic nose of pure asafoetida resin melts beautifully into the buttery rice, while celery leaf and walnut oil keep it sharp and grounded. Serve molten, not stiff. Eat hot, not polite. Let the flavour punch.

First, make your acidulated butter. Shallots and white wine vinegar get simmered down till they whisper, then beaten with cold butter until glossy and gloriously wrong. Freeze it in cubes – punk mise en place. Then sweat chopped shallots, garlic and celery leaf in a splash of olive oil and butter until the scent turns you emotional. Add risotto rice – Arborio or Carnaroli, your choice – and stir until the grains start snapping – that’s starch waking up. In with a handy pinch of asafoetida (pure resin if you can) and let the funk bloom.

Now feed the rice, ladle by ladle, with hot stock – chicken if you’re feeling classic, veg if you’re not. No floods. Stir like you mean it. When the rice is near-done but still has teeth, fold in that acidulated butter and a big handful of grated parmesan. A splash more stock – it should ripple like lava, not stand like porridge. Let it sit, lid half on, for three minutes. Plate while molten. Strew with celery leaves. Splash of walnut oil. Serve with a bitter green salad and a punk grin.

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Arun Kapil, Food Editor of AN Editions, an punk food poet, founded and owns a spice company, Green Saffron Spices. He works sustainably direct with partner farms mainly to the west and north of India and some in the south. He works directly from source. He owns total chain of custody, depleting links in the chain, bringing direct line of sight to fields of cultivation. Arun and his partner Olive began by selling one or two sachets a week of bespoke blends with accompanying recipes at a farmers market stall in Mahon Point, Cork. They now sell spices and seasonings to globally based blue chips, onward food processors and are just in the throes of re-launching their brand, based on Modern India meal solutions, sauces, spice blends, naan, condiments and basmati. They started the business boot-strapping from the bottom up, managed with a good deal of jugaard. He considers himself to be a masaalchi and at best a khansama supported by a strong network of Irish, Indian and British agri-experts and businessmen.