Curry, that shapeshifting desi traveller, has never needed a passport. It has crossed oceans in the holds of trading ships, followed colonial soldiers across continents and, over centuries, learned to speak in many accents. Wherever it arrived, it listened first—absorbing the rhythm of new kitchens, the temperament of new ingredients—until its voice softened and blended perfectly with its surroundings.
Colonial vestige
Katsu Kare |
In Japan, it arrived through the polite formality of empire, carried by the British Navy via India in the late nineteenth century. There it shed its fire and donned a gentler hue. The result was katsu kare: a golden, breaded pork cutlet served over rice and smothered in thick, caramel-brown sauce. Slightly sweet, faintly spiced and gloriously comforting, it is now the taste of childhood lunches and weekday suppers, eaten as naturally as noodles or miso soup. What began as a colonial import ended up becoming a national embrace.
Thousands of kilometres away, in the Philippines, the word “kare” still lingers, though the dish has evolved into something utterly its own. Kare-kare is a luxurious stew of oxtail, tripe and vegetables steeped in a peanut-thick gravy, served with pungent bagoong, or fermented shrimp paste. Its history is as layered as its flavour: some trace it to pre-colonial exchanges with South Asia, others to Indian soldiers who stayed behind under Spanish rule. Whatever its true beginning, the dish now anchors family celebrations. One can call it a slow-simmered bridge between continents, softened by crushed peanuts and nostalgia.
Northern delights
Curry Chips |
Further north, Denmark tells its own quiet curry tale. Here, amid the rye bread and pickled fish, curry found a friend in the Baltic herring. Karrysild—herring tossed with curry mayonnaise, apples and pickled red onions—has been part of Danish tables for over a century. The first tins of curry powder reached Copenhagen in the early 1900s, courtesy of British trade, and soon the bright yellow spice found its way into this most Nordic of combinations. On a grey winter afternoon, the creamy warmth of karrysild tastes like sunlight preserved in a jar, proof that comfort can travel farther than one might think.
In Korea, curry took an altogether modern turn. Arriving through Japanese influence in the 1960s, it found its voice in the quick comfort of curry ramyeon—instant noodles steeped in fragrant, mild broth. For generations raised on convenience and speed, these curling strands became a small daily ritual: a whiff of spice in a bowl of ease. Over time, Koreans began to embellish it by adding vegetables, cheese, or beef, to make it their own. Today, curry ramyeon feels as Korean as kimchi, its foreign ancestry tucked quietly into the folds of familiarity.
And then there is Britain, where curry has been naturalised for so long that it feels like part of the weather. Beyond the much-discussed chicken tikka masala lies the humbler, more democratic delight of curry chips: thick-cut, deep-fried potatoes bathed in warm, gently spiced sauce and eaten from cardboard trays after closing time. Born in the mid-twentieth century, when Indian and Chinese immigrants opened fish-and-chip shops and mingled traditions, curry chips became the edible shorthand for a nation’s multicultural comfort.
Curry saga
Curry Chips |
Across these far-flung places, curry tells the same story in different voices: one of adaptation and affection. In Japan, it is nostalgia; in the Philippines, celebration; in Denmark, warmth against the cold; in Korea, quick solace; in Britain, late-night camaraderie. It carries echoes of empire and migration, but also of resilience and reinvention.
Curry herring |
Food historians might trace its routes on colonial maps, but perhaps curry’s greatest legacy lies in its humility. The way it listens, learns and lingers. Somewhere, a sailor’s stew becomes a student’s supper; a royal dish becomes street food. Each spoonful is a record of movement, of spices that refused to stay still.
Curry, in the end, is less a recipe than a traveller’s instinct: to arrive, adapt, and belong. Whether bubbling in a Tokyo kitchen, spooned over herring in Copenhagen or ladled onto chips in Liverpool, it reminds the world that flavour, like people, thrives when it crosses borders.
