So, really, what’s the big deal if you mix up some recipes and make a new one. The traditionalists condemn this bastardized version of food. I fucking love it. Take Chicken Manchurian, for example. It was probably invented by some Indian roadside cafeteria chef who’s son had come home from school the day before and shared his learnings of ancient China. “Manchuria”, our hero must’ve thought. That sounds nice. It sounds authentic. Let me take some Chinese-type ingredients like ginger and spring onions, throw in some chicken slices, add some paneer, and top it with sesame seeds. Voila! But, until some time ago, I thought it was some ancient Chinese recipe which, after having been kept secret for centuries, was stolen by white scoundrels who thought they’d make their money by printing recipe books, thus killing the whole Chinese monopoly on Chinese food. Pity.

I love the modern take on this kind of food. Fusion Cuisine, they say. Excellent. And let’s face it. Why not? It sounds way better than calling it bastardized or adulterated food, and plus, it is more in line with the flavors that it’s customers from a certain demographic can accustom themselves to. Like Thai food. Stuff cooked in fish sauce and peanut sauce can be pretty nasty. But bring on a French chef, get him to add some Parisian bling to it, and you have customers licking their chopsticks.

My Far Eastern friends don’t like it one bit. They’re a bit of a brotherhood. The Korean guy will defend all Far Eastern food, even Cambodian shit that looks like this. And they hate it when you confuse their noodles. Apparently, Japanese noodles, Chinese noodles, Korean noodles, Vietnamese noodles, Thai noodles, Singaporean noodles – all different. One of these guys, a Japanese bro, took me to a local sushi joint that he thought was (and I quote) “relatively at par” with authentic Japanese cooking. “But sushi’s raw, innit?” I queried. And he watched in abhorrence as I defined my favorite Japanese item as California Maki. “Is no oliginar Japanese, is Amelican” he said, trying to convince me, but I ordered it anyway. And it was not too great. I promised to take him to a place that serves the best Sushi/Sashimi/Maki/Bento in town. I swear to God, I’m not joking about this. It’s a place called China Times. They have a sushi bar. Live chef too.

That’s like redefining fusion food. And I loved it. He wouldn’t go with me, turning his face up in disgust. “Sushi no Chinese” he screamed, and I just sat there calmly watching this pale skinned bastard turn a shade of baby pink, as he mixed up his R’s and L’s. “All the same shit to me, man. If I don’t want noodles, I go for sticky rice. Fuck it”, I said, trying to calm him down. He left. Good times.

But nothing beats this. Try telling a Chinese guy that noodles were inspired by pasta, which Marco Polo (in his 20 year adoption period with Kublai Khan) introduced to the Chinese. It’ll drive them mad, because they think it’s the other way round.