Bombay’s food history is immense—joyously sprawling, layered with centuries of migration, and shaped by communities who brought their flavours from every corner of India and the world. Pronoti Datta, in her book In the Beginning There Was Bombay Duck, weaves together legend, folklore, trade, politics, and the irrepressible spirit of a city that has always eaten with gusto. The narrative carries the reader from the 13th century to the present day, offering a sensorial journey where Koli masalas brush against beef stroganoff and the scent of drying bombil, sukat, and sode lingers like an ever-present sea breeze.
The book opens in 1534, when the city of Bassein, which included the seven islands of Bombay, passed from Bahadur Shah to the Portuguese—a moment Datta uses as a springboard into centuries of botanical exchanges, maritime encounters, and community migrations. Portuguese botanists renting islands for gardens, the unmistakable smellscape of drying fish, and even folklore about the boneless Bombay duck all anchor the early chapters in vivid anecdote. These stories reveal how fish, coconut, and continual waves of migration shaped Bombay into a vibrant culinary melting pot. Banias, Brahmans, Armenians, Jains, Saraswats, Parsis, Khojas, Memons, Chinese, Malays, Arabs, Jews, Portuguese, British, and later Punjabis—each contributing ingredients, ideas, and influences that helped define Mumbai’s diverse culinary identity.
Datta organises this abundance through essay-like chapters, each devoted to a key community or cuisine. A Steak Called Diane explores the city’s enduring love for “continental” food. She takes readers into Bombay’s earliest clubs—Byculla, Yacht, Wellington—where jazz, waltzes, and champagne defined the social landscape, and where menus were cherry-picked from Britain, France, and Japan. Post-Independence, expatriates shaped the restaurant scene, and anecdotes from Gaylord’s glamorous heyday or the Taj Mahal Hotel’s evolving kitchens turn the city’s dining rooms into vibrant stages of culinary history.
The Country of the Monkey-Faced Nut is a lush journey through the Konkan coast, beginning with the Kolis and Pathare Prabhus and their homestyle dishes, moving through the ancient arrival of the Bene Israelis, and exploring the rich Catholic East Indian repertoire shaped by Portuguese influence. Datta touches on Udupi, Karavali, Konkani Muslim, and Maharashtrian cuisines and snacks, creating a dense, aromatic tapestry where temple traditions, colonial encounters, Jewish laws, and Arab seafaring all intersect.
In The TAO of Pao, she traces the Portuguese impact on Indian ingredients—chillies, potatoes, tomatoes, guavas, and cashews—and on Mumbai’s culinary vocabulary through dishes such as vindaloo, sorpotel, bebinca, and dodol. Datta’s playful nods to “Sandra from Bandra” and filmi archetypes add lightness to the historical sweep. Then there is an affectionate tribute to the Parsis and Iranis, capturing their humour, hospitality, and the enduring romance of establishments such as Parsi Dairy Farm and Ratan Tata Institute. In another chapter, she traces the golden age of Indian Chinese cuisine through restaurants like Kokwah, Mandarin, Nanking, and Gamboling.
Turning to Bhendi Bazaar, once the intellectual heart of Bombay’s Muslims, Datta writes about the literary brilliance and culinary richness that coexisted in the region. The book closes tenderly, with recipes shared as families often exchange them—without measurements, full of instinct and memory. This ending sits atop a bedrock of formidable research: Datta draws on historians, journalists, archivists, and community voices. If there is any flaw, it is one of abundance—Datta sometimes piles every dish onto the same thali, leaving the reader deliciously, if slightly overwhelmingly, full. But this excess feels perfectly in tune with Mumbai itself: layered, chaotic, and always ready with one more serving.