A few food enthusiasts gathered together last weekend in Mumbai to celebrate and talk about the variety of samosas that our country boasts. The talk was helmed by Kurush Dalal, a renowned food anthropologist and historian, who spoke about the origins of the samosa and its evolution.
Unlike what one might like to believe, the samosa is not Indian—it was popularly known as sambusek and finds its roots in Kazakhstan from the 7th century. A ceramic bowl was filled with meat filling, covered with dough, and then placed inside a tandoor to be cooked on dum. This is originally how the samosa was made, Dalal said.
So, how did it make its way to India? It is believed that the samosa came to India with the Turks, and over a period of time, the locals adapted it, creating their own variety of fillings to suit their palates. These include North India’s potato-filled samosa with coriander seeds, Bengal’s singhara with diced potatoes or seasonal vegetables like cauliflower, Gujarat’s ghughra with fresh vegetables, Bihar’s mutton samosa, the Jain community’s dry fruit samosa, and the widely loved mawa samosa.
In fact, the Bohra community brought the concept of ‘patti’ (a thin sheet of dough) to India, and thus was born the patti samosa, which also found its fans in the south. The Hyderabadi lukhmi is a delectable variety of samosa with keema or egg-filled patti. Then, there is the onion patti samosa from Chennai and the Bohri smoked toor dal patti samosa, an absolute mastery of culinary skills.
In the capital, Delhi, one would expect to see versions of these samosas somewhere, as they represent the many communities of India. In what feels like a comedic twist of fate, we instead see new-age chowmein samosas, pizza samosas, pasta samosas, and the likes. Curious about this shift from traditional recipes, I learnt that the depth of Delhi’s love for samosas runs far deeper than what’s on the surface.
Chandni Chowk resident Kanika Sharma says, “Sita Ram Bazaar has three to four famous halwais, and I love the samosas they serve. We don’t know them by their shop names but by the name of the owner. So, there’s Kailash ke samose, Ram Swaroop ke samose, and the like. There’s also Atul Samosa, which serves aloo, gobhi, and matar samosas along with spicy aloo sabzi and methi ki chutney.”
Sharma opines that despite the influx of new-age taste profiles, the much-romanticised Purani Dilli remains the best destination for samosas.
Gurugram resident Sohini Mishra concurs, highlighting Gurugram’s Kashi Sweet Shop. “It’s like a trip down the lanes of Varanasi, where the aloo — boiled and mashed with characteristic eastern Uttar Pradesh flavours — marries the lovely, flaky, and crispy casing of the samosa.”
Kishi Arora of Preet Vihar swears by the samosas of Tilak Munjal, previously based out of Panchkuian Road and now in Rohini. “They are big, with tangy masala and medium spices. Extra dough on the sides gives it an additional crunch,” she quips.
Personally, I have struggled to find good samosas in Noida. Yet, a recent discovery of a near-hole-in-the-wall shop has raised hopes. In Sector 40, Shree Sweets produces a near-perfect khasta dough and a mildly-spiced, flavourful potato mash. The owner affirms that they’re not on any food aggregator app and don’t intend to be, either. A good sign, indeed.
I’m not against the fad of chowmein and pizza samosas — they’re enjoyable too. They taste closer to spring rolls and calzones — call it innovation or adapting to the times. The key is that they all contribute to how our food stories evolve over generations — certainly, there’s space for all to thrive.
Vernika Awal
is a food writer who is known for her research-based articles through her blog ‘Delectable Reveries’