When Fusion Dilutes Cultural Roots
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Buettner’s take on British interest in “Indian food” hits home, not because Brits suddenly fell in love with authentic Indian flavours but because Indian food, and food from outside the Western world, were changed to suit their tastes. Chicken Tikka Masala, for instance, became popular not because of its Indian roots, but because a creamy masala sauce was added specifically to cater to British preferences (p. 143). This kind of “fusion” lets them enjoy what they see as Indian food without engaging with the culture or understanding the immigrant stories behind it. Buettner calls this “boutique multiculturalism” (p. 146), a kind of shallow appreciation where they are happy to sample the “safe” parts of the Indian identity while ignoring the racism, discrimination, and struggles the community faces. It is strange and disheartening to see this surface-level appreciation where they will pick the parts of our identity that seem interesting or safe, but our deeper experiences and challenges remain unseen—or, should I say, ignored.
Mannur’s idea of “culinary nostalgia” captures this feeling so well. For immigrants, food isn’t just about taste; it’s a link to home, a source of belonging and happiness found in an unknown and unwelcoming place. But fusion is a double-edged sword: while adapting dishes can make us feel at home, each change also takes away from the authenticity. Like with Tunisian makloub in Montreal—normally spicy with harissa, but now places replace it with a mix of ketchup and mayonnaise to make it more palatable. It’s frustrating because the real taste, the heart of the dish, gets lost in translation. Mannur calls this feeling “culinary nostalgia” (p. 29): that longing for the flavours of home that can’t fully be recreated here, where each tweak for Western tastes feels like a small part of our culture slipping away. Adapting our recipes to fit these expectations feels bittersweet, and that little taste we are left with is only an echo of the original, never quite fulfilling memories of home.
This reminds me of when my mom, sister, and I visited this Tunisian place near our house during reading week. They had mostly all the classic street foods—makloub, baguette farcie, fricassé—and we were excited. But as much as we enjoyed it, we all felt the same: it just hits differently in Tunisia. The bread, for instance, has a texture that’s hard to replicate here, and the harissa? It’s not just spicy; it has this depth that brings the whole dish together in a way ketchup and mayonnaise never could. Even though we ate familiar foods, they felt like distant versions of themselves, missing the soul you only get back home. Every tweak feels like a reminder that while we can bring pieces of home with us, they’ll never fully be the same.
Even though my sister and I weren’t born in Tunisia, we still felt that tug of nostalgia, a bittersweet reminder of a place we know through stories, visits, and the tastes our family has kept alive here. For my mom, though, it’s something even more profound. For her, it’s not just about the food but a lifetime of memories tied to it—the place, the people, the familiar routines. For her, the flavour of home means so much more, something we can sense but only imagine the full weight of. Every adapted dish here must feel like a reminder of what’s been left behind, carrying a deeper sense of melancholia, reaching far beyond taste alone.