From guacamole to avocado chutney: How India welcomes foreigners to dinner

Walk into any modern Indian café and you’ll find avocado sitting next to aloo like a long-lost cousin who has finally got the address right. Avocado toast, avocado parathas, and the star of our show – avocado chutney.

Somewhere, a Californian farmer is blinking in surprise, while an Indian home cook is casually adding curry leaves and thinking, “Bas, thoda hing aur”. This, ladies and gentlemen, is not a trend. It is business as usual for Indian cuisine.

The Portuguese brought the party; India wrote the guest list

A short historical reminder – tomatoes, potatoes, and chillies came sailing in with the Portuguese. We were already well-fed and opinionated, but we looked at these foreigners and said, “Theek hai, you can stay—but you’ll have to learn our ways.”

Tomato was admitted to rasam and gravy at a suspicious speed.

Potato was given a nickname (aloo) and a central role in samosas, biryanis, and every fast during Navratri.

Chilli politely elbowed out our long-time companion, black pepper, in many kitchens, then pretended nothing happened.

The assimilation machine: How we make things ours

India does not “fuse” cuisines; we naturalise them. We don’t say, “Here is a foreign dish.” We say, “Here is our version of your idea; please take seconds.” The method is centuries old:

1. Rename with affection. Guacamole is too many syllables before chai; avocado chutney gets to the point.

2. Remix the flavour grammar. Mustard seeds pop, curry leaves dance, and suddenly the avocado speaks fluent Indian.

3. Assign a social role. With dosa? With parathas? As a sandwich spread? Now it’s part of the household.

This is not imitation; it’s inculturation – the difference between wearing a costume and adopting a custom.

A small cultural theory (served with papad)

Food is our most democratic debate club: everyone has a vote, nobody has minutes. When an ingredient enters Indian kitchens, it must pass the toughest parliament in the world – the family palate. If it survives Dadi’s raised eyebrow, it is basically a citizen.

Nationalism at the table: Who gets a seat?

Now to the awkward dinner conversation. Around the world, nationalism is having a protein shake: borders are flexing, identities are doing push-ups, and everyone is guarding the fridge. In many places, “authenticity” arrives like a stern headmaster, ruler in hand, checking hem lengths and spice levels.

India’s kitchen, when left to itself, behaves differently. We’ve had our own food fights, to be sure, but our historical muscle memory is inclusive. We are less bouncer, more maître d’: “Yes, come in. Vegetarian options on the left, non-veg on the right, Jain modifications possible, and yes – gluten-free chapatis can be discussed.”

Avocado chutney, then, is not a fad – it is a philosophical position disguised as breakfast. It says our identity doesn’t fear dilution because it knows how to thicken gravies.

Field notes from the Indian kitchen

Origin is a footnote, not the headline. Tomato’s passport is interesting; its role in butter chicken is decisive.

Purism is a weekend hobby. On weekdays we are practical. If it tastes good with dal, it stays.

Belonging is earned through utility. Any ingredient that solves real problems – speed, taste, nutrition – will find a mother who swears by it and a YouTube channel that explains it.

A playful recipe sketch: Avocado chutney that thinks in four languages

One ripe avocado, half a coconut (or a good handful of desiccated flakes), green chillies (our American import doing Indian duty), a clove of garlic, a squeeze of lime, salt, and a spoon of dahi if you want it friendlier. Temper with mustard seeds and curry leaves if you’re showing off. Serve with dosa, millet rotis, or that suspiciously European sourdough.

Result: something that started in Mexico, grew up in California, and now pays municipal taxes in Bengaluru.

Why this matters (beyond brunch)

In an anxious world, India’s culinary temperament offers a soft power lesson: identity can be additive. You can keep what is yours and still borrow the neighbour’s ladder. The genius is not in saying “no entry”, but in saying, “Come in – and by dessert, you’ll feel at home.”

Our table has always expanded. Every generation negotiates modernity in the kitchen first. Today, the negotiation is creamy, subtly spiced, and excellent on toast.

So the next time someone sneers at avocado as an interloper, tell them this: in India, guests don’t remain guests for long. We feed them, rename them, and, before you know it, they’re family. Pass the chutney!

(Abhishek Chaturvedi is the Executive Vice President and Branch Head for TBWA\India's Gurgaon office, where he leads the creative, strategic, and operational direction of the North India operations.)