Anda Curry (The Great Anda Curry Showdown)

In a snug little flat tucked away in the lanes of Koramangala—where the windows opened to the smell of filter coffee and traffic chaos—there stood a white-and-wood themed kitchen that had witnessed many things: burnt toast, late-night Maggi confessions, and now... The Great Anda Curry Showdown.

It was a Sunday, the kind that ambled in lazily with overcast skies and the promise of rain. The couple—newly married, mildly competitive, and very much in love—had one simple plan: cook anda curry together.

Simple, right?

Wrong.

He, the self-proclaimed sous-chef, had YouTube open to a Ranveer Brar recipe, already prepping a tadka with mustard seeds, curry leaves, and the kind of pan-flipping flair only seen on cooking shows and in his dreams.

She, the purist (and lowkey kitchen ninja), was armed with her go-to—Hebbars Kitchen—and a deeply emotional commitment to kasuri methi, no mustard seeds, and a very specific memory of her nani’s anda curry.

It began civil.

"Add the curry leaves now!"
"But you didn’t even brown the onions yet—wait, why is there kasuri methi in this?"
"Because I’m not making omelette curry from a railway canteen, thank you very much!"

Soon, the ladles were flying, the stove had two burners lit with two completely different gravies, and the flat smelled like a culinary civil war. The pressure cooker in the background let out a sigh—same, cooker, same.

Twenty minutes and one chilli-flake-fueled cold war later, both curries were done. They plated them side by side, like contestants on a cooking show, complete with rice and dramatic silence.

He tasted hers. She tasted his.
And after a brief, dramatic pause…

"It's not bad," she said.
"Yours too. Just... different."
"So... a draw?"
"Only if you make the coffee."

Out came the steel filter, the dabara set, and the peace treaty brewed in frothy decoction.

They stood on their balcony, the drizzle just beginning to dot the railings, sipping hot coffee while pigeons bickered in the background like it was their turn to debate spice levels.

And somewhere between the steam of the coffee and the laughter that followed, they realized—two anda curries, one love story.

That kitchen would go on to host many more debates. But none as delicious.