There is a particular pause that appears when a familiar menu suddenly becomes unfamiliar. Butter chicken is recognised immediately. Chicken tikka masala needs no introduction. Then someone reaches Dal Moradabadi, reads the description twice and asks the table if anybody knows what pakwaan is.
Usually, nobody does. The dish gets ordered.
This small moment says something about regional Indian food in Leeds today. Diners are not necessarily looking for the obscure, nor have familiar curries lost their appeal. What has changed is the willingness to order beyond them. A regional name now creates curiosity rather than hesitation, especially when the menu offers enough detail to make the first encounter feel comfortable.
India does not have one continuous style of cooking. Climate, agriculture, faith, migration, trade and household habits have produced countless regional cuisines, often with marked differences inside the same state. Coconut may shape one coastal curry. Yoghurt and saffron may define another preparation further north. A lentil dish eaten with crisp bread in Uttar Pradesh has little in common with prawns cooked with mustard and curry leaves near Kerala’s waterways.
These distinctions sound obvious when written down. They are less often visible on restaurant menus.
Chef Ankur Chakraborty has spent much of his career thinking about that absence. “We are not trying to represent all of India,” he says. “We are presenting a way of thinking about Indian food, one grounded in restraint, craft and movement.”
At The Crossing in Chapel Allerton, regional identity appears in individual details rather than long explanations beside every dish. Dal Moradabadi uses yellow split mung lentils with a pakwaan crisp and chutneys. The lentils are soft and warming. The crisp is brittle enough to break with the side of a spoon, scattering small pieces across the surface. A little chutney sharpens the next mouthful.
Moradabad, in Uttar Pradesh, is closely associated with this style of dal. It is often personalised at the point of eating, with diners adding crisp elements, spice or chutney according to taste. The version served here preserves that sense of participation. Nobody at the table eats quite the same bowl.
Further down the menu, Kerala fried chicken arrives with spicy salt, curry leaf and gunpowder aioli. It is a more immediate dish. The coating gives a dry crunch, the curry leaves release their aroma while still warm, and the aioli softens the heat without removing it. Someone invariably says they will have only one piece. This arrangement rarely survives contact with the plate.
The Paatra ni fish macchi is quieter. Sea bass is grilled in banana leaf with Parsi green herb masala. Opening the leaf releases a damp herbal aroma before the fish is touched. The flesh is flaky and lightly stained by the masala, with the leaf helping retain moisture as it cooks.
Parsi cuisine developed through migration and adaptation, carrying Persian roots into the culinary life of western India. Its food often uses herbs, acidity and measured sweetness with unusual confidence. On the plate, that history is not announced. It is present in the green masala, the use of leaf and the decision to let the fish remain delicate.
Kashmir appears through the matze kebab, a minced lamb skewer with saffron and yakhni jus. The jus has the soft fragrance associated with a spiced yoghurt-based broth, while saffron lends aroma rather than obvious colour. The kebab is tender, but not loose. It holds long enough to be passed across the table, then gives beneath the fork.
The Madras mutton pepper fry carries a different energy. Lamb is stir-fried with curry leaves, coconut and shallot masala, then served with mini idli. Black pepper provides a darker, more aromatic heat than chilli alone. Coconut rounds the edges. The idli absorbs the masala quickly, becoming the part people reach for after claiming they have finished.
Then there is the Alleppey prawns curry. Prawns sit in a sauce of coconut, ginger and turmeric, finished with mustard and curry leaves. The colour is warm yellow, but the flavour is not heavy. Ginger keeps it alert. Mustard gives the sauce a brief, savoury sharpness. Rice is the natural companion because it catches the thinner curry without competing with the prawns.
Taken together, these dishes do not form a comprehensive account of Indian cuisine. No restaurant menu could. They offer something more manageable: several specific encounters, each tied to ingredients and cooking habits that carry a sense of place.
For Chef Ankur, the movement of food matters as much as its origin. Recipes change when people travel. Ingredients are substituted, techniques adjust and family preferences intervene. “Tradition is alive,” he says. “It moves, adapts and responds to context.”
That flexibility is important in Britain, where Indian food already belongs to everyday dining. Many guests arrive with established preferences and personal memories of what a curry should taste like. Regional cooking does not ask them to abandon those memories. It adds detail to them.
The most useful way to explore the menu is not to order every unfamiliar dish at once. Choose two regions and let the differences remain visible. Dal Moradabadi beside the Parsi-style fish makes a thoughtful opening. Kerala fried chicken followed by Alleppey prawns curry shows how curry leaf and coconut can behave differently according to technique. Kashmiri matze kebab and Madras mutton pepper fry offer two distinct treatments of lamb, one fragrant and soft, the other peppery and direct.
Bread belongs with the thicker sauces. Rice is better with Alleppey curry. Chutney should be used, not left untouched in its bowl as decoration.
By the end of the meal, the geography has usually become less intimidating. Guests remember the crisp scattered over the dal, the scent released by the banana leaf, or the idli that absorbed more pepper masala than expected. The regional names remain important, but the physical details make them easier to retain.
Someone will still order the butter chicken. They should. Curiosity works better when it sits beside pleasure rather than replacing it.
