Veg ramen, no fish broth, please!

“Do you have anything vegetarian,” asked Delhi-based communications professional Dhruv Saxena at a cafe on the second day of his trip to Lisbon.

When he was served a steaming bowl of soup, he heaved a sigh of relief. After having survived on only French fries, bread and coffee on the previous day, this felt like a safe option. Halfway through the meal though, Dhruv, whose palette is now accustomed to sensing unfamiliar flavours, enquired if anything at all was remotely non-vegetarian in the soup. The waitress, almost nonchalantly, replied, “The broth is made of chicken stock. But don’t worry, there are no pieces of chicken in it.” To her it was trivial, but to Dhruv, it was a recognisable pattern — one that follows him across most of his travels. “It is not the revelation that is unsettling, as much as the doubt with which you have every morsel,” he says.

The next few days were no different. A portion of vegetable udon noodles arrived made in fish oil. A Caesar salad contained something salty and chewy — not cheese, but anchovies. Even the crowd-friendly blueberry pancakes had eggs in them.

Food writer and Youtuber Kunal Vijaykar empathises with Dhruv. “A vegetarian may confuse a classic Caesar salad as ‘safe’, but it always has anchovies in it. That is a type of fish.” In Southeast Asia, such experiences are more frequent.

“Most vegetarian dishes are made in shrimp paste or oyster sauce,” recalls Kunal, who was once served a broth in Thailand with a literal fish head floating on it. “It is a common misconception: to them, vegetarian means no meat. Fish is acceptable,” he says.

Kunal points to this ambiguity, while referring to his vegetarian friends who rave about the pizza in Rome. “The cheese in Italy, unlike the desi variations here, has rennet as a key ingredient. And that is derived from animal sources.”

These are not deliberate errors or communication gaps but local assumptions rooted in a country’s culinary traditions, many times oblivious to those following them. What may seem like cultural insensitivity to Indian diners, is only a reflection of how the definition of vegetarianism is understood, across geographies. And it is this hyper-localisation that many Indians find hard to navigate.

Not a universal definition

“Vegetarianism is not a universal category,” explains Krishnendu Ray, professor of Department of Nutrition and Food Studies, New York University. “Its interpretation keeps shifting across social, ethical, religious frameworks.” In parts of the Mediterranean, for example, the broth is not considered non-vegetarian, even if made with meat. “In India, however, vegetarianism is often shaped by ideas of purity, caste ideologies and even, humoral balance,” he adds. And this distinction does not always translate globally. Even within India, vegetarians do not speak a universal language. “A ‘pure vegetarian’ would exclude onions and garlic, sometimes even potatoes. To the rest, these exclusions may seem incomprehensible,” Krishnendu says.

Craving familiarity and comfort

For Dhruv, the gap has heightened his level of awareness — sniffing dishes before eating, interrogating waiters, googling ingredients and pausing after the first bite. This state of constant alertness sometimes bogs him down. By the fourth day of the trip, this tediousness makes way for something else. “Suddenly, I am seeking a familiar palate — good old dal chawal or roti sabzi.”

In his quest for familiarity, he stumbled upon Martinhal Lisbon Oriente’s Terrace restaurant where for once, the menu unfolded to his liking, a dedicated section for Indian vegetarian cuisine presented not as an afterthought, but with the same visibility as black cod with miso soup. Poori bhaji and khichdi stood out for him. “These were not token Indian dishes. It seemed like it was added intentionally,” he says. It was an intriguing contrast of what vegetarian food could seem like within the same city.

As Chitra Stern, founder and CEO of Martinhal Family Hotels & Resorts explains, after a few days, Indian guests wish to return to home-style flavours. “This does not mean they are replacing local cuisine,” she says. “It is about finding familiar comfort.” This requires more than simply adding names that resonate with the vegetarian Indian. “These travellers
are seeking an authentic Indian culinary experience — not a loose, adapted interpretation.”

It involves investment: sourcing Indian chefs trained in traditional techniques, and strict vegetarian principles, and collaborating with hospitality schools.

Dhruv, who spoke to one of the chefs, mentions how members of the culinary team had travelled to India for immersive training. “When the meal tastes ‘Indian’, and not a European version of Indian, this detailing counts,” he says.

The cafe on the first day revealed a void, and hospitality spaces are trying to fill that void. Yet, such inclusions are far and few. Take Thai food for example, says chef Delzad Avari who has worked across diverse culinary landscapes such as Trinidad and Tobago, Dubai and the Maldives “The OG Thai curry always contains shrimp paste for that extra umami. Fish sauce brings out the flavour, which makes it unique — the absence of which would simply alter the dish,” Delzad says.

Substitution not easy

While vegetarian substitutes are available, replicating the dish with the same precision is not easy. He recalls his stint as a chef in a West Indies’ restaurant, famous for its steaks. Once when a few Indian guests dropped by, he took up the challenge, as the only Indian chef, to toss a quick desi curry. “They were thrilled,” he says. It is this dynamic, between exploring new cuisine and retreating to familiar one, that defines many travel experiences of Indians abroad.

“I think familiarity and nostalgia, at some point of your travels, tend to sink in,” says Chantelle Nicholson, chef, and founder of London’s Apricity restaurant, which holds a Michelin Green Star. Acknowledging the rise of Indian vegetarians lately, dishes on the menu are carefully classified and labelled. She even excludes products from animals, such as dairy, eggs and honey. However, she also points out that though she can “never guarantee if anything is 100 per cent free of a certain ingredient,” as is the case with cooking within shared kitchens. 

This transparency explains how dietary preferences are understood, not in exact terms but influenced by cultural expectations, if not communicated explicitly. “Even in the most tourist-friendly destinations, there is still a lack of understanding of the nuances of vegetarianism,” Kunal says. “While restaurants may be welcoming, the confusion will persist if they refuse to understand what it means to be vegetarian to us.”

Back in Lisbon, the contrast between Dhruv’s meals — the broth at the cafe and poori bhaji at Martinhal — is jarring.

One reflects the local culinary ethos, while the other attempts to meet the expectations of the global Indian traveller.

Both follow their own culinary logic. But they reveal a paradox: that food, like any foreign language, does not always translate easily.