History on a Banana Leaf in Mauritius

Text and photos by Meha Desai

A balanced meal, the ancient Hindu scriptures tell us, incorporates arusuvai, or the six essential tastes: inippu or sweet, pulippu or sour, oovaruppu or salty, kaarppu or pungent, kasappu or bitter and thuvarppu or astringent flavors.

Azure waters. White sand beaches. Pink and golden sunsets. All-inclusive beach resorts. The usual island vacay stereotypes are abundant in Mauritius. Just in case you doubted it, remember what Mark Twain wrote: “Mauritius was made first and then heaven; and heaven was copied after Mauritius.” But just when you think you’ve got it all figured out with the wind in your hair and your cocktail of choice in your hand, the island surprises you with its extraordinary melange of people, histories, languages and, of course, food.

An isolated Indian Ocean island first discovered by the Moors, Mauritius has a history as diverse as its cuisine. Also known as the Isle of Desolation, or Dina Arobi, it was discovered and abandoned by the Arabs by the 10th century. In the early 16th century, the Portuguese found their way there but used it mostly as a pit stop on busy trade routes and never stayed. By the late 16th century, the Dutch arrived quite by accident.

As British writer Giles Milton tells us, “realising that Mauritius could be a valuable port of call for Dutch ships, [Jacob van] Heemskerck [a Dutch merchant] put a rooster and some hens ashore and planted orange and lemon seeds invoking ‘the Almighty God’s blessing that He may lend His power to make them multiply and grow for the benefit of those who will visit the island after us.”

For 40 years, the Dutch used Mauritius as a rest stop while sailing the southern seas and finally, officially colonized the island around 1638. The first people to stay there, they left their mark even though they deserted it by 1710 after unsuccessful attempts to transform it into a thriving colony. They were responsible for the extinction of the infamous dodo and for introducing slaves from mainland Africa, deer from Java, wild boar, tobacco and, above all, sugar cane, the main crop on the island till today.

Soon after the Dutch left, the French arrived from nearby Bourbon, present-day La Réunion. Under their rule, Île de France flourished as a center for trade, known for its sugar plantations. During the Napoleonic wars, the island served as an important base for raids on British merchant ships. But by the 19th century, the British ousted the French and claimed the island for the British crown. They renamed the island Mauritius but allowed the Franco-Mauritians to keep their language, religion, legal system and, most importantly, the sugar cane plantations on which the economy depended.

With the British came the abolition of slavery in 1835 and the beginning of indentured labor, with Chinese, Malay, African and Malagasy people arriving in droves. Previously, the French had brought enslaved Indian people from their territories, but it was under British rule that as many as 500,000 indentured workers sailed for Mauritian shores believing in the promise of a better life. More often than not, they found themselves living and working in appalling conditions, barely making ends meet on minimum pay.

The bonded laborers were recruited from India, China and other British colonies after the abolition of slavery. Usually, they were made to sign contracts in their own countries to work abroad for a period of five years or more. They were promised wages, a small amount of land, and in some cases, a return passage once their contract was over. However, this seldom happened. Work conditions were harsh, records show they were not much different from work conditions during slavery, and wages were low. Long journeys to reach their promised destinations took a toll on their health even before they arrived. 

A second wave of bonded immigration eventually brought Chinese merchants to the island. Today, Chinese, Creole, European and Indian influences blend effortlessly to create a vibrant local culture and a unique motley of a cuisine. The Dutch are credited with bringing some of the favorite ingredients to the island such as cerf, or deer; the French are said to have taught the locals how to daube and civet (or stew) everything and of course they also passed on their love of all things bread. Local boulangeries still make bread fresh twice a day and all self-respecting supermarkets run a fresh bakery on their premises.

The Chinese immigrants brought with them sauces of all kinds, mien frites (fried noodles), and bol renverse, a deceivingly simple hot pot of myriad ingredients, the quintessential comfort food for any Mauritian anywhere in the world. The Indian incomers, among many things, brought their spices, lenti, or lentils, and, of course, their cari, or curry.

The Indian indentured laborers in Mauritius came mostly from Bihar and Tamil Nadu and largely practiced Hinduism. Hindu culture has an exhaustive culinary theology that sets down in great detail the ritual and importance to food.

A quintessential sept cari is a long and elaborate meal served on special occasions.

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A balanced meal, the ancient scriptures tell us, incorporates arusuvai, or the six essential tastes: inippu or sweet, pulippu or sour, oovaruppu or salty, kaarppu or pungent, kasappu or bitter and thuvarppu or astringent flavors. In many temples in South India and on all important religious ceremonies such as weddings, funerals and other rites of passage, meals incorporating all six flavor profiles are served on banana leaves. And the Indo Mauritians are no different. Their version of this traditional meal, a sept cari, or seven curries would make their forefathers proud.

A must for all prayer ceremonies, especially during the main festival of Thaipoosam Cavadee, and the haldi ceremony that accompanies all Hindu weddings, a quintessential sept cari is a long and elaborate meal. Served simply on a fresh banana leaf, almost as if in defiance of the elaborateness of the feast itself, custom dictates what order the courses are served in, where on the leaf each component is placed and that these meals be eaten by hand.

The feast kicks off with a watery soup, rasson. Yellow split pea lentils are seasoned with tamarind, chiles and curry leaves, and everything is left to simmer for a few hours before the sweet, acidic soup is ready. It is followed by a generous helping of plain boiled rice topped with dal brinzel, a local version of the Indian sambar, which is essentially various lentils cooked with eggplant.

At this point in the meal, many of the other curry dishes are brought out: pomme de terre masala, earthy piquant mashed potatoes are accompanied with haricots masala, tender, succulent green beans tossed in a pungent blend of spices. Then comes the cari banane, a doughy raw banana curry braised in a blend of turmeric and mustard, quickly followed by cari zak. Robust, meaty jackfruit is fried with a mix of typical Mauritian spices (cumin, turmeric, coriander, dry red chiles, black pepper, fennel, cloves, cardamom, garlic, and curry leaves.) The curries are accompanied by applon, a flaky fried cracker.

Just when you think all the fiery flavors are a tad too much, you are served some ziromon toufer, sweet pumpkin simmered in garlic and mild spices, and sacray manga, tangy mangoes braised in sugar along with ginger, black mustard seeds, cardamom pods, curry leaves and, of course, red chiles.

Then comes the pachadi. A fresh crisp course of cucumbers mixed with yogurt and just a splattering of mustard seeds, the pachadi cools down the mouth and prepares the palate for the sweeter flavors that are going to come next.

The desserts start off much like the main meal with a panakon, a treacly drink of water, sugar, lime juice, cardamom, and dried ginger powder, followed by vadai, a fried sweet dumpling made from lentils and ripe bananas. The final course is a velvety, creamy payasson. Sweet milk is boiled with cereals, pulses, dried fruits, and fresh fruits till it reaches the consistency of a rice pudding. An indulgent end to an already superlative meal, payasson leaves you with delicate, honeyed flavors dancing on your tongue.

“After the meal, guests must always fold the banana leaf inwards as a sign of gratitude to the host, even when at a restaurant. But when meals are served at funeral wakes, the leaf is folded outwards as a sign of condolence,” explains Tara Sharma, an Indo Mauritian, who serves sept cari at the Durga Puja her family hosts every year.

Though the rules seem strict, there is an alluring burst of flavor in each mouthful: acid from the tamarind is balanced by sweet mangoes, the heat of the masalas is offset by fresh cucumbers and tangy yogurt, and the starchiness of the bananas is reined in with pungent mustard seeds. Different textures come together just as effortlessly: the meatiness of jackfruit and aubergine, the firmness of raw bananas, the crunchiness of cucumbers, the creaminess of yogurt. A meal steeped in tradition and ritual, sept cari is a peek into a culture that is very aware and proud of its roots and identity. A nod to those pioneers who created out of nothing familiar the very foods they had left behind, it is a meal that shows the power of memories and the role food plays in recreating comfort of homes left behind and asserting identities.