The Chutney Equation: A Foolproof Method for Indian Saucing

Priya Krishna
My mother's formula for the condiment is as simple as herb + acid + heat.

Here’s the secret to every single one of my mom’s chutney recipes: they are all, more or less, the same.

This is not a knock on my mom, who is the most intuitive, creative cook I know. It is simply to say that when she was teaching herself how to cook after immigrating from India to the U.S. in the '80s, she stumbled upon a simple, repeatable formula that could be used to turn any herb into a chutney. It has been her guiding force for superior sauces ever since.

Chutneys—which encompass a diverse category of sauces typically made with some type of fruits, veggies, and/or herbs—are a building block of Indian cuisine. They can top a dosa, where they soak into the crevices of the tangy, savory crepe. They can be used to marinate meats, building extra layers of flavor. You can dip samosas into them. You can mix them into rice, or into the dough for roti. Or you can simply drizzle, spoon, and schmear a chutney onto almost any plate of food—I’ve long subscribed to the belief that as long as I have any kind of chutney in the fridge, my meals will never taste bland.

My mom’s preferred chutneys are the ones that center on an herb. Indian cuisine is spice-heavy and often leans full-flavored; herb chutneys serve as the bright, refreshing counterpart to all that boldness. And they are versatile beyond just Indian food: my mom and I both serve them alongside crudité and crackers, use them as a dressing for flaky white fish, and turn them into sandwich spreads.

The first recipe I asked my mom to teach me to make when we were working on my cookbook, Indian-ish, was cilantro chutney. To me, it’s the king of chutneys—it turns up in everything from chaat to chicken kebabs. My mom’s recipe is straightforward: add one big bunch of cilantro to a blender (stems included—the water in them helps get the blades moving), along with one green chile (serranos work great), the juice of one lime, salt, and a pinch of sugar (my mom claims the sugar helps maintain the bright color of the chutney). Blend to a drizzle-able (but not completely smooth) consistency, and...you’ve got chutney!

As we made her other chutneys, I realized that they were all just variations on that original recipe. Start with a bunch of herbs; add a green chile for heat; pour in some lime juice for acid; then season with salt and sugar. It’s an equation that works with any leafy herb: basil, parsley, mint, lovage, lemongrass, and so on.

But the chutney formula doesn’t stop there. You can add peanuts, cashews, coconuts, and sautéed onions for texture and heartiness. For complexity, you can toss in spices (toast them before, please, to bring out their flavor): mustard seeds, cumin, coriander, fennel seeds, cardamom. To bring out even more tanginess in a chutney, try adding yogurt, ginger, or tomatoes.

Don’t have any of those things? Don’t let that stop you. Whenever I have leftover herbs, I no longer throw them into my fridge and pray that I will find ways to use them before their imminent demise. Who wants that kind of stress? Instead, I take out my blender and make a chutney. I know that it will only be a matter of hours before I find a way to use it.