I prefer to call myself a 'flavour explorer'

In the show, I wanted to create something connected to my roots. Piaju and moori are very familiar foods to us—both popular street snacks and homemade treats. But I wanted to present them in a way that elevates them to fine dining. That was the main challenge.

I didn’t change the piaju much because its original flavour is essential. However, serving moori was the most difficult part.

Moori softens very quickly, so I had to think a lot about how to keep it crispy while also presenting it beautifully. I decided to serve it separately so its texture remains intact while eating.

I conceptualised the entire dish as a “salad” incorporating various Bangladeshi elements. I used to be a researcher (smiling), so I don’t just cook—I think deeply about every ingredient.

I wanted to include black chickpeas (not kabuli chana, but desi chola) and moori. At that time, there were global tensions—like the situation in Iran and student movements in Bangladesh—which also influenced me. That is the reason I thought of a completely different presentation.

My first thought was how to bring elements from different cultures onto one plate. So my dish included French technique: garlic confit, Bangladeshi ingredients: mustard oil and five-spice, and an international touch: quail eggs.

I wanted to present mustard oil in a new way. So I created a dressing using honey, garlic confit, and five-spice—it felt very unique to me. The biggest challenge was that these flavours are unfamiliar to many people. Mustard oil can be strong, black chickpeas aren’t widely known, and moori is completely unfamiliar to many.

I was worried—what if someone tasted it and said, “What is this?” But I took the risk. One of my British friends tried it and said, “This is amazing.” That gave me confidence.

I have named this dish “Harmony Salad” because it brings together elements from diverse cultures. The spiced black chickpeas feature prominently, while the Middle Eastern falafel shares similarities with our traditional piaju.

The more elements included were gem lettuce, carrots, and pomegranate. It was served with salted chicken skin, beetroot-wrapped quail eggs, and, of course, muri and curry leaves.

This deconstructed jhalmoori, enhanced with honey and five-spice, added a new dimension. The garlic confit and mustard oil dressing worked beautifully.

I was quite nervous. As a Bengali, I’m emotional, and I even had tears in my eyes. When my mother’s favourite judge and food critic, Jay Rayner, said, “This is an amazing salad,” I was momentarily speechless.

Then judge and restaurant critic Grace Dent said that achieving perfectly soft quail eggs with a liquid yolk is not easy. She also appreciated the strong garlic dressing that brought the whole dish together.

Another judge, chef and restaurateur Anna Haugh, praised the balance of flavours—the spice of black chickpeas, the sweetness of pomegranate, and the golden-brown texture of the piaju. In the end, they all felt I had created something truly exceptional.

For me, the most important thing was that they genuinely embraced Bangladeshi flavours. That strengthened my belief that our cuisine can be presented on the global stage.

I’ve loved cooking since childhood. My mother and grandmother were incredible cooks. My love for food started early—we didn’t eat out much, so my mother created magic in the kitchen.

Nothing was impossible for her—pizza, burgers, kebabs, biryani, cakes, cookies, donuts—everything she made herself. Watching her and my grandmother, I understood the care and love behind every dish.

Family meals after school shaped my love for good food. I regularly watched cooking shows like Khana Khazana and later Iron Chef. I’m originally from Manikganj.

However, I spent much of my life in other professions—consultant, researcher. But around the age of 50, I realised cooking is my true passion. For 20 years, I have cooked for family and friends. Now I understand—I have always been living my dream by cooking for them.

I don’t want Bangladeshi food to remain limited to Bangladeshis. People often call it “fusion” when mixing cuisines, but I prefer to call it “flavour harmony.”

For example—Bangladeshi street food with Mexican tacos, or Bangladeshi spices with international techniques. I want to write a “flavour cookbook.”

I call my kitchen a “flavour lab” because I cook with curiosity and experimentation. I draw inspiration from Bangladeshi and Middle Eastern cuisines.

It’s not fusion—it’s exploration. I want different cultures to coexist while preserving their identities. For me, flavour is everything—the heat of green chili, the sharpness of mustard, the complexity of five-spice.

I don’t call myself a culinary artist, I prefer “flavour explorer.”

I want to travel across Bangladesh, explore regional ingredients and techniques, and make documentaries. I also want to support Bangladeshi women in the UK who are great cooks but lack opportunities—through catering services and training.

I dream of starting a chef training school in Bangladesh. I see myself as a global flavour explorer.

Some Bangladeshi dishes—like muri ghonto (fish head curry)—may seem unusual to others. But if presented differently, people will embrace these.

My mother’s kacchi biryani. I’ve never tasted anything like it anywhere in the world.