Cari, the scents of India in Mauritius.

Imagine a blend of India and Madagascar, with just a few European and Chinese nuances, all condensed into the few square kilometers of the tropical island of Mauritius.

So grand, lofty, and at times overwhelming is India; so airy, serene, and sunny is Mauritius. Situated between the islands of Réunion and Madagascar, the ancient Ile Maurice is little more than a rock just north of the Tropic of Capricorn. Ask your guide to take you to see something interesting, and you will find yourself at the Pamplemousses Botanical Garden. Before any museum, ethereal colonial mansions, or any beach, a Mauritian will show you nature in all its richness and variety, elevated to the highest power—genetic oddities included.

It was an enlightened French governor, Mahé de la Bourdonnais, who transplanted countless essences to the island that later became essential for Creole cuisine.

It was the second half of the 18th century, and today all of those essences are still there, before our astonished eyes. Because the climate in Mauritius is truly a surprise. Tropical but still temperate. Humid but with a balanced distribution of rainfall. Nothing to do with the unmanageable monsoons of the Indian subcontinent. And when, starting in 1839, Indians arrived on the island to work as contract laborers in place of the Malagasy slaves freed by the British, they found many of the ingredients for their curry dishes. They also discovered other ingredients, and the culinary tradition was simplified to make use of the island’s resources and, above all, to adapt to different lifestyles. Mauritian curries were born from this sometimes painful transformation of the Tamil recipes used for generations and forming the basis of their ethnic identity.

Cari in Tamil means “sauce,” and it was the English who transformed the term into “curry.” However, in Mauritius, these sauces have retained their original name, even though they present themselves as profoundly different.

Incredibly lighter, first and foremost. Forget about Indian curry dishes, overflowing with spices and flavors. The palm oil used on the island (not always available in India) gives a more delicate taste. Gopalsamy, my guide and a refined Indo-Mauritian chef, sings an endless ode to it while preparing the most traditional curry of the island, the chicken curry. “Just to get acquainted with the subject,” he says, with the air of someone who has convinced many, perhaps reading my thoughts of the fantastic curries from Kerala.

But let’s return to the lightness of Mauritian curries.

But that is not their only virtue; they are also incredibly aromatic. To understand why, there is a technical justification and, as he puts it, a sentimental one. The technical reason is that palm oil (the only oil used on the island for curries) withstands cooking better than other oils, maintains its clarity, and, most importantly—a fundamental characteristic—remains almost tasteless. The sentimental reason, on the other hand, is that the spices found concentrated on the island are those from the entire Indian subcontinent, along with those imported from Malaysia, the Antilles, Brazil, and China, thanks to Mahé de la Bourdonnais. It is a blend of the Middle and Far East, plus a representation of the American colonies.

Recalling my culinary experiences in India—rich in history, ethnic reminiscences, flavors, references, and sometimes heavy seasonings—I am surprised by the delicacy and simplicity of this textbook chicken curry, prepared in just 10 minutes. Forget about the ritual of the boys, the servers who would bring endless additions like bananas, peanuts, mango chutney, pickles, and so on to cool the palate scorched by rich chili and other spicy mixtures. Here, they simply are not needed.

“It’s not magic, just sensitivity,” Gopalsamy assures me as he guides me to the Central Market.

A visit not to be missed, a refreshing immersion in the crowd around the historic Rue Farquhard, in the old area of the capital, Port Louis. Among the various thematic “circles,” you’ll find those for fish, meat, and vegetables. All around is a bustling mix of diverse, multi-ethnic, and colorful humanity that well represents the image of the melting pot created on the island. The languages also blend; some speak Bhojpuri, a dialect similar to Hindi that is also used as an official language, others speak French, and some even Mandarin. My guide greets everyone, waving fish in my face to help me remember their names while they still try to escape his grasp. But most importantly, he shows me the spices: cardamom, cumin, black and white pepper, coriander, turmeric (both root and powder), anise, and cinnamon, along with many vegetables like taro (Colocasia esculenta), known as the potato of the tropics, chayote (Sechium edule), used mainly for its seeds which are boiled, and cassava, also used boiled. Spices and vegetables that are all incredibly affordable. But it is the dried and ground aromas on the roche à cari, the “curry stone” found behind every Mauritian home, that are the essential ingredients.

The cari is indeed a sauce made from a mixture of base spices, known as garam masala (which means “strong mixture”).

This is prepared in advance and used as a base for the various curries. It generally contains cumin, cardamom, cinnamon, black pepper, cloves, and sometimes coriander, but never turmeric, the spice that gives the characteristic yellow color and is added only during the preparation of the dish. In India, cinnamon (Cinnamomum zeylanicum) is not used; instead, a stronger variety called cassia (Cinnamomum cassia), native to China, is used. The spices are grilled separately to preserve their flavor and aroma.

The spices of garam masala, once grilled and ground, are stored in glass jars and consumed as soon as possible to prevent the aroma from fading. This “strong mixture” is used as a fundamental ingredient for the masala (or massala), the actual blend used for curry, which will give character to the dish. It is no coincidence that in nearby Réunion, it is called massalé.

Here lies the diversity and variety of Indo-Mauritian cuisine. While garam masala is, all things considered, quite similar to its Indian counterpart, the various masalas change significantly and, above all, become sweeter; that is, spices that are too spicy are reduced or eliminated, as islanders say they overpower the flavors of the dishes seasoned with the sauce. After all, the climate in vast areas of India does not favor food preservation, and the addition of strongly spiced ingredients helps with this. This caution is less felt in Mauritius, dominated by a milder and healthier climate.

Thus, turmeric, ginger, garlic, coriander leaves (kotomili), and curry leaves (karipoulay) are added. The green components are also ground into powder or paste on the roche à cari, and the juice produced is added to the sauce, which is lighter and lower in fat than the Indian version, once again emphasizing the dish rather than the seasoning, making it more in line with the principles of Western healthy cuisine.

My host is absolutely proud of the island’s traditions.

But nothing attracts him like a visit to the spice plantations. These are located on fertile plots of land at the foothills of the island’s heights, resting on volcanic bases and often bordered by sugar cane plantations found in the flat areas. The sizes vary, as does the management, which can also be family-run. Gopalsamy twirls between a bush of cardamom and a bed of ginger, stopping in awe in front of a centuries-old tamarind tree, showing me the leaves of the curry tree (used fresh at the end of cooking for flavoring), and then off to find cardamom and black pepper with the berries still wrapped in their reddish fruit. The cultivation of spices is largely done by hand, and among the farmers, the passion for their work is evident.

In fact, it is hard to imagine the small island without the strong aromas of spices. Their scent permeates the air everywhere, blending with that of the lush tropical vegetation nourished by monsoon rains. We stop for breakfast at a supplier of my chef friend. The house where we are welcomed is modest but decent; his wife chats with us in the living room before retreating to the kitchen. She doesn’t allow me into her realm but serves us a fantastic curry of blue marlin, a fish abundant in these waters. Nothing of what one would expect: no endless additions, the sauce is spicy but does not overpower the flavors, and above all, it is aromatic. Incredibly rich with different and distinguishable aromas.

Back at the resort, Gopalsamy prepares two dishes that he considers the pinnacle of island “cari” cuisine: red mullet, a type of red mullet fish, and beef.

The fish dish is by far the most common on the island, while beef is a specialty of Muslims, Europeans, and Chinese. The preparation is typical of Mauritian homes, with the meat cooked directly in the sauce, adding vegetables as it cooks. The appearance is rustic, but the flavors are rich and, once again, distinct.

Indeed, Mauritian curries are simple, but that doesn’t make them any less interesting. They are contemporary in their essence. Healthy to the right degree, versatile in their pairings, they lend themselves more than others to our fusion cuisine, adding an Asian note that no longer forces us to perform acrobatics to discover and separate the flavors. This is a testament to the sensitivity and clarity that have made this heterogeneous people a united nation, with exemplary harmony among the different ethnicities and religions. A harmony that is reflected even in the kitchen.