What Your Sambar Recipe Says About Where You're From

The Sambar Wars: Geography, Genealogy, and the Great Drumstick Debate

By Shashi Bellamkonda | December 30, 2025

In my personal hierarchy of comfort, Curd Rice sits on the iron throne. It is the alpha and the omega, the cooling balm to a weary soul. But immediately to its right, acting as both the Hand of the King and the chief agitator, is Sambar.

I was reminded of this precarious balance recently while standing in a buffet line, plate in hand, staring at two wooden signs that felt less like menu descriptions and more like boundary lines on a map. On the left: "Kerala Sambar" (described as a delicacy with roasted coconut). On the right: "Onion Sambar."

To the uninitiated, this is just soup. To anyone from South India, this is a declaration of war.

❖

The Geography of the Bowl

We often speak of Indian food as a monolith, but Sambar is the perfect counter-argument. It is a dish that changes its accent every hundred kilometers. The "Sambar Wars" are not fought with weapons, but with ingredients that signal exactly who you are and where you come from.

The Kerala Contender
The sign I saw in the buffet was specific: "Roasted Coconut and Tamarind Juice." This is the hallmark of Varutharacha Sambar. In Kerala, coconut isn't just an ingredient; it is the landscape. Roasting the coconut with spices before grinding it gives the gravy a dark, nutty depth that feels like the humid, heavy air of the backwaters. It is rich, unapologetic, and distinct.

The Udupi Sweetness
Travel north to Karnataka, specifically the temple town of Udupi, and the flavor profile shifts. Here, jaggery enters the chat. The Sambar is sweeter, lighter, often devoid of onions and garlic to suit temple dietary restrictions, yet incredibly complex. To an Andhra palate accustomed to fire, this sweetness can feel like a betrayal. To a Kannadiga, it is divine balance.

The Tamil Standard
In Tamil Nadu, Sambar is the metronome of daily life. But even here, there are schisms. There is the heavy, vegetable-laden Lunch Sambar, and then there is the lighter, faster Tiffin Sambar—specifically engineered to be absorbed by idlis without overwhelming them. It is functional, sharp with tamarind, and utilitarian.

The Andhra/Telangana Fire
In my neck of the woods, we generally don't believe in whispering. The Sambar from Andhra and Telangana tends to be spicier, the tamarind kick more aggressive. It is designed to wake you up, not lull you to sleep.

"Sambar isn't just a recipe; it's a map of where your ancestors grew up, and perhaps, where they refused to compromise."

The Domestic Battlefield

If regional variations are the geopolitical conflicts, the domestic disputes are the civil wars. These battles are fought in kitchens, often between a mother-in-law and a daughter-in-law, over the sanctity of the masala box.

I have seen genuine tension arise over the inclusion of vegetables. There are purists who believe the Drumstick (Moringa) is the king of Sambar vegetables, its fleshy interior soaking up the tart juices. Then there are those who find the act of chewing on fibrous stalks at the dinner table unrefined. (I stand with the drumstick; it is interactive eating at its finest.)

Then, there is the potato. Heavens forbid someone adds potato to a sambar in a traditionalist home. It thickens the gravy artificially; it is a cheat code. It is looked upon with the same suspicion as a tax auditor.

And let us not forget the powder. Every family believes their specific ratio of coriander seeds to chana dal to fenugreek is the "Gold Standard." Championships could be held for the best Sambar powder, but they would end in stalemates because no judge would survive the wrath of the losing grandmothers.

The Modern Sacrilege

But while we were busy arguing over drumsticks and radishes, a new front opened. Modern, contemporary folk—often, I admit, those of us in the diaspora or those trying to "elevate" Indian cuisine—are gleefully committing sacrilege.

I have seen things. I have seen Broccoli floating in Sambar, looking confused and out of place, like a tourist who got on the wrong bus. I have seen Sweet Potato used as a healthy substitute, turning a savory masterpiece into a dessert.

Thankfully, much of this is happening outside of Indian shores, safe in the experimental kitchens of fusion restaurants where "deconstructed sambar" is sold for $18. But it raises the question: Is this evolution, or is it erasure?

❖

The Verdict

Food historian K.T. Achaya notes that the origins of Sambar are often attributed to a Maratha ruler, Shahaji, trying to make a local stew in Thanjavur (source: A Historical Dictionary of Indian Food). If the dish itself was born of an accident and adaptation, perhaps we should be less rigid about its boundaries.

However, when I stand at that buffet and scoop the ladle deep into the pot, I am not looking for innovation. I am looking for the specific taste of home. I skipped the generic "Onion Sambar." I went for the "Kerala Sambar." The roasted coconut hit the back of my throat, and for a moment, the war was over. There was only the taste of memory.

What is your Sambar story? Are you Team Drumstick? Do you tolerate the sweetness of Udupi? Or have you committed the Broccoli sin?