It’s the great equaliser. A dish that’s as much at home in the crisp-white-linen world of five-star hotels as in the spluttering-kadhai realm of roadside vendors. A sinful swirl of deep-fried maida that makes an appearance across Asia — from Manila to Mathura to the Maldives.

For the jalebi — that most brash and unapologetic of sweets — is a star. It draws crowds as easily as Sachin Tendulkar. It holds its own against trendy tiramisus and Turkish Delights. And although it commits all the nutritional crimes imaginable (think deep-fried, fluorescent orange food colour, sugar syrup), it is forgiven with every sweet bite.

In sugar-syrup-loving India, the jalebi pops up everywhere. It bobs around in kadhais the size of paddle pools outside any railway station in north India. It surfaces on breakfast tables in Gujarat, served with the equally naughty fafdas. It’s the garam-garam glory of even the most elaborate wedding banquets. And, strange as it may seem, it also marks death anniversaries in certain communities.

Like all things Indian, the jalebi has picked up regional accents across the country. The Parsis like their jalebis plump, red and substantial, about the size of a Frisbee. The Bohras make large, white jalebis — part crunchy, part deliciously spongy — topped with rose petals and pista. These delicate creations are sent to friends and family on the death anniversaries of loved ones

The Sindhis adore their gheear , a spiky, crisp and lacy variation on the jalebi theme. While the south Indians swear by jangiri , a close but subtle cousin of the jalebi, made with urad dal batter. (In fact the jalebi vs jangiri debate is one of those Great Unresolvable Indian Battles in the ilk of hapoos vs totapuri . Don’t go there. Instead, order boxes of both and indulge.)

The regional versions apart, there are distinctive jalebis that only certain hands manage to create. When I was a student at St Xavier’s College in Mumbai, a sad-faced man set up stall at the college gate every day at noon and produced golden jalebis redolent with the flavour of rose, which he served in leaf cups. By two o’clock he was always sold out, and about half his customers were forced to return empty-handed and gloomy to Ancient Indian Culture and Geology. One day he stopped coming, and decades later I still crave that particular rose-tinged chewiness — the flavour of gossip sessions in the quadrangle and lipstick experiments in the ladies’ room.

More widely feted is the jalebiwala near Astodia Darwaza in Ahmedabad, who fries up astounding amber, urad-dal creations. And, of course, the fellow at the corner of Chandni Chowk in Delhi, who draws tourists from around the world with his soft, messy confections cooked in pure ghee. Not to forget all those jalebis come lately — apple jalebi and jalebi caramel custard and jalebi served as caviar — that the deconstruction-and-fusion crowd have discovered with glee.

At any rate, jalebis are as much a part of the Indian landscape as bullock-carts and posters of jowly politicians. Over the decades, I’ve probably eaten a few skyscrapers of the golden stuff. So it did come as a bit of a shock to find that jalebis are not “born and brought up” in India. In fact, historical evidence indicates that the dessert arrived here with medieval Muslim traders, travellers and invaders a little over 500 years ago.

In 1870, Hobson-Jobson (a glossary of Anglo-Indian terms) specified that “jelaubee” originates from the Arabic word zalabiya and the Persian word zalibiya and described it as “a rich sweetmeat made of sugar and ghee, with a little flour, melted and trickled into a pan so as to form a kind of interlaced work, when baked.” Recipes for that original zalabiya have been found in West Asian cookbooks dating back to the 10th and 13th century, and ancient texts indicate that by the 15th century, the dish had made its journey from Persia to the tables of rich Indian merchants.

Meanwhile, this irresistible concoction seems to have travelled to other lands as well. In Lebanon, the sweetmeat is shaped like a finger rather than a swirl. In Afghanistan, it’s eaten alongside fish in the winter months. In Egypt, the Jewish community makes it to celebrate Hanukkah. “Trust the jalebi then, like so many other dishes we cherish, to offer us something more than pleasure to our palate,” Dileep Padgaonkar once wrote in an article about this well-travelled delicacy. “It is a salutary reminder that food and language, arts and ideas, values and lifestyles are all products of give-and-take between the peoples of the world.”

Next time I have a too-hot-to-hold, drippy jalebi on my plate, I’ll remember this lesson about the complexity of history and food. After which I’ll start dithering about whether to pair my beloved treat with curd or rabdi, vanilla ice cream or custard. Some of the tough choices we’re forced to make.

Jalebi pudding

It usually makes more sense to run down the street for a nice, greasy boxful of jalebis than to stand in front of a kadhai spitting with hot oil. So instead of a jalebi recipe, here’s a recipe for jalebi pudding.

Ingridients

About five jalebis broken into bits

Two cups milk

Two eggs

One tbsp sugar (optional, depending on how sweet you like your desserts)

Method

1 Break the eggs into the milk and whisk together with sugar. Strain.

2 Preheat the oven to 180°C and prepare a buttered baking dish. Arrange the jalebi pieces on the dish. Then pour the milk-egg mixture into the dish.

3 Bake for an hour uncovered.

4 Allow to cool for 10 minutes, then overturn the pudding into a dish. Serve warm.

Shabnam Minwallais a journalist and the author of The Strange Haunting of Model High School and The Shy Supergirl

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