6 forgotten Punjabi dishes that deserve a comeback

Punjabi food has travelled far, from dhabas on highways to fine-dining menus across the world but in that journey, some of its older dishes have quietly slipped away. The classics we celebrate today, butter chicken and dal makhani among them, represent only one side of the cuisine. In village kitchens and winter hearths, other recipes once carried just as much love and memory. They were slow, seasonal, sometimes celebratory, and always rooted in a sense of place. Somewhere between convenience and commercialisation, they faded. Here’s a look at six such dishes that remind us how much more there is to Punjabi food than the usual suspects.

Before cream and butter turned dal into a luxury, mah ki dal held the spotlight. Made with whole black urad simmered all night on low heat, it was hearty without being heavy. Just ginger, garlic, a little ghee; no shortcuts, no excess. Farmers ate it with roti or rice, relying on its earthy strength after long hours in the fields. In many ways, it is dal stripped to its essence, a reminder that richness can come from time, not toppings.

In its truest form, kadhi wasn’t a side but a full meal – tart, warm, and filling. Yogurt whisked with besan, simmered until thick, then given life with pakoras dropped in to soak. Each household had its version: onion, spinach, or methi fritters, sometimes even plain ones. Served with rice, it balanced sharpness with comfort. Today kadhi survives, but often in rushed versions that miss its unhurried depth. Bringing it back is less about novelty and more about remembering everyday food that nourished without fuss.

Winters once carried the scent of sohan halwa, wheat flour and milk cooked down patiently with ghee and sugar, firmed into chewy slabs, dotted with saffron and nuts. Families stored it in tins, offering slices to guests like treasure. It was labour-intensive, yes, but also communal; stirring the pot was often shared work. Modern mithai counters rarely carry it, preferring faster sweets, but sohan halwa still holds a quiet power: it embodies time turned into taste.

Pinnis were less dessert, more sustenance. Wheat flour roasted in ghee, bound with jaggery, nuts, and edible gum, pressed into dense rounds that kept through winter. They travelled easily, fuelled farm work, and doubled as comfort food. Grandmothers made them in bulk, and children snuck into tins for a bite. Today energy bars crowd shelves, but pinnis carried the same promise; natural fuel and no packaging required. Their comeback would feel less like revival and more like common sense.

Sarson da saag may have claimed the throne, but winter once brought a richer rotation of greens. Bathua, with its earthy sharpness, was mixed into saag to create a flavour that mustard alone couldn’t match. Simmered with ginger, garlic, and a touch of makki atta, it carried the landscape of Punjab’s fields in every spoonful. As bathua became harder to source in urban markets, this variation faded. Its return would be a celebration of seasonality itself.