I Secretly Hate My Culture’s Most Famous Dish — But I Finally Told My Family

I grew up in a house where food wasn’t just food—it was history. Identity. Proof that we belonged to something older and bigger than ourselves.

In our Pakistani household, the kitchen was sacred, and the centerpiece of every celebration—birthdays, weddings, Eid dinners, funerals—was biryani. Not just any biryani. My mother’s biryani. A recipe passed down from her mother, and her mother before that, with ingredients measured not in cups or grams, but in instincts. A little more cinnamon for warmth. A handful of mint for memory. Saffron to mark a special day.

People spoke about her biryani the way they might speak of a miracle. Neighbors showed up with “extra Tupperware” when they heard she was making it. My uncles, who fought over everything else, would call a truce over a steaming plate. Even my father, a stern man with little to say, would lean back in his chair after a second helping and say, “No one makes it like your mother.”

Everyone adored it.

Everyone except me.

And for years, I pretended I did too.

The First Lie

I think I was about eight years old the first time I realized I hated biryani. I was sitting at the dining table while the rest of the family feasted on a tray full of fluffy, golden rice. I took one bite and felt the familiar dread settle in my chest: the heavy spices, the overwhelming oil, the pieces of meat hiding in a mountain of heat.

But that night, as always, I smiled.

“Good?” my mother asked, watching me expectantly.

I nodded, my mouth full of rice I didn’t want to swallow. “Very good.”

She beamed.

And just like that, a lie was born.

A lie that grew for years, fed by duty, guilt, and the deep need not to disappoint the woman who made my school lunches from scratch and sang me to sleep during thunder.

Becoming the Biryani Kid

In our family, your relationship with food said everything about your values. If you didn’t clean your plate, you were “wasteful.” If you didn't enjoy spicy food, you were “spoiled.” And if you didn’t love biryani, well—you weren’t really one of us.

So I became The Biryani Kid. I learned how to eat around the parts I hated. How to ask for a small portion without raising suspicion. How to hide the leftovers beneath the bones of the meat to make it look like I was done.

My mother made it for every birthday of mine because “it’s your favorite.” I watched my friends devour their plates while I smiled and said I was just full. They always raved about it, and I never said a word.

How could I?

This was the dish. Our national treasure. The soul of our celebrations.

And yet, every time someone mentioned biryani, I felt a little dread, and a little shame.

The Catalyst

It wasn’t until I moved out for university that I realized how much food was tied to identity—and how much I had built my own around a lie.

My roommate, Javier, was a Mexican-American guy whose family sent him care packages full of tamales, mole, and homemade tortillas. One day, we were talking about cultural foods when he asked, “So, what’s your comfort dish?”

I didn’t even hesitate.

“Kebabs,” I said.

He blinked. “I thought it’d be biryani?”

I shrugged. “It’s not really my thing.”

His eyes widened. “Wait, but aren’t you Pakistani? Isn’t that, like, the national dish?”

I laughed. “Yeah. I’ve just never liked it.”

He grinned. “That’s awesome.”

I was confused. “Awesome?”

“Yeah,” he said, “you’re allowed to not like what you’re ‘supposed’ to like. Doesn’t make you any less you.”

It sounds so simple now, but at the time, it shook me. That idea—that I didn’t have to love biryani to still belong—felt radical.

The Return

That winter, I went home for a cousin’s engagement dinner. As expected, biryani was on the menu—served in silver trays, steaming and fragrant, garnished with fried onions and boiled eggs.

I scooped a small portion, as always.

But this time, it felt different. Forced. Untrue.

As I sat at the table, I noticed something: no one else at the table looked particularly thrilled either. My younger cousin picked at her plate. My brother scraped the rice to find the meat. My uncle asked for yogurt to “cut the spice.”

And then it hit me—maybe I wasn’t the only one pretending.

The Confession

Later that night, in the kitchen, it was just me and my mother.

She was washing dishes, humming a song from her youth, her back to me.

“Ammi?” I said, softly.

“Haan, beta?”

“I need to tell you something.”

She turned around, sensing the shift in tone.

I hesitated. My throat felt dry.

“I… I don’t like biryani.”

Silence.

Her eyebrows knit in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I never have,” I said. “Since I was a kid. I just… I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Her face froze. Then softened. Then… she laughed.

Laughed.

“Allah! That’s what you were so serious about?” she said, wiping her hands.

“I thought you were going to tell me something terrible.”

I stared at her, stunned. “You’re not… mad?”

She came over and touched my cheek. “Beta, it’s just food. I love making it because it reminds me of my mother. But you don’t have to love it. You have your own tastes. That doesn’t make you less Pakistani.”

Tears pricked my eyes. “I thought it did.”

She smiled. “You know what would make you less Pakistani? If you didn’t eat anything.”

We both laughed then, the weight of years melting off my shoulders.

The Aftermath

The next day, at breakfast, my mother told the rest of the family.

“You all should know—our biryani king has stepped down from his throne.”

They laughed. Teased me. Called me “gora taste buds” and “chawal traitor.”

But then my brother chimed in: “Honestly… I don’t really like it either. It’s too heavy.”

My cousin nodded. “Me too. I thought I was the only one.”

We looked at each other, stunned.

Turns out, we were all pretending—for years. Out of respect. Out of fear. Out of habit.

That night, my mom made kebabs and lentils instead.

And it was the best meal I’ve ever had at home.

What I’ve Learned

Loving your culture doesn’t mean you have to love everything about it. You can question without disrespecting. You can reject without betraying.

Tradition should never become a trap.

Today, I still sit at family dinners where biryani is served. But now I smile and pass the tray along without guilt. Without shame. My mom always makes a second dish, “for the rebels,” she says.

And every now and then, someone new at the table will whisper to me:

“Hey, don’t tell anyone… but I don’t really like it either.”

And I’ll smile.

“Welcome to the club.