Coriander carries the memory of both fruit and earth. On the tongue it is warm, nutty, and lightly peppery, but with a lift of citrus that recalls orange peel or crushed lemongrass. Its aroma is both sunny and grounding, like a field after harvest where fruit skins dry alongside straw. Unlike more aggressive spices, Coriander never dominates. Instead it blends, connects, bridges. Too much and it dulls the dish, too little and something feels missing. It is best thought of as the architecture of flavour: unseen, steady, indispensable.

Native to the Mediterranean, Coriander travelled east with traders and monks, reaching the Himalayas centuries ago. In Sanskrit it was known as Dhanyaka, meaning “the auspicious seed.” It became both a culinary staple and an offering in temples. Ancient physicians used it for digestion, to calm fevers, and even as an aphrodisiac. In Bengal, roasted Coriander is ground fresh for spice pastes, while in Nepal and Kashmir it perfumes breads and broths. Today it remains woven into local foodways, its duality as both herb (leaf) and spice (seed) ensuring its presence in nearly every kitchen.