On Trust, Taste and a Packet of Bafat

 

There comes a time in your life where you know you have met the one. The apple of your eye. The one that makes fireworks explode and the wind blow like every 90s-2010s rom-com ever (like it’s a basement?? Where is the wind coming from?). For me, it was not a person.  It was a 100g packet of spices. And I am not even slightly embarrassed.

What is this “Bafat” in the title, you ask? Let me explain.

Bafat is a spice blend that Mangalorean and Goan mummies have always had in their kitchens, and it is without question, a non-negotiable. This is yet another thing we share – along with our Portuguese-influenced surnames and our language, Konkani. The taste of Bafat is a result of the unique combination of Indian and Portuguese flavours. That part of history not only determined our religion but also influenced our cuisine. We, Mangalorean Catholics, used a specific mix of dried and ground chilli peppers, coriander seeds, cumin seeds, mustard seeds, black peppercorn, turmeric, cinnamon and cloves. 

The Portuguese love for pork was definitely passed on to us (did you know they have museums for it?). Bafat is popularly used for dukramaas, which is Konkani for pork, in a dish called Pork Bafat that is almost like a gene in our DNA. It is usually tastier when reheated the second or third time (yes, “ages like wine" is exactly right). For us, Pork Bafat = a good day. No celebration or gathering is ever complete without it. Though it is regarded as a pork seasoning, it is wildly, almost offensively, versatile.

Now, you'd think we can obviously just replace it with the individual ingredients. Why go through all the trouble of making a mix? But you will NEVER get the same perfect result as Bafat. Never. The secret is the smokiness – not the smokiness of paprika or BBQ, but something earthier, more deeply aromatic, with a pungency that fills a room when it hits a hot pan. This comes not from the ingredients themselves but from how they're prepared: Dry Roasting (cue jazz hands). My childhood memories of seeing Kashmiri chillis being laid out on sacks under the tropical sun, me waving off the cats, dogs, and oh, the crows (those magnificent menaces) – it all makes so much sense now. 
                                                           

While I have always been around it, I truly realised my affection for Bafat when I came to the UK. In a country where 'spicy' sometimes just means 'we put a peppercorn in the room next to the food,' Bafat is a riot. It became my armour against the grey sky and the unseasoned supermarket meals. My desire for flavour runs deep.

Whenever the exhaustion of missing home hit, the smell of it cooking was enough to bring me back. I know, it's crazy for just the masala to do that but it is true. It is enough to make a grown woman cry and I stand by it.

At this point, I have used it for every possible dish: chicken sukka (dry), all manner of sabjis (cooked vegetables) – be it potatoes or bhindi (okra) – fried rice, fried chicken, even French fries (or chips as they call it here). Sometimes I make a yogurt dipping sauce with a pinch of Bafat and garlic bread on the side. I know it may sound weird, but trust me. The acidity of the yogurt hitting the smokiness of the Bafat is a combination that saves lives. Dramatic? Yes. But it has rescued this broke college student from a bland meal one too many times.  My friends will tell you all about this obsession, although I would like to note that they have come around, which is all the confirmation I need that I am absolutely right (not that I needed it, mind you).

It is why, after every trip home, I return to the UK armed with packets of Bafat powder as my only source of sanity. It is my one true love (yeah yeah, I love my family too. My point still stands).

It all started when I went shopping for things I'd need before my first move to the UK. I realised I had never actually thought about which brand I was reaching for. I just knew the packet. Which, when you think about it, is kind of the whole point. Now, obviously there are many brands to choose from, considering its popularity but my family has always used one. A brand that I did not know I had been loyal to my whole life.

That brand is Savitha. Nice name. Amazing Bafat. 

Simple packet design. No flashiness. Just the same old ingredients stated on the back and the name on the front in English and Kannada (Language used in the state of Karnataka where Mangalore is located) above a picture of exactly what is inside. No fluff. I recognised it immediately, without ever having consciously registered it before. I recently checked out their website and they kept the same simplicity there too, which made me unreasonably giddy. They started with just Bafat (but have since then expanded to other spice mixes) in 1985 and have been making it ever since. And somehow, in a store-bought packet, that homely taste is all there (I'm not crying, you are).

There isn’t much written about the man behind Savitha. Most of what I know comes from his obituary on Daijiworld, a Mangalorean web news portal. Just a man who worked in Dubai for ten years before coming home to start something small and local. Maybe he wasn't interested in being known beyond the work itself. In an era where every CEO is performing their entrepreneurial journey for content, a man who spent 40 years perfecting a spice blend without needing his face on the box is genuinely refreshing. I admire this man. The people who knew him seem to as well. Thank you, Mr. Jefree Monteiro. May your soul rest in peace.

Maybe that is what makes Savitha interesting as a brand. It is not really a brand in the way we talk about brands. It is something older than that. The kind of thing that becomes trusted not through campaigns but through use; inherited from the kitchen you grew up in, globalised quietly in suitcases, recognised on a shelf without even reading the name. The supermarket shelves are full of versions — MDH, Everest — but at home, you stop seeing them as brands pretty quickly. The packaging dissolves into habit. You know the smell before you open the lid. You know how much to use not from the instructions on the back but from the memory of watching someone else's hand. The product eclipses the brand entirely. That is, honestly, the dream for any brand. To become so embedded in someone's daily life that they stop thinking of you as a choice.

Brands spend enormous amounts of money trying to manufacture exactly this kind of emotional grip. The warm campaign. The throwback packaging. The limited-edition tin designed to look vintage. And there's nothing wrong with that. Some of it is genuinely good work. But Savitha has never needed that 'heritage-chic' aesthetic. It does not need to perform authenticity because it simply is what it is — a 40-year-old recipe in a simple packet, generic through trust, meaningful because of use rather than nostalgia marketing. In a world full of brands shouting about being "the real thing," Savitha is just quietly getting on with it.

Also, I can't believe that you get this masala at the price of Rs 70 per 100 g. In this economy?!? (I recently found out the pricing does differ slightly per region, but is still affordable).

What makes Bafat, or masalas in general, fascinating to me as a cultural object and as a brand lesson is that it has managed to hold enormous meaning while remaining almost invisible. It is not the hero of the meal. It is not on the menu. No one photographs it for Instagram in the way they'd photograph a beautiful jar of preserved lemons or a hand-labelled bottle of olive oil. And yet remove it, and something fundamental is missing. Not just flavour. Something harder to name. A particular warmth. A particular sense that the person cooking knows exactly what they're doing or even if they don’t, they know it will all work out. That's the inheritance, really, not the blend itself. Every family adjusts it, adds to it, and argues about it but the confidence it represents and the knowledge that was mixed into it long before you arrived is what holds up. I will think about this whenever I see "authentic" thrown around in food branding. That word is usually doing a lot of heavy lifting for something that means very little.

That is the difference between being known and being named. And Savitha, without ever trying, has always been both.

 

(suitcase layout inspired by @sallyychangart)