Plain Rice Deserves Better: An Apology Seven Decades Overdue

The Quiet Injustice of the Curry House Menu

Nobody writes songs about plain rice. Nobody has ever slid a foil container of it across the counter and whispered, go on, treat yourself. It sits at the bottom of the menu like the shy kid at a school disco, technically invited, never asked to dance.

And yet. And yet. We at Little Miss India would like to say something radical, possibly career-ending: plain rice is not the boring plus-one of the curry world. It is, in fact, one of the great unsung heroes of British dinnertime, and it has been smeared by decades of pilau propaganda.

Pour yourself a cuppa. Let's talk about it.

How Pilau Became the Head Prefect

Pilau — or pulao, or pilaf, depending on which grandmother you ask — didn't arrive in Britain with a press officer. It drifted in through the Mughal courts, travelled via Persian kitchens and the trading routes of the Ottoman world, and eventually landed on British shores the long way round: through colonial officers' memoirs, through Anglo-Indian households, and finally through the curry houses of the 1960s and 70s.

And here's the thing about those early curry houses: they were run by brilliant, exhausted people feeding a nation that thought a bay leaf was exotic. Pilau was a gift. Fragrant, golden, studded with the occasional cardamom pod like a tiny edible lucky dip. It looked special on a menu. It cost thirty pence more, and Britain, being Britain, decided that if it cost more, it must be better.

By the 1980s, ordering plain rice carried a faint whiff of suspicion. Plain? the waiter's eyebrow seemed to say. Are you feeling quite alright, madam?

The rest is history. Pilau became the default. Plain rice became something you order for your nan who thinks black pepper is 'a bit much'.

In Defence of the Plain Rice Purists

But hold on. Let's hear from the other side — the plain rice loyalists, a quiet underground movement who've been enduring judgment at the takeaway counter for years.

Their argument is actually rather beautiful: a proper curry is a masterpiece of layering. Slow-cooked onions, bloomed spices, a sauce that took hours and a family recipe older than the M62. Why, they ask, would you pour that over rice that's already flavoured? That's like framing the Mona Lisa in a kaleidoscope. It's double-dipping on seasoning. It's noise interrupting a symphony.

There's a real cooking logic here. Plain, fluffy, properly steamed basmati — each grain separate, as every recipe book since the dawn of time has insisted — is a blank stage. It lets the curry be the star. It absorbs, it cools, it comforts. When your madras is doing its absolute worst to you at 9pm on a Saturday, plain rice is the arm around your shoulder saying there, there.

Pilau, lovely as it is, is already a performer. Two performers on one plate and someone's getting upstaged.

So Who's Right? (We've Decided, Obviously)

Here at Little Miss India, we believe in rice independence: the freedom to choose your side dish based on the curry, not on peer pressure from 1974.

Your cheat sheet, torn straight from our kitchen wall:

• Korma, butter chicken, mild and creamy things: Pilau, absolutely. The gentle spice plays beautifully with the richness. This is pilau's home turf.
• Madras, vindaloo, anything with a temper: Plain rice. You need a neutral peacekeeper on that plate, not a fellow agitator.
• Dhansak, pathia — the sweet-and-sour crowd: Plain, please. There's already a lot happening. Let the rice be the referee.
• Bhuna and rogan josh: Genuinely either. This is the Switzerland zone. Order with confidence and no apologies.
• Anything saucy enough to need a spoon rescue: Plain. Every grain of that sauce is precious. Don't let cardamom compete for it.

The Call to Arms

So here it is: the next time you order, look that menu in the eye and choose your rice like you mean it. Not because it's the default. Not because the person on the phone sounded surprised. Choose it because you, a grown adult with a fully formed curry philosophy, decided so.

Plain rice, we see you. We rate you. And frankly, we're sorry it took so long.

(Pilau fans, don't riot — you're still invited Friday. Bring the poppadoms.)