Preeti Mistry’s arm tattoo — dharyra in Devanagari script — signifies patience in Hindi and epitomizes what a chef like Mistry needs to have, both in the kitchen and in life. A two-time James Beard Foundation nominee for “Best Chef of the West,” Mistry grew up in the United States and considers Indian flavors their roots, as much as childhood burgers and pizza.
In Plate, they wrote, “My food is not a reach to grasp … from halfway across the world. … It’s just like me: too Indian to be considered American, too American to be considered Indian. We are the generation in between.”
They’re known for creating dishes that highlight their roots. Both of Mistry’s Oakland restaurants boasted very Mumbai-dishes, including a mason jar of puffed rice with a cilantro mint chutney, with a mix of red grapes, peanuts, red onion and chickpeas — reminiscent of Mumbai’s bhel, a street food found at every roadside corner and train stop. Paying homage to their Gujarati/Indian roots as well as to their Midwest American upbringing, Mistry’s menu included flaky pav — pav, or buns, a Portuguese term for rolls in India, a post-colonization street food — pork vindaloo sliders, Manchurian cauliflower, an homage to fusion Indian food, created in 1975 by third-generation Chinese immigrant Nelson Wang at the Cricket Club of India in Mumbai. Not to mention tikka masala mac and cheese; the name says it all.
“My food is not a reach to grasp … from halfway across the world. … It’s just like me: too Indian to be considered American, too American to be considered Indian. We are the generation in between.”
But Mistry said their food is neither fusion nor an homage to the past.
For years, Mistry and I have corresponded via email, Zoom and in person. On our first Zoom call, when asked which regional Indian food they represent, Mistry cheekily responded, “Oakland, California.” This confidence of belonging — a “hybridness” in life and food — had always fascinated me.
“Look,” Mistry told me once, matter-of-factly, “I’m a trained chef. These days, everyone with a social media presence seems to be a chef. Being a chef is so much more.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“I mean, do you have the ability to cook for hundreds, know the vendors, source the right ingredients, make sure what’s on the dish matches your vision?”
A chef is trained to manage an establishment both operationally and profitably. Having led large kitchens at DeYoung Museum, San Francisco, and at Googleplex in Mountain View, Mistry knows what it takes to manage supply chains, menus and the operation of huge organizations. They dislike the “instagramization” of food, saying not everyone who calls themself a chef is a chef.
Mistry’s ideas about media and the glamorization of food are thought-provoking, incendiary and, I believe, true. “It’s laughable, really,” they said, “to be queer, but also to be aware that the ‘powers that be’ want a non-threatening queer face who is cis/het presenting” — for chefs to be “different” but “not that different,” nonthreatening in the gender spectrum.
I asked whether Mistry, as an unabashedly queer activist who is most certainly not cis-het presenting, got fewer television and film projects.
“No,” Mistry replied, “that’s not it. Am I on TV? Yes, sure. Am I recognizable? Sure, but really, am I looking for that? Sure, but it’s not important. What we do right now, the very right now, is.”
WHAT DID IT MEAN TO BE Chef Preeti Mistry, born and brought up in London and America, blending California-conscious food with an Indian origin as a second-generation immigrant with a hybridized upbringing?
After stints in large commercial kitchens in Northern California and awards and nominations, including a spin as a competitor at Top Chef and an episode with the great Anthony Bourdain, Mistry, along with their wife, Ann Nadeau, showcased Indian flavors in California cuisine at their two now-shuttered restaurants, Juhu Beach Club and Navi Kitchen. Yelp reviews raved about the curryleaf coriander shrimp, Chowpatty chicken and unrelentingly spicy chutneys.
ONCE THE PANDEMIC HIT, however, Mistry moved to a cabin in Sonoma, hoping to learn about their food’s origins. “It didn’t make sense for me to cook something, but not appreciate where it comes from.” They apprenticed at local farms in Sebastopol, including Radical Family Farms, a three-acre regenerative farm growing Asian heirloom produce using no-till, no-spray, agroecological methods. (Mistry was dubbed the “Prince of Basil” for their basil-nipping technique.) Soon, they were selling to San Francisco-based Besharam, where Chef Heena Patel’s trailblazing Gujarati food is transforming American perception of Indian cuisine, and providing za’atar to Palestinian-Syrian Chef Reem Assil, whose Oakland-based restaurant, Reem’s, combines Arab hospitality with California produce.
In late 2021, Mistry and Nadeau settled in Sebastopol, on an acre filled with apple and orange trees. It was closer to Marin County, Oakland and San Francisco and boasted neighbors — even a few traffic lights.
The pandemic made it clear that Mistry needed a change. Sebastopol, once part of Mexico, was now mainly white. “Very few people of color here,” Mistry said. “But this is a fantastic opportunity, I think.”
Wasn’t it tougher in a small town?
“It’s old apple country,” Mistry said. Last year, in one weekend, they hand-cranked, juiced and bottled 55 quarts of apples; they even gave a local organic produce company over 500 tons, “so they could make applesauce for communities in need.”
There weren’t many second-generation queer immigrants there, but Mistry saw that as an opportunity. “There are bohemian apple blossom festivals,” they said, “and with that comes community. The BIPOC community here is tight — chefs, farmers, cider- and winemakers. At 47, I am conscious of how I effect change; you know, the whiteness of a place, especially Sonoma, is pretty intentional.”
“I’m a trained chef. I leave farming to the professionals. All I do is grow in my acre of land — and learn.”
BIPOC people, mainly from Mexico, China and Japan, have worked in Sonoma County for generations. With the Bracero Agreement in 1942, over 4.5 million Mexican workers were hired on temporary work permits to labor on U.S. farms, especially in California. The World War II Japanese internment caused a huge labor deficit, and people of color, particularly Mexicans, took up the slack. Sonoma’s racial history wasn’t hidden, but Mistry believes that they make a difference simply by being present today as a queer, non-binary BIPOC activist chef.
“We have a right to be here, dammit. I’m building an intentional community of co-conspirators, experienced and amazing wine- and cidermakers, farmers, some of whom happen to be white and/or cis. In fact, the next generation(s) — conscious, intentional and progressive — are bringing the change when equality was feeling like oppression. To be part of this change is why it’s a great place to be.”
When they protest, whether for BLM, Palestine, gender equality or gay rights, Mistry believes that as a minority in a small town, they are noticed, they make a difference.
Despite the apple-growing, Mistry has no desire to become a farmer.
“I’m a trained chef,” Mistry replied. “I leave farming to the professionals. All I do is grow in my acre of land — and learn.”
Mistry said they’re helping to change the structure of food and fine dining. “You don’t often see winemakers who are POC, Asian flair with wine pairing. Shouldn’t be so unique, but … gatekeeping is true in fine dining.”
And they still love their work. “Cooking for others is a special feeling, especially when it is my BIPOC community. It’s about making people happy. With the food, to give them an experience that only you can create.”
Mistry now has a podcast, Loading Dock Talks, which focuses on food people like Hetal Vasavada, Reem Assil, pizza chef Leah Scurto and others. There’s also a substack newsletter. Meanwhile, they’re changing global food perspectives, one hybrid dish at a time.
Mistry spoke about once entering a women’s restroom at the airport and wondering whether they had the right to be there. But when they headed to their flight, a man asked, “Hey, are you a model?” Remembering, Mistry joked: “That’s my (hybrid) life!”
It’s what Gen Xers aspire to be: curious, hopeful, still-strident activists, bringing justice, joy and curiosity to a world in need of it all.
Madhushree Ghosh is a San Diego-based memoirist and food writer and the award-winning author of Khabaar: An Immigrant Journey of Food, Memory and Family. Her 2023 TEDx talk highlights refugee farmers of San Diego. @writemadhushree
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This article appeared in the print edition of the magazine with the headline A hybridness in life and food.
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