Burn the Ladder: Why It’s Time to Stop Measuring Indian Food by Heat

Real Indian food isn’t a ladder of heat levels. It’s a Flavour Spectrum. Insist on Indian-Indian like the Butter Chicken pictured above. Trust us. It's time to drop the tired and diluted BIR "Classics".

The Problem with the “Heat Ladder”

If you’ve eaten in a “curry house”, you’ve seen it:

A menu that climbs from mild to wild—
Korma, Tikka Masala, Madras, Vindaloo, Phaal.

The message?
The hotter the dish, the higher you climb. And if you make it to the top, red-faced and sweating, you’ve somehow won.

Let’s call it what it is:
This curry heat ladder is an abomination.

A crude, colonial hangover dressed up as culinary tradition.
And it has done more to flatten the perception of Indian food than almost anything else.

How the Heat Ladder Happened

This wasn’t born in India.
It was built right here in the UK—through a symbiotic relationship between:

• Local expectations: shaped by curiosity, pub culture, convenience, and a fondness for food dares.
• The British Indian Restaurant (BIR) model: developed by Bangladeshi immigrants, adapting quickly with simplified, scalable, repeatable menus.

One base gravy. Many variants.
Add cream and ground almonds? You’ve got 'Korma'.
Add some chilli powder and vinegar? That’s your 'Vindaloo'.
Add even more chilli? Phaal.

Some correct names. All wrong recipes.

It worked.
But it wasn’t real Indian food.

Chilli ≠ Flavour

In authentic Indian cooking, chilli is a note, not the melody.

Used well, it adds warmth, complexity, and contrast.
Used poorly—or excessively—it overwhelms everything else.

Real Indian food is about the art of finely balanced and layered flavour—brought to life through the almost alchemic practice of blending spices.

It’s the slow caramelising of onions, the nutty warmth of roasted cumin, the perfume of cardamom, the unmistakable aroma of kasuri methi. Every element purposeful. Every note in harmony.

Too much raw heat doesn’t elevate that.
It erases it.

Indian Food Is a Flavour Spectrum

Forget the ladder.
Indian cuisine doesn’t escalate.
It expands.

It’s a Flavour Spectrum—ranging from soft and delicate to bold and smoky, tangy to earthy, cooling to aromatic.

You don’t climb it.
You explore it.

From the rich indulgence of butter chicken to the brightness of coriander chutney.
From mustard seed and coconut in the south to saffron and rose in the north.
Each dish has its place.

None are above or below another.

The Usual Suspects: Korma. Tikka Masala. Madras.

How many times can the same trio of sauces be rolled out again and again?
Korma. Tikka Masala. Madras.

It’s like being stuck in an earlier decade—never having travelled, never having had access to the internet. Quite a few restaurants and food influencers have come such a long way since the days of the Vesta meals of the 1970s and the Sharwoods and Pataks sauces of the 80s and 90s. Let's please not go backwards.

Here’s the kicker:
Two of this troubling trio—Tikka Masala and Madras—you won’t even find in fine dining Indian restaurants worth their Himalayan pink salt. We'd also wager not many people have ever tasted a truly authentic korma either.

Never mind that Madras isn’t even a dish generally heard of let alone enjoyed in India—it’s a UK-born invention, created to slot neatly into a heat scale and satisfy a craving for something spicy and simplified.

This reductive trio has long propped up the so-called curry heat ladder—flattening Indian cuisine into three predictable levels of creaminess and fire. It's actually both shocking and saddening to us whenever Indian food is referred to and gauged by heat levels.

You won’t find us bowing to pressure from supermarket buyers or private equity investors to conform to this lazy ladder. It’s part of the reason we only sell directly to you.

Someone has to stand up for how real Indian should be experienced at home—and take people on a journey of taste that Indian households around the world experience daily.

Because Indian food was never meant to be stacked this way.

👉🏼 Here's why we don't make a Madras blend.

Curry as Contest: A Local Obsession

“Phaal Challenge.”
“Naga Death Curry.”
“Spiciest in Town.”

These aren’t traditions. They’re stunts... and let's be clear Mango Lassi wasn't born to be an internal fire extinguisher!

Let’s drop needing to “win” at curry and more importantly comparing each dish by its heat level. Please! Let’s not reduce a cuisine of extraordinary complexity and cultural richness into a one-note fire test.

It’s time to step away from the scorched-earth bravado and rediscover what Indian food actually is: nuanced, regional, aromatic, and deeply personal.

Indian Food Doesn’t Shout. It Sings.

At Mrs Balbir Singh’s, we’re not interested in how much pain your palate can endure.
We care how much flavour you can appreciate.

Our recipes and spice blends come from before the shortcuts—before the curry ladder, before the massive industrial vats, or the BIR base-gravies and... before the post-pub challenges. They’re rooted in handwritten diaries, regional cooking traditions, and masala mastery passed down through generations.

So no, we won’t be releasing a “Phaal” or "Naga" blend. 

Because real Indian food doesn’t shout.
It sings.

Step Off the Ladder

Next time a waiter asks, “How hot do you want it?”—pause.
Ask instead: “How is it meant to taste?”

In most “curry houses”, they’ll be stumped.

Because Indian food isn’t a ladder.
It’s a legacy.
A Flavour Spectrum.

And let’s be honest—it may even be considered bad luck to continue eating under a curry heat ladder.