Some regrets linger longer than others. The fourth gulab jamun when you were already full. The roadside pani puri that led to two days of betrayal by your stomach. The 2 a.m. Maggi that seemed like self-care but was really a declaration of poor life choices. And yet, if given the chance, you’d do it all again. Maybe not better. Just exactly the same. Because some food regrets are worth it. Entirely, deliciously, unapologetically worth it.
I’ve had my share. The midnight biryani that felt like romance until it became heartburn. The day I tried to eat all six items in a South Indian wedding banana leaf thali—twice. The ill-advised kulfi from a pushcart in May heat, which melted faster than I could keep up. I remember them all, not with shame, but with the kind of fondness reserved for great stories and terrible decisions.
The Joy of Knowing Better—and Not Caring
We always know better. That’s half the thrill. You see the pakora glistening in oil, you know your jeans will protest tomorrow—and still, you eat it. You taste the spice in the first spoon of misal pav, your tongue already tingling—and you ask for extra tari anyway. These aren’t accidents. They’re acts of devotion. They’re moments where the heart grabs the plate and says, “Let me handle this.”
And when the regret inevitably follows—when you’re lying on the couch, sipping cold Rooh Afza and wondering if you’ve made a grave mistake—you still don’t wish it away. You just wait it out, already planning the next time. Because food regret, unlike other kinds, doesn’t come with bitterness. Just burps, and maybe a little nostalgia.
Family-Endorsed Mistakes
There were entire meals growing up that we knew would end in regret. “Don’t eat too much of that,” someone would warn. And five minutes later, they’d be sneaking a second helping alongside you. Diwali laddoos that felt like cement after the fourth one. Mangoes devoured straight from the seed, strings stuck in your teeth, stomach rebellion imminent. But no one stopped. Why would you? Some foods were designed to be overdone. That was their point.
Even the aftermath became part of the ritual. The nimbu soda. The walk on the terrace. The unbuttoning of jeans behind a closed door. The collective moaning: “Next time, we’ll pace ourselves.” (We never did.)
Street Food: The Ultimate Betrayal We Welcome
Let’s talk about the golgappa guy near the college gate. You knew hygiene wasn’t in his top five concerns. You watched him reuse that water, serve the same hand-dunked puris to a dozen people in a row. But your taste buds didn’t care. The crunch, the chaos, the fire of spice and tang? Worth it. So what if you clutched your stomach an hour later like a Shakespearean tragedy? You had five glorious minutes of bliss—and that counts for something.
Same with the vada pav that dripped oil down your wrist. The momo chutney that made you tear up in public. The shawarma that you knew—knew—was a risk, but still devoured with reckless commitment. These weren’t meals. They were adventures. And every adventure comes with a price.
Why We Do It Anyway
Because sometimes, joy comes with consequences. And we accept them. Not blindly, but willingly. We eat knowing full well what’s coming. And that makes the act not foolish—but fearless. A rebellion against moderation. A vote for pleasure, flavor, and glorious excess.
Would I do it again?
The wedding buffet I over-committed to? Yes. The midnight gajar halwa binge straight from the fridge with a serving spoon? Yes. The paneer tikka that singed my mouth and still made me reach for more? A thousand times, yes.
Because not all regrets need fixing. Some are just stories—greasy, spicy, messy stories—that remind us we were alive, hungry, and unreasonably in love with food.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
