The scent of saffron and cardamom was in the air as I stepped off the train at Southall station. Outside Sri Guru Singh Sabha gurdwara, the Sikh temple, a queue had formed at a stall selling malpura – small south Asian pancakes made from flour, semolina, and eggs – paired with cups of masala chai. Men in thobes and women in abayas moved with quiet urgency, balancing their newspaper cones, each filled with three golden malpuras and a steaming cup of the spiced tea. In the distance, the loudspeaker at Southall Central Mosque announced that there were 20 minutes left until Zuhr (the Islamic afternoon prayer).
Outside the station, a notice invited people to Istaqbal-e-Ramadan, an event marking the beginning of Ramadan on 1 March – the 30-day period of fasting that Muslims across the world observe each year. Further down, another sign announced that Ealing Council was hosting an International Women’s Day community iftar (sunset meal). Right beside it, a reminder highlighted that Southall’s gurdwaras regularly distribute free vegetarian food to all, regardless of religious beliefs.
My journey to Southall was being driven by a realisation I had while staring at the calendar on my kitchen wall. This year, for the first time in 30 years, Ramadan is set to coincide with Pancake Day, or Shrove Tuesday, on 4 March – the final indulgence before Lent. Both religious observances are rooted in fasting.
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While Muslims may not observe Pancake Day as part of their religion, many embrace it culturally as an excuse to enjoy midweek pancakes. In a rare moment of synchronicity, as Pancake Day and Ramadan overlap, Muslim Londoners won’t be flipping crepes or stacking American pancakes. Still, they will be eating pancakes all the same. Iftar tables will be filled with variations of the same dish, each embedded in different cultures yet bound by the same ritual: breaking bread, or in this case, pancakes, after a long day of fasting.
That’s why I was in Southall: to embark on a pancake pilgrimage. Saravana Bhavan – originally from South India and touted as the world’s best Indian vegetarian restaurant – was packed as my husband and I sat down for dosas. These thin, savoury pancakes, made from fermented rice and lentils and typically filled with vegetables or cheese, always feel like the perfect way to mark the occasion.
We started with three steaming pieces of fluffy idli (a soft, pillowy rice pancake served with chutney, chilli powder and sambar, a lentil-vegetable stew made with pigeon peas and a tangy tamarind broth). Thought to have originated in Tamil Nadu and Kerala, these pancakes are now popular across South Asia.
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Next, our server arrived with a massive plate of Mysore masala dosa for me – stuffed with spicy mashed potatoes and served with red chilli chutney – and a paneer dosa for my husband, filled with spiced cottage cheese. Each came with its own serving of sambar and coconut chutney.
If the name Mysore masala dosa doesn’t give it away, dosa is believed to have originated in the fifth century, first appearing in the temple streets of Karnataka. The piping hot potatoes transported me back to last year’s Ramadan, when my extended family and I embarked on a last-minute dosa hunt through the streets of Karachi for iftar on chaand raat (the last night of Ramadan). Much like Southall, our search succeeded.
Into that evening, searching again for food, I hopped off the Elizabeth line at Paddington with my friend, Haala. “Pancakes are such a big part of Ramadan in the Middle East too, and qatayef is a staple in our Syrian household,” she said, as we made our way around the corner onto Edgware Road.
Neatly dividing Marylebone and Tyburnia, Edgware Road is often referred to as the Arab capital of London, aptly nicknamed “Little Beirut” and “Little Cairo”. Immigrants from the declining Ottoman Empire began settling in London during a period of increased trade in the 19th century, and by 1970, the area had become a hub for Arab and Middle Eastern cuisine.
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It was raining, as usual, but that didn’t stop Londoners from sitting under cafe awnings, shisha pipe in one hand and qatayef in the other. These popular Middle Eastern pancakes can be served folded or as dumplings, typically filled with cheese, walnuts or cream and topped with pistachio shavings.
Haala led the way to Diwan Damas, a deli specialising in Damascene sweets and ice cream. There was no seating, just a single table lined against the wall by the door, where customers stood for a quick sugar rush. Qatayef became a Ramadan staple for the same reason – offering an instant boost of energy after a long day of fasting.
“Some of my favourite memories are of Ramadan nights with my family, sitting around the table with plates of qatayef, fighting over who got the last one,” Haala said, laughing as I nodded between mouthfuls.
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The next morning, we decided our pancake exploration wasn’t over. Using the chilly weekend as an excuse for more comfort food, we took a long journey to Green Lanes in Harringay. This stretch of road is lined with Turkish restaurants, specialty food shops and jewellery stores. The latter are reminiscent of Dubai’s Meena Bazaar, where open shopfronts gleam with bridal jewels, henna designs and ethnic wear.
We took the bus up to Mattison Road, which conveniently stopped right outside the locally renowned Gözleme House, which specialises in Turkish pancakes of the same name. These pancakes are traditionally filled with minced meat, cheese, spinach or potatoes. Women sat in the shopfront, rolling out dough, placing it on a hot pan until its surface blistered and turned golden brown, then flipping it to crisp up the other side. Several passersby paused to watch their cooking ritual.
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We ordered a potato gözleme and a spinach and feta gözleme – one each – which were served with a small side of pickled gherkins, olives and carrots; the latter reminded me of a desi palak paratha (a spinach-stuffed flatbread). Around us, tables were continuously replenished with fresh gözleme, as more and more people poured in for Sunday brunch.
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Not wanting to overstay our welcome beyond the one-hour seating limit, we left the restaurant and took the Overground to Golborne Road’s Little Morocco, in North Kensington, to pick up Moroccan medjool dates for Ramadan. By Sunday afternoon, this street – which crosses the railway line out of Paddington at its northern extremity – was part food market, part car boot sale, with pavements packed with bargain hunters sifting through antique bric-a-brac.
We headed straight for Le Marrakech, a cramped Moroccan deli and butcher, where piles of dates sat alongside freshly cooked rghaif (flaky Moroccan pancakes that are a breakfast and teatime staple). My pancake-filled stomach protested, but greed won as I picked one up to eat the next morning with butter and jam. The traditional way, however, is to dip rghaif into a syrup of butter and honey.
As I turned the corner towards Portobello Road, many restaurants were offering discounts on pancakes for Shrove Tuesday, and the Tesco Express front was filled with reminders to buy sugar and lemon. Pancakes are ubiquitous in their simplicity – anyone with flour, eggs, and milk can make them. This year, as families break their fast with dosa or qatayef, or rush home with a pre-made pancake mix, they will (most likely unknowingly) be sharing in traditions that transcend cultural and religious boundaries. Thousands of households across London will be eating the same food for different reasons – a powerful reminder of the city’s diversity.
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