On my last morning in my family home, I found myself standing in the kitchen, staring down at the stack of thalis in the cupboard, knowing that I’d be leaving them behind. These plates were the last thing I’d thought about packing.
They had been there for my earliest memories: buttery parathas as a kid, warming weekend breakfasts as a teenager, and rushed dinners during university exam season, where food was the only quiet language my family shared. They were designed to endure – to resist chipping, breaking, anything that would mark them as fragile. In their weight, there was a promise of continuity, of resilience that seemed to surpass generations, countries, and even life stages like this one.
My boxes were already jammed with clothes, books, even a blender my mom insisted I’d need, but now, as I looked at the thalis, I wondered how I’d leave without them. The word thali means “plate” in Hindi, but it represents much more than a piece of dinnerware; it’s an entire eating experience and an emblem of culinary and cultural richness.
The vegetarian thali plate at Adrak Yorkville in Toronto.Adrak Yorkville/Supplied
A thali, traditionally a large round plate holding a variety of small bowls filled with diverse dishes, is often curated to represent a region or community. In the context of Indian cuisine, it’s a complete meal, consisting of flatbread, lentils, vegetables, chutneys, pickles, and sometimes meat or a dessert.
From the tangy sambar of Tamil Nadu to the robust butter chicken of Punjab, each thali tells a story. It’s a collection of carefully crafted flavours, selected and assembled with intention, yet it’s often served unassumingly in the bustle of family gatherings. But for second-generation kids, thalis embody the richness of their ancestral culture, even if their own lives unfold worlds away from the origins of these flavours. In this way, the thali is both a meal and a manifesto: both an everyday practicality, as well as a declaration of connection and pride.
“For me, the thali is about bountifulness and variety,” says Ambica Jain, the owner and creative force behind Adrak Yorkville, where she is turning the traditional thali into a gourmet experience. “Thalis have always been seen as budget-friendly options, perfect for a quick, everyday meal,” Jain shares, chatting about the evolution of this cherished dish. At her restaurant, she’s giving the thali a fine dining makeover, weaving in the rich traditions of Indian cuisine with a modern twist.
Ambica Jain, owner of Adrak Yorkville in Toronto.Adrak Yorkville/Supplied
“Typically, thalis are prepared and eaten together at home,” she says. “At our restaurant, we’ve transformed the thali into a shared platter experience, served on a metal platter called a ‘thal’ with smaller bowls called ‘katoris’ for condiments and salads.” Unlike the traditional solo meal format, Adrak’s version is designed for group sharing, focusing on a selection of appetizers rather than a complete meal with gravies. This adaptation maintains the spirit of the traditional brass thal while enhancing the communal dining experience.
This approach is especially appealing to second-generation diners, bridging the gap between their cultural heritage and contemporary tastes. “We’re taking classic home cooking and elevating it.” The thali embodies a rich tradition of hospitality, says Jain. “In my mom’s home, food is served continuously until our guests are fully satisfied,” underscoring the deep-rooted practice of generosity that she finds challenging to replicate within the practical constraints of restaurant service.
Ambica Jain’s redesign of the thali was a deliberate act, much like its stylistic progression from opulent silver and brass to the now-cherished Corelle sectional plate, or as I call it, “Mom’s Holy Grail.”
Thalis were traditionally wrought from metals not only for their splendour but also for their alleged health perks – silver was believed to offer cooling effects, and brass, thought to boost immunity. However, as diasporas broadened and cultures blended, the thali underwent a pragmatic transformation. It shed its noble metals for more accessible and resilient materials such as stainless steel and melamine, eventually embracing Corelle. This shift marked a new era of cultural synthesis. Corelle was revolutionary for my family and, apparently, every other South Asian family that realized it was lightweight and practically unbreakable.
As a second-gen kid, going to temple brings back a strong visual: Rows of people sitting cross-legged on the floor, round plates placed in front of them, with aunties and uncles carrying buckets of rice, daal, dry vegetable preparation, and chutney, pouring everything in the built-in sections of the plate.
The vegetarian thali plate at Adrak Yorkville in Toronto.Adrak Yorkville/Supplied
As I get older, much of my food consumption has moved from communal to individualized experiences. I’m ordering on DoorDash while I binge on Netflix. I’m making dinner while a podcast fills the silence. City life has become a choreography of isolation for many, and in the absence of small talk and shared smells, of the clatter of dishes passed hand to hand, something quietly disappears: the sense that we belong to each other.
The practicality of a sectional plate isn’t just a reminder of home; it’s a point of pride for me as so many other aspects of my culture have been lost in my daily life. Unlike the cult following of the Instapot club, or the technological evangelism associated with air fryers, the thali has thrived in its modesty.
When I was in elementary school, I remember those glimmering, heavy metal thalis brought out only on special occasions, like a sacred ritual. These weren’t just plates; they were prized family possessions, polished until they reflected the golden glow of candles on Diwali or the soft light of family dinners.
Nowadays, our family’s thali collection is an eclectic mix: a couple of silver heirlooms gathering dust, a trusty stack of stainless steel for poojas – prayer rituals where offerings are made to deities – and the Corelle plates we use daily. These plates will travel with me for the foreseeable future, because I’ve inherited my parents’ belief that Corelle might actually be indestructible.
As I packed my life into more boxes, I found comfort in knowing my pile of Corelle plates are durable enough to take on whatever small kitchen I move into, whatever unbalanced meals I try to make, and, maybe, whatever life I am now shaping for myself – solid, resilient and ready to last.
