The Saucy Origin Story

Hi, I'm Jimmy. Thank you for taking an interest to join me on this adventure as I attempt to bring the authentic flavors of India to your dinner table. Allow me to walk you through my experiences and influences that drove me to take on this challenge.

 

 

Coming to America

It all started the fall of 1999 when I first arrived in the US to pursue a degree in Computer Science. As I stepped onto the sun-baked campus in Prescott, Arizona, thousands of miles from the place that I had called home my entire life, everything felt simultaneously exciting and alien. The sprawling desert landscape, the casual high-fives between students, the red Solo cups at weekend gatherings—I embraced it all with wide-eyed enthusiasm. But as weeks turned to months, a familiar ache settled in my stomach that no amount of new experiences could fill.

It was in the quietest moments, studying late in my dorm room or watching the spectacular southwestern sunset, that I longed for my mother's kitchen—the aromatic cloud of cumin and cardamom that announced dinner, the sizzle of mustard seeds dancing in hot oil, the precise way she folded spices into each dish while sharing stories of her day. Unlike Eddie Murphy's character, I did not come from royalty so a private chef was out of budget. In those days the cafeteria's attempt at "international night" was a tray of 3 hard shell tacos with ground beef and a side of  fries. A friend joked that they probably ran out of hamburger buns or else we would be having sloppy joe's for dinner.

He was probably right but definitely wasn't funny, at least to me. Nights like this only intensified my homesickness, the pale imitation making the thousands of miles between Prescott and home feel even greater. In those moments, I would close my eyes and try to conjure the tastes of home, wondering if memory alone could satisfy a hunger that went beyond food.

 

Time to take action aka "MOM, HELP!"

Unwilling to surrender to culinary homesickness, I took matters into my own hands. Armed with determination and driven by unimaginable cravings, I made the fateful call to mom. At a staggering $5 per minute, these international calls were a luxury I could barely afford on my student budget. As the connection crackled to life, I gripped my pen, heart racing. "Quick, mom—chicken curry recipe!" I blurted, forgoing pleasantries. What followed was a breathless dictation session, my hand cramping as I scribbled frantically, abbreviating words, drawing arrows between ingredients, and interrupting only to clarify crucial details. "Wait—how much turmeric? Garam masala before or after?" The ticking clock was a constant reminder of my dwindling funds, but the promise of authentic flavor was worth every cent. Twenty-seven dollars later, I had three pages of barely legible notes, spattered with inky exclamation points marking mom's most emphatic instructions. I was ready...

Mom and I in Delhi when I was 8 months old

 

Or so I thought. The nearest Indian grocery store was in Phoenix—a grueling two-hour drive from Prescott. I became a master negotiator out of necessity and traded math tutoring sessions with anyone who had wheels, offering to solve differential equations in exchange for precious passenger seat time. "Three calculus problems for one Phoenix run," became my standard rate. These expeditions were carefully planned missions, my backpack returning laden with treasures: bags of aromatic spices, tiny bottles of mustard oil, and packets of dried fenugreek leaves. But ingredients alone weren't enough—I needed a proper kitchen. I struck deals with off-campus juniors and seniors, offering them two pieces of my precious chicken curry for the privilege of commandeering their kitchens for an afternoon. "It's a fair trade," I'd insist while chopping onions in their apartments. "You're basically getting authentic Indian cuisine without the airfare." Their skepticism invariably vanished with the first fragrant waft from the simmering pot.

 

If you don't succeed, fail again

The path to culinary success was paved with disasters. My first attempts at recreating mom's chicken curry were humbling experiences—deciphering my frantic shorthand proved more challenging than any exam. "Is that teaspoon or tablespoon?" I'd squint at my notes, only to realize mid-cooking that I'd used ginger powder instead of garlic, or that "simmer 4 5 min" meant simmer for 5 minutes, not the 45 minutes I'd let it bubble away. Desperate calls back home ensued, with mom's laughter warming the expensive international line. "You added how much chili?" Each clarification cost me another $5 per minute, money that could have bought textbooks or laundry quarters.

Facetime with mom years later, but I imagine this is how she looked during those calls

Yet, as I watched my American roommate's face transform from polite interest to genuine delight upon tasting a finally-successful batch, I knew these calls were investments in something far more valuable than just dinner. Each minute on the phone was preserving a connection to home that no distance could sever, a curriculum in cultural heritage that no university could offer.

 

The COVID-19 lockdown

Fast forward twenty years to the surreal landscape of 2020—a world frozen in pandemic isolation. While my wife donned her physician's coat each morning and ventured bravely into the hospital frontlines, I worked remotely from our Los Angeles home, wrestling with a growing sense of helplessness. "Be safe," I'd whisper each morning, watching her leave, the weight of my inability to contribute to the crisis settling heavily on my shoulders. Between Zoom meetings and news updates, I found myself scrolling through Nextdoor, where amid requests for toilet paper and hand sanitizer, I noticed something unexpected: post after post from neighbors lamenting the restaurants they missed visiting—with Indian cuisine mentioned with surprising frequency.

Hodor, my partner in crime. He made sure that we didn't lose our minds during lockdown

Now these weren't fellow immigrants but Angelenos of all backgrounds, yearning for butter chicken and saag paneer from their favorite local spots. Something clicked as I read their comments, a connection between those long-ago dorm room cooking experiments and this strange new reality. Perhaps those expensive international calls, those Phoenix grocery runs, and all those kitchen disasters had been preparing me for exactly this moment. I might not be able to heal the sick, but maybe—just maybe—I could bring a different kind of comfort to my community.

 

Birth of the "par-cooked" sauce

I contemplated teaching virtual cooking classes, but quickly abandoned the idea—explaining the intricacies of tempering spices and balancing flavors would be challenging even in person. Then, late one night while stirring a pot of curry, inspiration struck. What if I could do the complex part for them? I spent a weekend experimenting, distilling decades of culinary knowledge into a "par-cooked" base sauce—simmering onions, ginger, garlic, and spices until they reached that perfect harmony, stopping just short of completion. I packaged samples in mason jars with simple instructions: "Add chicken, simmer 20 minutes." I left these on neighbors' doorsteps with a note.

The response was immediate and overwhelming. Text messages poured in with photos of gleaming dishes and heartfelt thanks. "It smells like our favorite restaurant!" wrote the retired couple across the street. "My kids actually ate dinner without complaining!" exclaimed a frazzled mother of three. What began as a neighborly gesture revealed a deeper truth—people didn't just miss restaurants; they craved the comfort and connection that came from authentic food. Those expensive international calls had finally found their purpose, transformed into jars of culinary possibility that bridged isolation with flavor.

 

Here we are today

From those frantic dorm-room phone calls to pandemic-inspired community cooking, the journey to Curry Tonight has been paved with a deep understanding of what people truly crave: authentic flavors without intimidation. Every drop of our par-cooked sauce carries the legacy of mom's recipes, perfected through generations and now shared with families across America. We've maintained an unwavering commitment to quality—only the freshest ingredients make it into our kitchens, with absolutely no artificial colors, preservatives, or chemicals compromising what we create. The result is unmistakably homemade flavor, the kind that transports you to another place and time with each bite.

We've listened carefully through countless focus groups, refining everything from the perfect balance of spices to the ideal texture that holds up to your favorite protein or veggie. Even our packaging has been thoughtfully designed to spark joy—as one customer beautifully put it, "Every time I open my Curry Tonight box, it feels like I've received a present!" This is precisely what drives us forward: knowing that success isn't measured in sales figures, but in the moments when families gather around tables to enjoy a delicious curry they're proud to have prepared, no matter how busy their day has been. Because everyone deserves the comfort of authentic Indian cuisine, whenever they wish, right at home.

Present day - Mom and I at brunch in LA