Are You Roti Mami?

I’m a second-generation Bangladeshi woman from East London.

I vividly remember being a kid, barely tall enough to reach the counter, when my grandma would take me to the bagel shop on Brick Lane. She’d hand me a few coins—because back then, that’s all it took to buy a bagel and cheesecake. I’d pass the money to the ladies behind the counter, and they’d smile, saying, “Here you go, sweetheart,” slipping me an extra lolly—the kind that rots your teeth.

I grew up with my grandma, and some of my favourite memories were going to Stepney City Farm, back then it was called Stepping Stone Farm and the one in Hackney, I can’t remember the name right now. I’d sneak more bread and carrots from my grandma’s fridge than I was allowed to take—she’d say, “Just a couple,” but I’d stuff my pockets full. I gave all the animals names and would have little conversations with them like they were my friends.

As a kid, I was a terrible eater, only craving sweets. I was obsessed with tea and custard—putting custard on everything: cake, biscuits, or just eating it by itself. And not just any custard but that bright yellow cheap stuff, I loved it. I even had a tea addiction at six, always dipping biscuits into a big cup of tea next to my grandma. 

Photo by Rok Tržan

East London back then was different. Growing up there, we never called it the “hood” or “ghetto.” Those terms didn’t come until later, maybe after American subcultures became more normalised through music. Back then, it was just where we lived. I didn’t even realise I went to school in one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods until much later.

The shift in fashion that always really stood out to me and how globalised that became. The boys wearing trackies back then weren’t making a statement—they wore them out of necessity. They spent most of their time outside because they didn’t have the luxury of space at home. They’d hang out in groups, people-watch, sell drugs, or just chill at the chicken shop. Those massive puffer jackets weren’t for show—they were to stay warm. Sometimes when I return and walk down those familiar streets, I hear some of the younger boys shout, “Yo, Rez! That’s our Rez! She lives abroad now!” “What’s Germany saying then?” Their words bring a sense of comfort, yet they’re also bittersweet, stirring a mix of nostalgia and sadness to be honest. 

When I was in school, the boys who were shotting wore Stone Island. It was a status symbol, and you always knew where the money came from. So when the prices of Stone Island skyrocketed and I saw Drake wearing it, I was genuinely confused. And now I see normal boys wearing it, it’s just funny isn't it? Where I grew up, East London was super working-class, a little racist, but still a place where everyone lived side by side. My friends were a mix of Somali, English, Turkish, Maltese, and some Bengali kids. This is secondary school. 

I don’t remember ever thinking it was particularly dangerous growing up, even though everyone around me, including myself, was rowdy. If we ever got into some trouble, we could handle it. I was always the peacemaker—I didn’t like violence, though I saw a lot of things growing up. It was usually something the boys took care of and we had no part in it. It wasn’t until I got older and started using Google more frequently that I realised I had been living in one of the most dangerous boroughs in England. And I don’t even know if it’s getting better, with what I constantly see in the news.

Anyway, by the end of primary school, I finally started eating like a normal person. I wasn’t fussy anymore and loved going to my grandma’s house to eat. I became obsessed with her curries and genuinely believed her pots had some kind of magical power that made everything taste so delicious. That’s when I really developed a love for Bengali food—kala bhuna, macher bhuna, tenga, satni—all of it. I started helping out in the kitchen more and fell in love with the process of cooking from scratch. The way the kitchen would suddenly fill with those incredible aromatic smells, and then sitting down to eat with perfectly cooked rice—it was just normal life for me.

My dad’s a chef, and on Wednesdays, he would send me to school with a big container of biryani that was so good it made me popular. I don’t have a David Chang story although I can empathise with all that as I got older; mine is more like the cutest boy in my year loved my dad’s food so much that it made me popular at school. Everyone would gather around with their spoons—especially the white kids—and dive into the biryani. I actually loved school. We were this group of dysfunctional, hilarious, cheeky kids, and it was genuinely a joy to show up every day and see all my friends. Now I’m talking about secondary school, of course.

Fast forward to today, and I’ve lived quite an unconventional, eccentric life. I’ve travelled all over, lived in a few different countries, and now I live in Berlin, right in the heart of the city. People often ask me what it’s like living in Mitte, near all the museums. I tell them it’s peaceful, and I love it. I feel safe here, and that’s something that’s really important to me. It feels good to live in a place that isn’t “the hood”—I’ve been there, done that, literally.

But no place is perfect, and one of the things I missed most after moving to Berlin was the food from home. When I first moved, my mum would literally pack 6–8 containers of curry for me. No joke—she’d freeze everything, cling film it, and I’d haul kilos of curry back with me every few months. I always laughed at the thought of what would happen if border officers ever opened my bag. I could just picture it: me standing there, a brown woman with kilos of curry in my suitcase, and them asking, “Um, what’s this?” It was such a funny, stereotypical moment to imagine.

As I started meeting new people here, I often heard, "You're the first Bengali I've ever met." It didn’t surprise me much since I’d gotten that a lot while travelling, too. It’s rare to see a Bangladeshi woman out there, exploring. Naturally, people were always curious about the food, and I’d explain that Bengali food is similar to Indian cuisine, but not quite the same. It’s milder in the use of spices and deeply regional. To share my culture, I started cooking for my friends, which is something I’m really proud of.

One of my favourite memories is from my old flat when a friend of mine, who’s Igbo Nigerian, and I decided to cook dishes from our own backgrounds. She made a mouthwatering jollof rice while I whipped up some chicken and cabbage—a dish she still craves to this day. Those are some of my favourite hangouts because I love hearing about people's connections to food and their unique relationships with it, whether it’s nostalgic, comforting, or something they grew up resisting. There’s always a story behind a dish.

Friends loved trying my food. Even if they didn’t grow up with it, they’d often tell me, “Oh, this reminds me of…” and found it nostalgic. That’s how Roti Mami was born—out of sharing food, my culture, and my love for hosting people. I’ve been running pop-ups all summer, giving people a taste of my heritage and flavours that remind me of growing up in East London.

Just last night, a guy behind me at the bar asked, “Hey, are you Roti Mami?” I said yes, and he went on to tell me that he follows me and how he grew up in Toronto, and my food reminds him of that. Here’s this white dude relating to Bengali food because of where he grew up, and I thought that was so beautiful. For the longest time, I thought only Bengalis would relate to the food, but moments like this show me otherwise.

It’s clear that this is something Berlin has been missing for a long time. People often come up to me saying, “This is some of the best food I’ve eaten here.” Bengali food. Do you know how heartwarming that is to hear? It changes everything. Food that has always felt underrated is now being celebrated, and it finally has a platform.

I literally started writing this at 6:30a.m. because three people came up to me yesterday asking about my pop-up, and it just means so much to me. What began as a fun little thing to do at home has grown into something bigger. I feel incredibly proud to see Bengali food being recognized and loved. It’s beautiful to witness it being celebrated in a way that feels long overdue. 

The track I’ll leave you with today is East Side by Scribz Riley.

Love,

Rez x