Gauss Bazaz Interview
Documenting food isn’t just about taste—it’s about listening to the silences, the stories, and the people behind every recipe.
Q. What first moved you, not just to taste food, but to truly see it; to slow down, frame it, and share it with the world through your lens?
First of all, food has always been my one true love. More than eating, it was the process, the nazakat (delicacy), the affection, and the art it demanded, that drew me in. To be honest, I wasn’t even aware of this feeling until after college. But looking back, the spark had already ignited during my teenage years, thanks to the boom of travel channels. Among them, Fox Traveller became part of my daily routine. A French series on it, Street Food Around the World presented by Ishai Golan, set fire to my creative instinct.
I also fell in love with the Australian show Food Safari by Maeve O’Meara and David Rocco’s Dolce India. Around the same time, NDTV Good Times launched its own travel show, Highway on My Plate by Rocky and Mayur. That show, in particular, stirred in me a longing to travel across India and experience its culture and cuisine firsthand. Yet, every time I watched, I found myself itching for more, the camera moved too fast, the explanations too brief.
That unfulfilled craving planted a dream: one day, I would create my own food and travel show. At the time, though, it felt almost impossible. The dream quietly faded until YouTube began to take off in India around 2009–10. Channels like Mark Wiens’ food journeys and The Food Ranger by Trevor James reignited my passion. Slowly, I taught myself the craft, editing, camera work, and the art of storytelling, all through YouTube. Then came the day I picked up my first camera to shoot my own food and travel series in Kashmir. It felt like stepping into a dream.
Suddenly, I could feel everything; the smoky aroma, the clanking cauldrons, the sizzle of spices, the blaze of the fire, the rhythm of chefs at work. To satisfy that creative itch, I asked endless questions, experimented with angles, and refused to stop until every frame felt right. The day I created my first episode, capturing the grandeur of a Kashmiri wedding, was the day I truly saw my vision come alive. That very first upload was the story I had always wanted to tell the world. That was the day my creative self was born: 24th January 2021.
Q. Food often carries memory, identity, and resistance. Have you ever filmed a dish that told you more about a place’s past than any book or person could?
There is a narrow alley, tucked discreetly within the intricate web of lanes in Varanasi, that meanders through Thatheri Bazar. Following its gentle twists and turns, I found myself standing before a shop in Chaukhamba—quiet, unassuming, yet radiating an almost Zen-like calm. For a moment, I simply stood there, breathing in the stillness, the serenity, and the ageless purity that seemed to wrap itself around the place.
This was Shree Jee, a sweet shop that has stood for more than a century. Here, tradition lives in the form of a delicacy known as Malaiyyo—a frothy, saffron-kissed cloud served in humble kullhads. Beside a vast kadhai, filled with golden, airy bubbles of milk and saffron, sat the fourth-generation owner, carrying forward a legacy born in the very same spot nearly a hundred years ago. From time to time, he would sprinkle threads of saffron water and scatter a gentle handful of crushed pistachios and almonds across the surface, as though blessing the dish with memory and care.
As I watched, it felt less like a dessert being prepared and more like a ritual unfolding—one steeped in patience, love, and the slow art of time. And when I finally tasted it, no words seemed adequate. The Malaiyyo was delicate yet profound, melting on the tongue like morning mist, leaving behind layers of sweetness and saffron warmth. No book, no explanation could capture what lingered there in that moment—the taste, yes, but also the feeling, the memory, the timelessness. Even now, long after I left, just the thought of Malaiyyo awakens something within me: a bud of saffron nostalgia blooming quietly on my tongue, pulling me back to that little alley in Varanasi.
Q. You don’t just show food—you show patience, pauses, and people. When did you realise that documenting food could be a form of listening?
I think I always knew it deep down. I have loved the process of making food so much that, even before I learned to operate a camera, my eyes would instinctively frame and zoom in on the parts of cooking that fascinated me the most. For me, the journey a dish takes before becoming food is an unhurried ritual, and I believe it deserves to be documented with the same patience. You cannot rush the making of a dish.
With years of practice, one may learn to multitask and cook faster, but the essence of the process itself cannot be hurried. What makes the real difference, though, are the people. They bring with them the intangible ingredient I call the flavour of love. That is why the same recipe, with the same spices, can taste completely different when made by two different hands. In the same way, a single place, when documented by different people, can evoke entirely different emotions. In my own work, I choose to slow down. I feel, I listen, I absorb—and that is how I add the flavour of love to my videos.
Q. There’s almost a meditative quality to your voiceovers. Do you script your thoughts, or do they emerge in the edit room, after you've sat with the story?
The process is deeply honest. I only have to lend emotion to the narrative through words. I script my thoughts exactly as they unfolded on that particular day, remembering even the smallest details. For me, a pencil and a blank sheet of paper become a canvas on which I paint emotions. I simply feel them, then dress them in words without diluting their essence with anything contrived or fabricated. It is this honesty, I believe, that gives my voiceovers their almost meditative quality.
Q. You explore lesser-seen corners of India. What does 'authentic' really mean to you when it comes to street food?
Is it taste, technique, or something deeper? For me, authentic food is always the street food of a place, the kind that hasn’t been diluted by outside influences to the point of losing its soul. I like it when it’s still at least ninety percent true to the original recipe, carrying the same flavour that locals have grown up with.
Whenever I travel, I look for what the locals eat, love, and celebrate on the streets. That’s where the real stories hide. In the way spices are used differently from one region to another, in the little techniques passed down through families, in the “why” behind a certain method of cooking. It’s about heritage, not imitation.
I also have a quirky little way of judging a street food joint. The first thing I look at isn’t the food, it’s the plate or cup they serve it in. If it’s bone china, even with a few cracks, I instantly respect the place. Steel plates come next, then plastic. At chaat stalls, nothing makes me happier than being served in a dona—those leaf bowls that carry their own rustic charm. But styrofoam, silver foil, or flimsy plastic? That’s where they lose me completely. For me, the plate says a lot about how much the joint respects its food and its own legacy. And once I sense that respect, I know I’m in the right place, ready to dig deeper—not just into the dish, but into the story behind it. Because in the end, authentic for me is simple: it’s everything that still feels original.
Q. You often revisit places that others overlook—dusty kitchens, roadside stalls, forgotten recipes. What draws you to the margins rather than the mainstream?
There are certain places in every city that have earned the weight of legend. Whenever I travel, I make it a point to visit them first because they hold the pulse of the city’s culinary traditions, the foods that locals proudly claim as their own. They set the tone, offering a more popular perspective of what the region eats and celebrates.
But the true magic often lies elsewhere. There are places that don’t announce themselves with glowing signboards or long queues, but as I walk past, they cast a quiet spell. It’s as if the air thickens with a forgotten fragrance, tugging gently at my feet until I stop. These joints, dusty and unassuming, carry stories no one has told in a while. Trusting my instincts, I step in, and more often than not, I strike gold.
A few such places remain etched in my memory: National Economic Restaurant in Kolkata, Mama Barbecue in Srinagar, Taste King in Varanasi, Bajpayee Kachori in Lucknow, Swadhin Bharat Hindu Hotel in Kolkata—each a hidden chapter in the larger book of Indian food. The thing about mainstream restaurants is that they try too hard. They want to please everyone— tourists, locals, passersby—so they expand their menus, bend recipes, and walk the tightrope between authenticity and appeal. Many succeed, but in stretching too far, some lose their soul.
Rustic eateries, on the other hand, don’t bother with such balancing acts. They exist solely for their people, running on word of mouth and the loyalty of regulars. And perhaps that is why I’m drawn to them—because they don’t just serve food, they serve trust, memory, and belonging.
Q. You’ve mentioned being a restaurateur earlier in your journey. Could you tell us more about that experience and how it shaped your relationship with food?
I began my restaurant journey in North Goa in 2010, with a place that specialised in Awadhi and Mughlai cuisine. Though there was a family business waiting for me back home, it was only for the love of food that I ventured into the world of restaurants. I designed every detail with care—from the open live kitchen to the crockery and cutlery, the menu, the spices, and every dish that stayed true to its original roots.
That restaurant still runs today, though I am only partially associated with it now, as I had to return to my family business after the passing of my father. Running the restaurant for those few years taught me something invaluable: a restaurant can only thrive on passion, there is no other way. It brought me closer to food and gave me a deeper respect for those who run food joints with love and devotion.
Now, when I shoot a food video, I feel an instant connection with them, as if their passion speaks the same language mine does. Perhaps the most important lesson I learnt was this: your relationship with food is what makes it truly popular. If you love it, nurture it, and respect it, people will feel that love on their plates. Money must always remain a secondary pursuit in a restaurant. Fame comes first—because love and care create fame, and fame eventually brings wealth. That, I believe, is a truth that holds a hundred percent of the time.
Q. If you could film one dish with no words, no voice, and no music; just the sounds of cooking, what would it be, and where?
It is never easy to choose, but if I must, I would say the making of a kabab is an experience in itself. From the rhythmic mincing of meat to the slow grinding of spices, every step feels like a prelude to magic. And then comes that moment—the sizzle—when the heat first kisses the meat, releasing a mist of aromas as if the kabab itself has found its voice.
But I cannot stop at one. Filming a biryani is an altogether different kind of journey. It is not just food, it is theatre. The clanking of heavy spoons against giant deghs, the gentle simmer of onions turning golden, the hiss of meat meeting hot oil, the bubbling of yakhni, and above all, that fragrance that wraps itself around you long before the dish is done.
Then comes the layering—the rice, the meat, the colours, the delicate dum, the quiet fire below; all coming together like an orchestra building towards its crescendo. Truly, a biryani is not cooked, it is composed.
Bio:
Gauss Bazaz is a celebrated food and culture influencer, renowned for showcasing the beauty and diversity of India through its cuisine. His journey began as a passionate restaurateur, and today his YouTube channel Spiceler averages over 2 million views per video, reflecting his immense popularity. Known for his authentic and honest food reviews, Spiceler has built a loyal community of more than 2 million followers across YouTube, Facebook, and Instagram.
His acclaimed Food and Culture series—featuring Kashmir, Varanasi, Delhi, and Kolkata—has significantly boosted food tourism in these regions. Gauss’s work has earned him features in The Telegraph and collaborations with major brands, including an exclusive partnership with the IPL team Lucknow Super Giants, where he explored the rich street food culture of Lucknow. Driven by the vision of uplifting India’s food and cultural tourism, Gauss Bazaz continues to inspire pride in India’s heritage, making every citizen feel more deeply connected to their motherland.
Interviewed by - Divya Darshni
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