Spice is the most misunderstood element in British food culture — and British food culture’s relationship with it is genuinely complicated. There’s a tendency to treat it as a dial: mild, medium, hot. Something measured and apologised for. Something that either frightens people or defines the dish entirely.
This isn’t how spice actually works in the kitchens that use it most well. In those kitchens, spice is not the point. It’s a component.
Two kinds of spice
The word covers two different things that behave completely differently:
Heat spices — chilli, black pepper, white pepper, Szechuan peppercorn, horseradish — produce a physical heat sensation through chemical compounds (capsaicin, piperine, allyl isothiocyanate). This heat builds, peaks and fades. The intensity and duration varies by variety and preparation.
Warmth spices — cumin, coriander, turmeric, cinnamon, cardamom, star anise, cloves, ginger — produce warmth and depth through volatile aromatic compounds that are released by fat and heat. They don’t cause heat sensation the same way chilli does. They add complexity, earthiness, sweetness, or floral notes depending on which spice and how it’s treated.
Most dishes that people call “spicy” are actually using both kinds, and the balance between them is what determines whether a dish is merely hot or actually complex.
Why heat level matters beyond preference
The question of how much heat to use is not purely about the audience’s preference, though that matters. It’s also about what the heat does to the dish.
At low levels, chilli adds a background warmth that improves perception of other flavours. It’s not noticeable as heat but it makes the dish feel more alive. This is why a small amount of dried chilli goes into Italian braised dishes, into bean stews, into many things where “spice” is not the identity of the dish.
At medium levels, heat becomes perceptible and starts to interact with fat, acid and sweetness in the dish. A medium-heat curry works because coconut milk or yoghurt tempers the heat; a squeeze of lemon at the end brightens it; a sweet element (onion, tomato) rounds it. Remove any of those elements and the same heat level feels harsher.
At high levels, heat is the point. The dish is built around it. This requires careful construction: enough fat to carry the flavour, enough acid to cut through, enough aromatic depth to give the heat something to sit in. Chilli heat without these elements is just burn. With them, it’s the experience.
How we think about it in our kitchen
Across a weekly menu, we try to offer a range — not in the way a restaurant menu offers mild, medium and hot options, but in a more natural way. Some dishes carry warmth spices without noticeable heat (a pearl barley dish with cumin and coriander that reads as earthy rather than spiced). Some have a background heat that’s present but not the focus (a braise finished with a small amount of dried chilli). One dish on any given week might have heat as a more central element.
The aim is that every dish is properly seasoned — that warmth spices are bloomed correctly in oil before other ingredients are added, that fresh chilli is added at the right stage, that dried chilli is given enough time to dissolve into the sauce — without every dish being what most people would describe as “spicy.”
The technique
Warmth spices perform better toasted in a dry pan before use, or bloomed in fat at the start of cooking. Cumin seeds toasted until they begin to pop and smell roasted are a different ingredient to cumin seeds added directly to a dish. The same applies to whole coriander, cardamom, fennel seeds: heat drives off moisture, concentrates flavour, and changes the character of the spice.
Fresh chilli gives brightness and a clean heat. Dried chilli (flakes, whole dried, or dried and ground) gives depth and a slower-building heat. Both have uses; they’re not interchangeable. A dish that wants a chilli presence that builds through cooking — a braise, a long sauce — gets dried. A dish that wants a chilli note that remains bright — a fresh salsa, a dressing — gets fresh.
This is the detail level at which spice becomes interesting rather than intimidating. Not heat as a dial. Heat as a decision about what kind of depth a dish needs.
Food that’s complex is more interesting than food that’s merely hot. The spice is the path to complexity, not the destination.