Lower East Side

For many and all, food is home. The story of the Bangladeshi community starts the same as that of many young students, with a yearning for home, a void that can only be filled by the comfort of a familiar dish. 

By: Zaakirah Rahman

New York City’s Bangladeshi community often prides itself for its representation within the vibrant neighborhoods of Jackson Heights or even Church Avenue. You would not find folks, especially those of the older generations, associating themselves with the hip, suave, (albeit gentrified) Lower East Side today. Yet, the Lower East Side holds its own quieter chapter of Bangladeshi history, one that began on East 6th Street, where a slew of so-called “Indian” restaurants, largely run by Bengali immigrants, came to be known as Curry Row.

For many and all, food is home. The story of the Bangladeshi community starts the same as that of many young students, with a yearning for home, a void that can only be filled by the comfort of a familiar dish. In 1968, five Bangladeshi exchange students with $1800 to their name bought an old Japanese restaurant, under asking price, might I add. They lived on the Lower East Side; some studied engineering, accounting, and business administration at New York University; others worked in different professions. Armed with an entrepreneurial spirit, they sought to recreate familiar Bengali cuisine amid a lack of affordable, delectable options for their community in the bustling city.

One of the brothers, Manir Ahmed had once said, “We had a place to cook our food and to get together every day,” Ahmed. Moin, the eldest of the six brothers, a competent chef, mostly made the meals. The brothers would sit together, talking, studying, and reading while eating vindaloo, curry, and bhuna masala. “But people kept knocking on the door or walking in thinking we were a restaurant, so we thought maybe we should open a restaurant.” Thus, Shah Bagh was born, named after a historic garden in Bangladesh. Two years later, they would go on to open another restaurant, Kismoth. 

The reality was, Curry Row thrived off of what was “hip”. The late 1960s in New York were shaped by a growing fascination with Eastern culture. The nearby East Village, filled with artists, musicians, and so-called “flower children,” had become a center of curiosity around Indian spirituality, music, and food. The restaurants on East 6th Street adapted, offering dishes that would appeal to these audiences. What many New Yorkers came to know simply as “Indian food” was, in many cases, shaped by Bengali cooks behind the scenes.

The secret ingredient behind the success of this neighborhood was the unwavering sense of solidarity amongst its restaurant owners. Manir Ahmed, most well known of the five founding brothers, had said, ''Once a month, we sit down together in one house. We have dinner and we talk. Who needs money? Whose restaurant is doing well? Whose is not? If we lend money we lend it free….Our help is for each other, free. If a brother goes to another's restaurant no brother is ever charged, nor is a brother's friend. We do not charge brothers for anything. That is our custom.'' Looking out for one another came as easy as breathing. In a city that could feel isolating and unforgiving, this circle of trust became their safety net and their competitive edge. When one restaurant struggled, others stepped in. When one succeeded, it lifted the reputation of the whole block. Against the historic backdrop of the immigration act more families came to reunite, bringing even more Bangladeshis to New York, and Curry Row began to grow. One restaurant became two, then five, then dozens. 

Yet, much of the story of Curry Row has been told through the men who owned and ran the restaurants. But that version of history is incomplete. Behind the kitchens were women, the wives, sisters, and aunts who helped prepare meals, manage households, and sustain the rhythms of daily life that made this work possible. My own uncle was a waiter at Shah Bagh and opened his own restaurant named after one of his aunts, Romna. My uncle would leave my grandmother in charge – she took command of the kitchen and most of the prep throughout the day so they could open in the evenings. We’d hear rumors growing up that some of the other restaurants would order food from ours to sell on theirs because her food was just that tasty. She did it all with such grace while also taking care of my dad, his other brothers, and her nephews. 

In many ways, this kind of life was not unique to one family, but it is a pattern that echoes across many. Stories of relatives arriving, sharing space, working long hours, and building something collectively are common among those connected to Curry Row. What may appear from the outside as a cluster of restaurants was, from within, a tightly woven community, one that relied on collaboration as much as ambition. For many, it was the first step in building a life in the city. 

Over time, however, the same density that fueled its success began to strain it. As more restaurants opened, competition intensified. Prices dropped, margins tightened, and tensions grew. At the same time, the Lower East Side itself was changing. Rising rents and gentrification slowly reshaped the neighborhood, pushing out many of the businesses that had once defined it.

Today, only a handful of those restaurants remain. The block is quieter, its identity less immediately visible than it once was. And yet, Curry Row is not gone. Its legacy lives on, in the neighborhoods that followed, like Jackson Heights, where Bangladeshi life is now more visible; in the families who built their lives from those kitchens, and in the food itself, which continues to carry the imprint of the people who inspired it. That a narrow street on the Lower East Side where a group of students simply wanted a taste of home, and in the process, built something far greater.