Indian Summer
Photo © Rob Jones
I possibly had an unusual childhood, certainly in terms of food.
During the Second World War, my dad served in India. He was there for the best part of five years. Inevitably he returned with some exotic tastes which, my mother bravely tried to cater for, even though South Wales in the late fifties and sixties, still languishing in post-war austerity, was very poorly equipped to satisfy.
Nevertheless …
The kitchen cupboard was always full of spices, which as kids we were warned to keep away from. They were expensive, on the top shelf, and most persuasively: ‘They’re your Dad’s.’
Occasionally, it was curry night … again, not for the likes of us kids ... and to be honest that was fine by me.
Curry Night = Vesta Curry in a box. Which produced some limp rice, a brown stringy meaty mush, and the highlight … flat noodles which puffed up like magic when dropped into hot oil. Occasionally there was a pack of grey looking poppadums.
Rather than sparking a fascination for cuisines of the world, it had the effect of closing any interest down. Quite frankly there was simply no expectation of eating foreign ‘muck’ as my brother would tactlessly describe it.
However, I think Madhur Jaffrey’s book was just about the only cook book we had in the house, apart from a faded fifties recipe compendium, and some cuttings from decades of Women’s Realm magazine.
Of course, he was the first to embrace Chinese food, once he learned to drive and discovered the joys of ‘a night out on the town.’ Which of course had to be punctuated with buying a takeaway to bring home. We underlings feasted on whatever was left over, while watching a Hammer House of Horror on the TV with the lights out.
Acceptable ‘Foreign’ was Black Forest Gateau, or Coq au Vin.
I do recall that ‘Going out for an Indian’ was a regular thing at one point in my life. But not sure when. By my college days … it was all Italian, Thai or Mexican food.
It came back into my life when I ended up in Kathmandu and had some really smashing meals in the Himalayas. And remarkably there are a couple of very decent ‘Indian’ restaurants within a brief car drive of the mountain here.
Anyhow, so I was not going to complain when after the Wales/Australia rugby match in Cardiff, we gravitated to Zeera’s in Brecon for a couple of beers and a slap up ‘Indian’ meal. It was all just fab. A trip down memory lane. (Reader, I had the mixed starter and Butter Chicken.)
But I felt very guilty, that despite my family heritaage, and my fascination for foods of the world, I am still terribly ignorant about ‘Indian’ food … I keep putting that in quotes, because I am well aware that much of what we favour in the UK could just as easily come from Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Nepal or even Burma, or indeed would be unrecognisable in south Asia.
And why is it, after all these years of eating ‘Indian’ food, it hasn’t sunk in that ‘korma’ just means ‘braised,’ ‘Masala’ is simply a mix of spices used in dishes, ‘Gobi’ is cauliflower and ‘Gosht’ is meat. This is a handy glossary.
I am resolved to learn a little more about ‘Indian’ cuisine … and to move away from the usual familiar suspects - the Chicken Korma, the Lamb Tikka and the Vindaloo Curry. Although I do rather like them.
R
