Nostalgia. The ultimate ingredient?

Biting into a Cornish pasty sends me through time. I’m 7 years old again wearing my favourite tie dye t-shirt, my messy sea salt encrusted hair and sandy feet denoting a day out at the beach.   A gust of fish-scented wind blows on my face and the sound of seagulls echo around the harbour as we sit and admire the fishing boats full of tangled nets and lobster pots. I’m with my mum, my dad and my brother, we are squeezed onto a bench joyously tucking into our pasties, burning our hungry mouths in the process.

Food is my time machine, I rely on it to recall happy memories with my family and friends. When a meal has an experience attached to it, when you find yourself in a charming setting with loved ones, is this not when you will eat the best food? Is your mum’s messy lasagne, for which she apologises twenty times, not the most rustic looking most delicious tasting thing, enjoyed at the dinner table after work with much banter and bitching?    

When I look at menus in fancy restaurants, that I can not afford to frequent, I instantly feel intimidated by words I don’t understand and I don’t find myself attracted to the complex descriptions of the meal. There is something almost clinical about huge white plates and neatly, unnaturally stacked food that just doesn’t get my juices flowing! No doubt these talented meals, that are effectively pieces of art, would be divine to devour amongst hushed conversation, clinking cutlery and ambient lighting but wouldn´t I rather throw etiquette out of the window and feast on some homemade pizzas with mates? Maybe it´s foolish but I would opt for the latter, despite being fully aware that a night of lobsters, truffles and oysters could make for a very memorable one. I do not wish to berate high end food in a resentful manner, I am just trying to express my huge infatuation with simple food that has soul and has a story.

As you may have guessed, I’m a hopeless romantic. That is why I cannot read a chapter of Gabrielle Hamilton’s autobiography without melting. I adore her enchanted tales of summer parties filled with wine and spit-roasted lamb and her beautiful descriptions of big family tables covered in Mediterranean vegetables. Equally I love Nigel slater, he also has the ability to narrate the sensous journey of eating perfectly and when he starts talking about a hot bowl of stew on a winters night it makes me feel fuzzy inside. It might be idealistic to envisage a gathering of people, heartily laughing around plates full of colourful salads, oversized wine glasses and platters of antipasto but I don’t care, I absolutely strive to achieve those situations. I will spend a whole weekend preparing homemade guacamole, hummus and coleslaw, marinating chicken thighs with tandoori paste, stuffing sausages and preparing Greek salad just to throw a BBQ for a few people on a pleasant summers evening. I will then sit and revel in the hours we get to sit chatting and drinking and eating without a care in the world and the night will become one a hold close to my heart for many years.

I believe that enjoyable food scenarios such as this have the ability to adapt a person´s taste buds, especially in childhood where you may identify your favourite flavours by associating particular food with happy experiences. I feel very fortunate to have been exposed to a diverse range of food from a young age and I hold my parents accountable for my slight addiction to smelly moulding cheese. I adore the smell of toast and the satisfying feel of a soft boiled egg cracking under a spoon, it takes me back to my nan and grandad’s house where my grandad would sit in front of an open fire and toast bread in the morning. The kitchen table would be ready with a brewing teapot and a big slab of butter from the pantry, my Nan placing eggs into their holders and cutting through the egg shell to expose a bright orange yolk. I didn’t know at the time that these instances would subconsciously ingrain themselves into my mind and play a major role in the taste I came to acquire but indeed they did. Holidays are another example. Our family holidays revolve around food, our repeated visits to Andalucia have put  manchego cheese, grilled sardines, chipirones, patatas bravas, and various beautiful cured meats marbled with fat on the list of our favourite foods. If I had tasted such amazing cuisine whilst sat in a business lunch at one of Birmingham’s best restaurants networking with strangers in suits, would I really adore this food quite as much? 

No, I believe, if somewhat controversially, that there is more to food than simply the taste. It´s the sense of occassion, it´s the comfort, it´s the togetherness, it´s the laughter, it´s the surroundings and it´s eating a plate of tomatoes and being back in the greenhouse with my grandad.

Beautiful India

Many a cider fuelled discussion ensued following a mutual decision between my boyfriend and I to go travelling. I was of the opinion that we should design our journey to maximise our time eating new and exciting food, whereas Steve, being the nature loving conservationist, had his sights on big trees, big mountains and big spiders.

One place I was insistent upon was India. I hadn’t spent 5 years homing my curry cooking skills to then deny myself a  visit to the sultry, steamy country to try out the cuisine first-hand, a cuisine I had come to call my favourite! So, we concluded that a two month trip to India would be grand. But why stop there? So maybe one month in Nepal, three months in South East Asia and four months in South America as well, just for good measure. There went our deposit on a house. I won’t go into the details leading up to our departure, needless to say it was liberating quitting my job and exciting, albeit somewhat frightening, preparing for an adventure.

My first few days were spent in bustling Bombay and I must admit the overwhelming differences to the western world created a major sense of surrealism. I had initially felt out of my depth, I was staring out the taxi seeing poverty at every corner. I could smell it. All I saw was dirt, waste and buildings eaten by the humidity. I was unnerved thinking I was going to have to adapt to this environment. I did, however, see past my initial negativity and realised that my observations  were completely exaggerated by my ignorance and that the country had much to offer. I became increasingly comfortable with India, the hospitality and endearing character of the people made it quite effortless for one. On one of our very first nights we were pulled from the streets of Mumbai and into a Hindu temple by a very friendly Indian family who were visiting the city for the Ganesha festival. They gave us a full tour, explaining the symbolism and practices of worship whilst all the time feeding us with Peda, a milk and sugar based Indian sweet which had the texture of putty and was flavoured with pistachio and cardamom. This kind gesture and warm welcome made my heart swell and we were only to experience similar occasions in the following two months which added to our ever growing affection.

Food was evidently at the core of Indian culture, streets were brimming with vibrant markets, chai wallahs, samosa vendors, noisy dinners and tandoors full of charred and chewy breads. A walk around town caused sensory overload, the bursts of aromatic spices filled your nostrils, the steaming pots wet your brow, the mass of traffic resounded in your ears and the rainbow of fruit, veg, curry paste and flowers lit up your eyes. This beautiful scene celebrating food was consistent across the country and emphasised how intrinsic food was to Indian people’s life. From the feasts which appeared at festivals and weddings to the simple peasant fare of the poverty stricken, it was an invaluable source of happiness and survival combined.

Indians were clearly professionals at economising and were a nation who championed cheap and simple ingredients. Years of necessity had seen them develop  a distinct cuisine using basic foodstuff such as vegetables, grains, pulses, rice and spices. It was one of those rare places you sometimes come across that defies the  high price/high quality ratio by providing some of the most delicious dishes for a few pence. In England,  a common misconception is that cheap food is the kind you find in pre-packed microwavable boxes and that quality home cooking costs a fortune. What a better way to bust this myth than to observe Indian cuisine and take a lesson from it. It proves that, with a bit of knowledge and a bit of effort, we could all be providing low cost meals for our families.Take the humble Dal for instance, a lentil based dish that used little more than pulses, onion, garlic and spices and required very little effort to make. Add to that some hot fresh chapatis made from flour and water to mop up every last bit of curry and hey presto you have yourself a satisfied family.

Another of India’s attributes owed itself to the large number of people practising vegetarianism. The ability to transform vegetables into something wonderfully desirable was another thing they had well and truly conquered. In Kerala, as we floated through the backwaters on a houseboat, our cook served us beetroot pachadi, a mixture of beetroot, curd, ginger and mustard seed – a recipe of his mothers.  It went perfectly with the grilled fish we were enjoying and stood out as one of those memorable dishes that I would never forget. It was like nothing I had eaten before and I knew that if I managed to recreate it at home it would surely send me straight back to that afternoon sailing in the sun.

Thali was a daily part of my diet. It began with a banana leaf, placed before you and washed with water to act as your plate. Several men would then stroll around the diner with pots of curry dolloping spoonfuls onto banana leaves whenever they noticed a depleting stock. It was a potentially endless meal, if you wanted a fifth helping, no problem! Thali consisted of rice, curd, papad, pickle (usually lime), and a selection of curries normally dictated by the area of India you were situated, we received a lot of dal and mixed veg curries but I do not know the name of them unfortunately. This was all devoured using only our hands, a practice that I was initially hesitant about but by the end I was comfortable with. The locals loved our efforts and found it quite hilarious most of the time, being very fair skinned and both of us having a head of blonde hair made us stand out like beacons and we had to become oblivious to the stares when scooping a meal up with our turmeric tainted talons! One of the most memorable Thalis I ate was in Hampi at a place called The Mango Tree. Hampi was a unique place, huge volcanic boulders strewn across an arid landscape with a river running through the middle. The Mango Tree overlooked the river and was surrounded by banana plantations, it was a great place to spend a lazy afternoon and the food was glorious.

Another staple, this time found at the breakfast table, was Masala Dosa and Idli. It took me a while to get used to spicy food for breakfast and it is something I only really acclimatised to halfway into my travels. That said, these breakfast delights deserved high praise, they were adored by the community and were to Indian’s what bacon sarnies were to the British.    Both dishes were created using fermented lentils and rice batter. Masala Dosa was a savoury pancake, usually cylindrical in shape, filled with potato curry and served with sambar and coconut chutney.  Idli were spongy spaceship shaped cakes of steamed batter which turned paste-like when you squished them together with the helping of sambar, making it easy to scoop up with your hands. They were equally delicious, although, if I were to make them at home I would not eat them for breakfast, I would enjoy them after midday when my stomach was ready for the spicy punch!

I could talk for hours about my experiences of India, I feel thoroughly inspired, rewarded and humbled by my two months there. I got to meet some of the most friendly, hard-working and resilient people, who face a far tougher terrain than many people in the west. Their vibrant colourful culture contrasted so heavily against their poverty, their was a spirit that was unfailing despite the adversity that many suffered. I remember speaking to some children who lived in the slums, they were drawing Ganesha in a makeshift temple and wanted to show off their talent. The picture was brilliant but what hit me most was their sheer contentment in such surroundings. It made me compare them to Britain’s young generation. You have children who have next to nothing, who appreciate everything, who are polite and look forward to school (should they be fortunate enough to go) in stark contrast to some of the spoilt youths in our country who are growing obese, rejecting education and are materially greedy. Whilst there is no denying we are richer materially in the UK, our levels of convenience and luxury can make us ignorant and lazy. I never went travelling to ‘find myself’ or become ‘enlightened’ but I have found that my experiences have opened my eyes. I just feel terribly lucky.

Lilac Aubergines @ Man Yuan Fang

Vegetarianism is a tricky subject to talk about without people conjuring up words like ‘pedestal’ or ‘high horse’. I’m sure whenever I’ve spoken about it in the office dozens of eyes start rolling and colleagues quickly return to facebook and zone out of my conversation. But I’m not defending veggies, I love cooking and eating meat, life would not be the same if I could not eat slow-cooked beef brisket on a Sunday or a platter of jamon Iberico when visiting Spain. All I’m saying is that vegetarian food can be absolutely delicious and I often find the absence of meat encourages creativity in a meal. Travelling around the world has really made me see past the Quorn and tofu and I recently found another gem of a restaurant which only contributed to my growing affection for vegetarian food.

In Melacca, South Malaysia there stands a small restaurant in Jalan PM 3, Plaza Mahkota called Man Yuan Fang. It is a Chinese vegetarian restaurant run by a wonderfully cheerful woman called Jean. It is a small venue that doesn’t create false quality by employing the trendy decor and ambient music of so many other city joints, it merely serves brilliant food and is packed to the rafters with adoring fans everyday. In our many visits there we were served stir-fried vegetables containing beautiful lilac aubergines , crunchy green peas still in their pods, melting woody mushrooms and green lemony leaves reminiscent of chard. All the veg was organic and grown in Jean’s garden at home, it was a stark contrast to some of the greasy plates of fried gelatinous noodles and sloppy cabbage we had eaten. In addition, Jean made her own ‘Spare Ribs’ using soya which I was initially very skeptical about but in the end I adored. They were sticky, sweet and covered in sesame seeds and complimented the steamed rice and veg perfectly. Okay, they were not going to substitute a real rib and equally, not all vegetarians are searching for a meat substitute, but these little soya treats were a delight in their own right and I would heartly recommend ordering them if you are ever in town! I’d also recommend ordering a pot of organic tea; the contents of the pot looked like potpourri but the delicate floral flavours were very refreshing and natural.

Credit to Jean who was evidently the founder of such creativity. She piled heaps of originality and effort into the menu and, quite frankly, delivered soya that out-shone the majority of meat-based Chinese meals around. We had, on more than one occasion, the misfortune of encountering horrible reformed meat balls and pork bits in our meals and so everything at Man Yuan Fang was a delightful change. In a world where people demand meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner, where we endlessly mass produce chicken, beef and pork unsustainably and unethically, places like Jean’s restaurant emphasise that meat in such large quantities is unnecessary especially when you can deliver vegetables like that!

Thank you Jean xx

 

Curry. Are we doing it justice?

Curry, without a doubt, is integral to Britain’s food identity. Chicken tikka masala has been heralded as the country’s greatest meal and our supermarkets are brimming with jars of curry sauce, packets of rice, stacks of spices and pre-packed naan breads. Seemingly millions of Indian restaurants accommodate the nation on Friday and Saturday nights, serving scarlet red and vivid yellow curries  on hot plates or in foil takeaway trays. And honestly, how many English people can say they have not once frequented a curry house late at night after one to many lagers?

But does this curry culture fairly reflect Indian cuisine?

Living my life on the outskirts of Birmingham, one of the multicultural epicentres of England, I was introduced to curry from a young age. A family Saturday ritual was to order copious amounts of chicken tikka masala, pilau rice and keema naan just in time to simultaneously scoff dinner and watch an evenings TV of Gladiators and Blind Date. Back then I believed the lonely chucks of meat swimming in radio-active coloured sauce was a true representation of what Indians were eating in India. It was only when I started questioning it, at a later age, I revealed a source of food that was unique, inspiring and far superior to anything I had tasted before.

I was fortunate enough to break my initial impressions in my late teens/early twenties through various channels. My hobby of cooking, my Indian friends and  my 2 month trip to India all contributed to my better understanding of the cuisine. Kaj, one of my best friends, used to extend gifts from her mother’s kitchen to me, knowing how I adored food. She was evidently proud of her heritage (and her mum’s fabulous cooking) and the curries and breads she presented me with were the sort that makes your eyes double in size at the first mouthful. They were all wholesome dishes, deeply aromatic, some chokingly spicy, all thick with vegetables and pulses and cooked with a loving hand that cannot be duplicated easily in a commercial kitchen. And I should also mention the food extravaganza that was Kaj’s brother’s wedding. It all took place in a huge events hall, the room exploding with colour, a rainbow of sari clad women swarming around the elegantly dressed tables, their dark eyes strikingly beautiful against their heavy golden jewellery. I felt immersed in a Bollywood ball, a camera crew raced around televising the day on plasma screens and the Birmingham Bhangra Dancing Team injected even more festivity and wonder with energetic moves and banging drums. Then the food came along, steaming trays of curry covered our tables, the silky butter chicken and Shahi paneer mopped up with large helpings of hot fluffy bread stole the show and were delightfully finished off with carrot halwa, a sugary buttery pile of shredded carrot infused with cardamom and cashew nut.

Another meal, emphasising how sub-standard the popular British version of curry was by comparison, revealed itself in a small restaurant in Plymouth called Veggie Perrins.

It was a vegetarian restaurant specializing in Gujarati cuisine with an unrecognisable menu that appealed very much to my curiosity. When I arrived on my first visit I noted that the restaurant sat in a quiet and somewhat undesirable area of town and you could not see inside for the opaque office-style blinds which stretched from floor to ceiling. This unusual first impression left me bewildered but I was eager to find out more. Inside eased my skepticism, the decor was bright and the music traditional and I found the unpretentious homely atmosphere very endearing. I was greeted by the waiter, barman, cook and owner – his name was Bill. Bill and his wife ran the restaurant entirely on their own, 7 days a week and were set in their mission to provide the British public with a real insight into Indian cuisine. Bill was a great asset to the front of house, he enthusiastically explained each meal, how it would be served, how it was made and what values were behind the vegetarian ingredients. He did not preach he merely added to the experience. What’s more, the food was unbelievable and a complete revelation. To start we had Kachori, a rich spicy pea curry encased in wheat flour, fried and doused with homemade mint yogurt. Main course was Baingan Bharta, smoky aubergines pureed and cooked with chilli, garlic, ginger, cumin and coriander. We also had Masoor Dhal and a creamy paneer curry, the latter of which tasted similar to korma and had beautiful standout flavors of cardamom, clove and ginger.

I was overwhelmed by my extraordinary dinner and I was dumbfounded to see that the place was little appreciated or understood by the local community. The restaurant was pretty much empty and it seemed to be floating on the small business created by loyal customers. Maybe Veggie Perrins did not have the business finesse required to market the concept profitably but I feel it was probably more a result of the public’s preconceived ideas about curry.  In fact, many of my friends refused to join me for dinner that evening exclaiming that ‘a curry without meat is not a curry’!! And sure, I can agree with that on some accounts, a good meat based curry can be fantastic but vegetarianism plays a huge role in Indian faith and culture and this was just another example of the cuisine being misconstrued.

Quite conversely, I believe that the approach to food is changing in England for the better, people are becoming more conscious about their food choices and are supporting locally made, artisan crafted, organic produce. Cooking is now very fashionable, an injection of masculinity from celeb chefs has given the male home chef a massive boost and everyone is supporting the important issues of animal welfare through the medium that is Hugh Fearnley Whitingstall! I  therefore think it is a great climate to advocate real Indian food in England because it seems that people are listening and are game for trying new things. So lets shun the outdated bastardised version of curry that continues to haunt our restaurants and invite fresh authentic ingredients and recipes into our homes. I guarantee that one afternoon of dry frying spices, pounding curry paste, marinating chicken thighs and stirring up sauces will leave you with a majorly tasty and satisfying result and have you swearing never to turn back to the pre-prepared nonsense.

Below is one of my favourite recipes called Raan Masaledar, it is a tremendously rich dish with fall of the bone meat. It is always classed as a recipe for an occasion and yes it will impress guests, but i just tend to make it whenever as it is so enjoyable. Make sure you have a large enough oven proof dish to house a big leg of lamb!

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Raan Masaledar – (An adjusted version from Madhur Jaffery’s Indian Cooking, BBC publication, 1982)

Ingredients

Leg of Lamb – 2-2.5Kg
6 tbsp of oil – vegetable or rapeseed
Half tsp cloves
Half tsp black peppercorns
16 cardamom pods
Stick of Cinnamon

For the paste:
3 tsp cumin seeds
3 tsp coriander seeds
Good helping of salt, say 2-3tsp?
1 tsp garam masala
2 fresh chillies
1 medium onion
6 garlic cloves
50g blanched almonds

Instructions:
1. Remove as much fat as possible from the outside of the leg of lamb and make deep incisions al around the leg in order to accommodate the paste.

2. Dry fry the cumin and coriander seeds until they release their aroma, about 30 seconds in a hot pan but use your discretion and don’t overdo it. Using a pestle and mortar grind your spices down.

3. Roughly chop your onion, garlic, ginger and chilli. Put into a food processor with the ground spices, garam masala, salt and almonds. Add a quarter of the yogurt and whiz up until all of the ingredients begin to form a paste like consistency. Then add the rest of the yogurt, whiz up again until completely mixed.

4. Put the lamb in a baking dish which can be covered for cooking. Massage the paste into the meat, remembering to push some paste into all the crevices made earlier. Cover the dish and refrigerate. Overnight is always a bonus but, failing that, a few hours should work.

5. Pre-heat oven to gas mark 6. Bring meat to room temperature. Heat oil and when hot, fry the cloves, peppercorns, cardamom and cinnamon for a few seconds, allowing the cloves to expand, and then pour over the leg of lamb. Cover the meat and put in the oven for 2.5 hours or more, basting several times. I find leaving it in longer does no harm and cooking time will depend upon the size of the leg so use your discretion here.

6. Uncover meat for the last 30 minutes of cooking. To serve, decorate with some more almonds.

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