One of India’s unique hybrid cuisines, Anglo-Indian
food is the fascinating sum of its mish-mash of flavours and textures—with a
few unusually named savoury dishes thrown in for dramatic effect.
(An edited version of this article first appeared in the 25th August 2019 issue of The Hindu newspaper's Sunday Magazine section on pages 26-27 https://www.thehindu.com/life-and-style/food/spinsters-delight-pish-pash-and-kedgeree-a-few-favourite-things-from-my-anglo-indian-family-kitchen/article29231232.ece)
By Raul Dias
I kid you not, but “Gladys Myrtle Harbour—last of the
great Anglos”, was how my late maternal grandmother introduced herself to those
she’d meet for the first time. Always insisting on including her maiden
surname, her self-appointed title as a ‘propah’, card-carrying member of a
dying breed and shunning her official name of “Mrs. Lobo” all in one fell
swoop. None of us minded it, least of all my ever-giggling Goan grandfather who
indulged his proudly Anglo-Indian wife to the hilt.
Nan—as we called her—was full of odd little quirks and peculiarities that would embarrass most. But not us eight grandkids who were always amused by her antics. Three of her most abiding memories that have stayed with me almost two decades since her passing are her signature Chanel No. 5 fragrance, her mother-of-pearl tipped cigarette holder and her predilection for profanity. The last, amply reflected in one of my favourite Anglo-Indian dishes that she was spectacularly good at conjuring up every Saturday for lunch at her home in Jaipur.
Nan—as we called her—was full of odd little quirks and peculiarities that would embarrass most. But not us eight grandkids who were always amused by her antics. Three of her most abiding memories that have stayed with me almost two decades since her passing are her signature Chanel No. 5 fragrance, her mother-of-pearl tipped cigarette holder and her predilection for profanity. The last, amply reflected in one of my favourite Anglo-Indian dishes that she was spectacularly good at conjuring up every Saturday for lunch at her home in Jaipur.
Having
a ball
Yes, none of that wishy-washy “bad word curry” or worse “meat kofta curry” business for the Anglo-Indian staple of beef ball curry that would make most others blush before referring to it by its original name. Nan, in fact, had an even more ribald moniker for said curry. She’d occasionally call it “spinster’s delight curry”. I rest my case!
Replete with chunks of potato—that I’d shamelessly bogart—nan’s version of ball curry always had coconut milk in it, perhaps as a tribute to her Goan husband. And it was never had sans its trusted cohorts of the turmeric-enhanced yellow rice and devil chutney. The latter a scary looking, but innocuous tasting condiment made from mild red chillies, tomatoes, sugar and vinegar.
Speaking of deceptive-looking dishes, another Anglo dish that I daresay my mum makes better than Nan ever did is the oddly named chicken country captain. The story behind this thick, angry red hued dish’s genesis is a rather interesting one. Apparently, in the early days of the East India Company, British trade ships sailing the waters in India were referred to as ‘country ships’ and thus their captains—‘country captains’. The hybrid dish of chicken country captain that had elements borrowed from the popular Italian preparation of chicken cacciatore and jazzed up with spices like chillies and coriander was a popular dish at said captains’ tables and hence its name.
Yes, none of that wishy-washy “bad word curry” or worse “meat kofta curry” business for the Anglo-Indian staple of beef ball curry that would make most others blush before referring to it by its original name. Nan, in fact, had an even more ribald moniker for said curry. She’d occasionally call it “spinster’s delight curry”. I rest my case!
Replete with chunks of potato—that I’d shamelessly bogart—nan’s version of ball curry always had coconut milk in it, perhaps as a tribute to her Goan husband. And it was never had sans its trusted cohorts of the turmeric-enhanced yellow rice and devil chutney. The latter a scary looking, but innocuous tasting condiment made from mild red chillies, tomatoes, sugar and vinegar.
Speaking of deceptive-looking dishes, another Anglo dish that I daresay my mum makes better than Nan ever did is the oddly named chicken country captain. The story behind this thick, angry red hued dish’s genesis is a rather interesting one. Apparently, in the early days of the East India Company, British trade ships sailing the waters in India were referred to as ‘country ships’ and thus their captains—‘country captains’. The hybrid dish of chicken country captain that had elements borrowed from the popular Italian preparation of chicken cacciatore and jazzed up with spices like chillies and coriander was a popular dish at said captains’ tables and hence its name.
Comfort
food
Now, unlike the Goan side of my family where falling ill meant being force-fed boring ‘convalesce specials’ like the watery pez (rice gruel) and tizann, a glue-like warm porridge made with nachni (finger millet), the Anglos seemed to celebrate sickness to the hilt. Whenever one of us was a bit under the weather, Nan would get her trusted cook Kesari to conjure up wonderful concoctions like pish-pash and kedgeree. So much so that we’d almost hope to get sick to enjoy the two!
Though both are relatively similar in taste and texture, and both one-pot wonders, the former was always my clear favourite. Essentially a dish made with soft rice and some form of protein (mostly chicken) the term pish-pash was first recorded by English writer Augustus Prinsep in the mid-19th century where he called it “a slop of rice-soup with small pieces of meat in it, much used in the Anglo-Indian nursery.” Its name, in fact, is borrowed from the Persian term to break down something or pashidan.
On the contrary, the etymology of kedgeree is pretty lucid and prima facie obvious. The Anglo-Indian take on India’s greatest comfort food of khichdi is one that is made up of cooked, flaked fish (either haddock, tuna or salmon), boiled rice, parsley, hard-boiled eggs, curry powder, butter or cream, and occasionally sultanas.
Now, unlike the Goan side of my family where falling ill meant being force-fed boring ‘convalesce specials’ like the watery pez (rice gruel) and tizann, a glue-like warm porridge made with nachni (finger millet), the Anglos seemed to celebrate sickness to the hilt. Whenever one of us was a bit under the weather, Nan would get her trusted cook Kesari to conjure up wonderful concoctions like pish-pash and kedgeree. So much so that we’d almost hope to get sick to enjoy the two!
Though both are relatively similar in taste and texture, and both one-pot wonders, the former was always my clear favourite. Essentially a dish made with soft rice and some form of protein (mostly chicken) the term pish-pash was first recorded by English writer Augustus Prinsep in the mid-19th century where he called it “a slop of rice-soup with small pieces of meat in it, much used in the Anglo-Indian nursery.” Its name, in fact, is borrowed from the Persian term to break down something or pashidan.
On the contrary, the etymology of kedgeree is pretty lucid and prima facie obvious. The Anglo-Indian take on India’s greatest comfort food of khichdi is one that is made up of cooked, flaked fish (either haddock, tuna or salmon), boiled rice, parsley, hard-boiled eggs, curry powder, butter or cream, and occasionally sultanas.
East
meets South
Just like Saturday’s lunch had its ball curry-yellow rice, Sunday’s lunch at Nan’s was devoted to her favourite duo of mutton jalfrezi-pepper water. Now, the super-spicy jalfrezi is one scrumptious curry that gets the Anglos all divided up in two factions as to its origins. While my mum and her sisters claim that it was named in honour of an old British Army officer named Colonel Frazer, my grandaunt Audrey Rose has another theory. According to her, the name of the dish is derived from the colloquial Bengali word jhal porhezi, where jhal (not to be confused with jhol or water!) means hot, while porhezi comes from the Persian word, parhezi means suitable for a diet.
And if you ask me, its ‘plate-fellow’ of pepper water is nothing but an Anglo riff on the much-loved, tamarind pulp-based rasam or saaru of south India. Right down to the tempering of mustard seeds and curry leaves that are added at the end for that dramatic, sizzling finish.
Just like Saturday’s lunch had its ball curry-yellow rice, Sunday’s lunch at Nan’s was devoted to her favourite duo of mutton jalfrezi-pepper water. Now, the super-spicy jalfrezi is one scrumptious curry that gets the Anglos all divided up in two factions as to its origins. While my mum and her sisters claim that it was named in honour of an old British Army officer named Colonel Frazer, my grandaunt Audrey Rose has another theory. According to her, the name of the dish is derived from the colloquial Bengali word jhal porhezi, where jhal (not to be confused with jhol or water!) means hot, while porhezi comes from the Persian word, parhezi means suitable for a diet.
And if you ask me, its ‘plate-fellow’ of pepper water is nothing but an Anglo riff on the much-loved, tamarind pulp-based rasam or saaru of south India. Right down to the tempering of mustard seeds and curry leaves that are added at the end for that dramatic, sizzling finish.
SUNDAY RECIPE
Chicken Country Captain
(Recipe courtesy, Ann Dias)
Chicken Country Captain
(Recipe courtesy, Ann Dias)
INGREDIENTS:
Chicken pieces (drumsticks and thighs) 500 gms
Vegetable oil 5 tbsp
Onions (sliced) 4
Water 1 cup
Salt ½ tsp
Coriander powder 1 tbsp
Cumin powder 1 tsp
Turmeric powder ½ tsp
Dried Kashmiri chillies 6
Fresh green chillies (slit lengthwise) 3
Fresh coriander leaves (chopped) ½ cup
Ginger (finely chopped) 2-inch piece
White vinegar 2 tbsp
Sugar 1 tbsp
Potatoes (cubed and deep fried) 5
Chicken pieces (drumsticks and thighs) 500 gms
Vegetable oil 5 tbsp
Onions (sliced) 4
Water 1 cup
Salt ½ tsp
Coriander powder 1 tbsp
Cumin powder 1 tsp
Turmeric powder ½ tsp
Dried Kashmiri chillies 6
Fresh green chillies (slit lengthwise) 3
Fresh coriander leaves (chopped) ½ cup
Ginger (finely chopped) 2-inch piece
White vinegar 2 tbsp
Sugar 1 tbsp
Potatoes (cubed and deep fried) 5
METHOD:
1. Heat oil in a medium sized pan and sauté sliced onions till golden brown.
2. Add the chicken pieces and fry for 10 minutes. Add the water and salt and allow to cook till tender. Remove chicken and set aside.
3. In a spice blender, make a smooth paste of the coriander, cumin and turmeric powders along with the Kashmiri chillies and a splash of water.
4. To the residual liquid of the chicken and onions in the pan, add the spice paste, green chillies, fresh coriander leaves, ginger, vinegar and sugar. Simmer till the gravy is thick.
4. Add the chicken pieces and fried potato cubes and cook for another 5-7 minutes.
5. Serve hot with either herbed rice or garlic bread.
1. Heat oil in a medium sized pan and sauté sliced onions till golden brown.
2. Add the chicken pieces and fry for 10 minutes. Add the water and salt and allow to cook till tender. Remove chicken and set aside.
3. In a spice blender, make a smooth paste of the coriander, cumin and turmeric powders along with the Kashmiri chillies and a splash of water.
4. To the residual liquid of the chicken and onions in the pan, add the spice paste, green chillies, fresh coriander leaves, ginger, vinegar and sugar. Simmer till the gravy is thick.
4. Add the chicken pieces and fried potato cubes and cook for another 5-7 minutes.
5. Serve hot with either herbed rice or garlic bread.
(An edited version of this article first appeared in the 25th August 2019 issue of The Hindu newspaper's Sunday Magazine section on pages 26-27 https://www.thehindu.com/life-and-style/food/spinsters-delight-pish-pash-and-kedgeree-a-few-favourite-things-from-my-anglo-indian-family-kitchen/article29231232.ece)
No comments:
Post a Comment