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Miss Masala. Mallika Basu
Читать онлайн.Название Miss Masala
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007437399
Автор произведения Mallika Basu
Жанр Кулинария
Издательство HarperCollins
Parathas: Aloo, Gajar and Mooli
Irresistible ways to get a sugar high
Squashed on a train unfit for cattle transport, in an Austin Reed suit and Kurt Geiger heels, I can think about only one thing. Rotis. Round, soft, fluffy rotis.
This is my life: 30-something girl about town, corporate superbitch and keen Indian cook. Ten years ago, just the thought of combining the three would have thrown me into a blind panic, and had me reaching for the nearest chicken tikka sandwich pack.
You see, growing up in India, I cared more about eating food than cooking it. Tantalising meals were assembled at home (although not by me) with little oil, fresh ingredients and lots of imagination, all served with limes, coriander, pickle and green finger chillies. From sweet coconut prawn curry and juicy tandoori chicken to buttery Tadka Dal and spicy-sour aloo. It was all accompanied by puffed rotis rolled and tawa-baked by our masterly cook, Dada. Oblivious to his talent, we two bespectacled sisters ate them hot, dripping with the butter we wore so proudly as lip-gloss at the dining table.
Dada was on an everyday mission – to keep it simple but delicious. As in most other Indian homes, aromatic pulaos, rich curries and deep-fried goodies were strictly reserved for weekends and special occasions. Then, Dada would turn sous-chef to my father and his elaborate kitchen feats. A keen and superb cook, my chain-smoking dad’s speciality was the rice delicacy biryani. It always arrived late from a battle-ravaged kitchen.
Mother, unlike my many aunties, stayed well away from the hotbed of fiery tempers and masalas that was our Kolkata kitchen. Dabbling with the occasional spaghetti Bolognese in her psychedelic kaftan, she preferred directing and overseeing Dada’s glorious Indian meals rather than troubling her good self by actually cooking them.
When I decided to leave it all behind for university in England, nobody thought to disrupt my hectic schedule of debates and rooftop parties with lessons in cooking Aloo Gobi. I arrived in rainy Buckingham, and plunged headlong into an undergraduate degree in business studies and an education in how not to eat. My experiments in the kitchen were short-lived. The burnt frozen pizzas. The tins that exploded in the microwave. The boil-in-the-bag rice that never quite cooked.
I didn’t give a damn. The 90s clubbing scene was exploding around me. My love life and my finances were imploding. Homemade chicken curry was hardly going to see me through it all. Besides, I was about to embark on a master’s degree in journalism. The future would be all about sharp suits, dictaphones, black cabs and mojitos. A far cry from the hair-in-bun, handloom-cotton image I had of aunties and seasoned cooks back home.
But after years of Taj Mahal takeaways and petrol station cuisine, I started aching for some good home-cooked food. I had no idea where to start, however. I needed help.
So I asked someone who had all the answers. Mother. She sent me a copy of the National Indian Association of Women Cookbook, given to newly wedded daughters, the soon-to-live-abroad and other hapless beings.
Armed with this seminal tome, I was ready to become Miss Masala. So what if I now worked long hours in London, spent evenings sampling cheap wine and didn’t know the first thing about cooking Indian food? It couldn’t be that difficult, right?
Wrong.