Back Aa

Cakes & Ale, A Dissertation on Banquets Interspersed with Various Recipes, More or Less Original, and anecdotes, mainly veracious

<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> <h3>CURRIES</h3> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="stanza"> “Thou com’st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee.” </div> </div> <blockquote> Different modes of manufacture—The “native” fraud—“That man’s family”—The French kari—A Parsee curry—“The oyster in the sauce”—Ingredients—Malay curry—Locusts—When to serve—What to curry—Prawn curry—Dry curry, a champion recipe—Rice—The Bombay duck. </blockquote> The poor Indian grinds his coriander seeds, green ginger, and other ingredients between two large flat stones; taking a whiff at the family “hubble-bubble” pipe at intervals. The frugal British housewife purchases (alleged) curry powder in the warehouse of Italy—where it may have lived on, like Claudian, “through the centuries”—stirs a spoonful or two into the hashed mutton, surrounds it with a wall of clammy rice, and calls it Benares Curry, made from the recipe of a very dear uncle who met his death while tiger-shooting. And you will be in the minority if you do not cut this savoury meat with a knife, and eat potatoes, and very often cabbage, with[Pg 135] it. The far-seeing eating-house keeper corrals a Lascar or a discharged Mehtar into the firm, gives him his board, a pound a month, and a clean puggaree and Kummerbund daily, and “stars” him in the bill as an “Indian chef, fresh from the Chowringhee Club, Calcutta.” And it is part of the duties of this Oriental—supposed by the unwary to be at least a prince in his native land—to hand the portions of curry, which he may or may not have concocted, to the appreciative guests, who enjoy the repast all the more from having the scent of the Hooghly brought across the footlights. I was once sadly and solemnly reproved by the head waiter of a very “swagger” establishment indeed for sending away, after one little taste, the (alleged) curry which had been handed me by an exile from Ind, in snow-white raiment. “You really ought to have eaten that, sir,” said the waiter, “for that man’s family have been celebrated curry-makers for generations.” I smole a broad smile. In the Land of the Moguls the very babies who roll in the dust know the secret of curry-making. But that “that man” had had any hand in the horrible concoction placed before me I still resolutely decline to believe. And how can a man be cook and waiter at the same time? The “native curry-maker,” depend on it, is more or less of a fraud; and his aid is only invoked as an excuse for overcharging. At the Oriental Club are served, or used to be served, really excellent curries, assorted; for as there be more ways than one of killing a cat, so[Pg 136] are there more curries than one. The French turn out a horrible mixture, with parsley and mushrooms in it, which they call kari; it is called by a still worse name on the Boulevards, and the children of our lively neighbours are frequently threatened with it by their nurses. On the whole, the East Indian method is the best; and the most philanthropic curry I ever tasted was one which my own Khitmughar had just prepared, with infinite pains, for his own consumption. The poor heathen had prospected a feast, as it was one of his numerous “big days”; so, despising the homely dhal, on the which, with a plate of rice and a modicum of rancid butter, he was wont to sustain existence, he had manufactured a savoury mess of pottage, the looks of which gratified me. So, at the risk of starting another Mutiny, it was ordained that the slave should serve the refection at the table of the “protector of the poor.” And a pukkha curry it was, too. Another dish of native manufacture with which the writer became acquainted was a <h4>Parsee Curry.</h4> The eminent firm of Jehangeer on one occasion presented a petition to the commanding-officer that they might be allowed to supply a special curry to the mess one guest-night. The request was probably made as an inducement to some of the young officers to pay a little on account of their “owings” to the firm; but it is to be feared that no special vote of thanks followed the sampling of that special curry. It was a curry![Pg 137] I tasted it for a week (as the Frenchman did the soup of Swindon); and the Parsee chef must have upset the entire contents of the spice-box into it. I never felt more like murder than when the hotel cook in Manchester put nutmeg in the oyster sauce; but after that curry, the strangling of the entire firm of Jehangeer would, in our cantonments, at all events, have been brought in “justifiable homicide.” “Oyster sauce” recalls a quaint simile I once heard a bookmaker make use of. He was talking of one of his aristocratic debtors, whom he described as sure to pay up, if you could only get hold of him. “But mark you,” continued the layer of odds, “he’s just about as easy to get hold of as the oyster in the sauce, at one of our moonicipal banquets!” But return we to our coriander seeds. There is absolutely no reason why the frugal housewife in this country should not make her own curry powder from day to day, as it may be required. Here is an average Indian recipe; but it must be remembered that in the gorgeous East tastes vary as much as elsewhere, and that Bengal, Bombay, Madras (including Burmah), Ceylon, and the Straits Settlements, have all different methods of preparing a curry. <blockquote> A few coriander and cumin seeds—according to taste—eight peppercorns, a small piece of turmeric, and one dried chili, all pounded together. When making the curry mixture, take a piece of the heart of a cabbage, the size of a hen’s egg; chop it fine and add one sour apple in thin slices the size of a Keswick codlin, the juice of a medium-sized[Pg 138] lemon, a salt-spoonful of black pepper, and a tablespoonful of the above curry powder. Mix all well together; then take six medium-sized onions which have been chopped small and fried a delicate brown, a clove of garlic, also chopped small, two ounces of fresh butter, two ounces of flour, and one pint of beef gravy. Boil up this lot (which commences with the onions), and when boiling stir in the rest of the mixture. Let it all simmer down, and then add the solid part of the curry, i.e. the meat, cut in portions not larger than two inches square. </blockquote> Remember, O frugal housewife, that the turmeric portion of the entertainment should be added with a niggard hand. “Too much turmeric” is the fault which is found with most curries made in England. I remember, when a boy, that there was an idea rooted in my mind that curries were made with Doctor Gregory’s Powder, an unsavoury drug with which we were periodically regaled by the head nurse; and there was always a fierce conflict at the dinner-table when the bill-of-fare included this (as we supposed) physic-al terror. But it was simply the taste of turmeric to which we took exception. What is Turmeric? A plant in cultivation all over India, whose tubers yield a deep yellow powder of a resinous nature. This resinous powder is sold in lumps, and is largely used for adulterating mustard; just as inferior anchovy sauce is principally composed of Armenian Bole, the deep red powder with which the actor makes up his countenance. Turmeric is also used medicinally in Hindustan, but not this side of Suez, although in chemistry it affords an[Pg 139] infallible test for the presence of alkalies. The Coriander has become naturalised in parts of England, but is more used on the Continent. Our confectioners put the seeds in cakes and buns, also comfits, and in Germany, Norway, Sweden, and (I fancy) Russia, they figure in household bread. In the south of England, coriander and caraway seeds are sown side by side, and crops of each are obtained in alternate years. The coriander seed, too, is largely used with that of the caraway and the cumin, for making the liqueur known as Kümmel. Cumin is mentioned in Scripture as something particularly nice. The seeds are sweet-savoured, something like those of the caraway, but more potent. In Germany they put them into bread, and the Dutch use them to flavour their cheeses. The seeds we get in England come principally from Sicily and Malta. And now that my readers know all about the ingredients of curry-powder—it is assumed that no analysis of the chili, the ginger-root, or the peppercorn, is needed—let them emulate the pupils of Mr. Wackford Squeers, and “go and do it.” Another Recipe for curry-powder includes fenugreek, cardamoms, allspice, and cloves; but I verily believe that this was the powder used in that abominable Parsee hell-broth, above alluded to, so it should be cautiously approached, if at all. “Fenugreek” sounds evil; and I should say a curry compounded of the above ingredients would taste like a “Number One” pick-me-up. Yet another recipe (Doctor Kitchener’s) specifies six ounces of coriander seed, five ounces[Pg 140] of turmeric (ower muckle, I’m of opeenion) two ounces each of black pepper and mustard seed (ochone!), half an ounce of cumin seed, half an ounce of cinnamon (donner und blitzen!), and one ounce of lesser cardamoms. All these things are to be placed in a cool oven, kept therein one night, and pounded in a marble mortar next morning, preparatory to being rubbed through a sieve. “Kitchener” sounds like a good cooking name; but, with all due respect, I am not going to recommend his curry-powder. A Malay curry is made with blanched almonds, which should be fried in butter till lightly browned. Then pound them to a paste with a sliced onion and some thin lemon-rind. Curry powder and gravy are added, and a small quantity of cream. The Malays curry all sorts of fish, flesh, and fowl, including the young shoots of the bamboo—and nice tender, succulent morsels they are. At a hotel overlooking the harbour of Point de Galle, Ceylon, “run,” at the time of the writer’s visit, by a most convivial and enterprising Yankee, a canning concocter of all sorts of “slings” and “cocktails,” there used to be quite a plethora of curries in the bill-of-fare. But for a prawn curry there is no place like the City of Palaces. And the reason for this super-excellence is that the prawns—but that story had, perhaps, best remain untold. Curried Locusts formed one of the most eccentric dishes ever tasted by the writer. There had come upon us that day a plague of these all-devouring insects. A few billions called on us, in our kitchen gardens, in passing; and whilst[Pg 141] they ate up every green thing—including the newly-painted wheelbarrow, and the regimental standard, which had been incautiously left out of doors—our faithful blacks managed to capture several impis of the marauding scuts, in revenge; and the mess-cook made a right savoury plât of their hind-quarters. It is criminal to serve curry during the entrée period of dinner. And it is worse form still to hand it round after gooseberry tart and cream, and trifle, as I have seen done at one great house. In the land of its birth, the spicy pottage invariably precedes the sweets. Nubbee Bux marches solemnly round with the mixture, in a deep dish, and is succeeded by Ram Lal with the rice. And in the Madras Presidency, where dry curry is served as well as the other brand, there is a procession of three brown attendants. Highly-seasoned dishes at the commencement of a long meal are a mistake; and this is one of the reasons why I prefer the middle cut of a plain-boiled Tay salmon, or the tit-bit of a lordly turbot, or a flake or two of a Grimsby cod, to a sole Normande, or a red mullet stewed with garlic, mushrooms, and inferior claret. I have even met homard à l’Américaine, during the fish course, at the special request of a well-known Duke. The soup, too, eaten at a large dinner should be as plain as possible; the edge being fairly taken off the appetite by such concoctions as bisque, bouillabaisse, and mulligatawny—all savoury and tasty dishes, but each a meal in itself. Then I maintain that to curry whitebait is wrong; partly because curry should on no account be served[Pg 142] before roast and boiled, and partly because the flavour of the whitebait is too delicate for the fish to be clad in spices and onions. The lesson which all dinner-givers ought to have learnt from the Ancient Romans—the first people on record who went in for æsthetic cookery—is that highly-seasoned and well-peppered dishes should figure at the end, and not the commencement of a banquet. Here follows a list of some of the productions of Nature which it is allowable to curry. <h4>What to Curry.</h4> <blockquote> Turbot. Sole. Cod. Lobster. Crayfish. Prawns,—but not the so-called “Dublin Prawn,” which is delicious when eaten plain boiled, but no good in a curry. Whelks.[6] Oysters. Scallops. Mutton. Veal. Pork. Calf’s Head. Ox Palate. Tripe.[6] Eggs. Chicken. Rabbit (the “bunny” lends itself better than anything else to this method of cooking). Pease. Kidney Beans.[6] Vegetable Marrow. Carrots. Parsnips. Bamboo Shoots. Locust Legs. </blockquote> A mistaken notion has prevailed for some time amongst men and women who write books, that the Indian curry mixture is almost red-hot to the taste. As a matter of fact it is of a far milder nature than many I have tasted “on this side.” Also the Anglo-Indian does not sustain life entirely on food flavoured with turmeric and garlic. In fact, during a stay of seven years in the[Pg 143] gorgeous East, the writer’s experience was that not one in ten touched curry at the dinner table. At second breakfast—otherwise known as “tiffin”—it was a favoured dish; but the stuff prepared for the meal of the day—or the bulk thereof—usually went to gratify the voracious appetite of the “mehters,” the Hindus who swept out the mess-rooms, and whose lowness of “caste” allowed them to eat “anything.” An eccentric meal was the mehter’s dinner. Into the empty preserved-meat tin which he brought round to the back door I have seen emptied such assorted pabulum as mock turtle soup, lobster salad, plum pudding and custard, curry, and (of course), the surplus vilolif; and in a few seconds he was squatting on his heels, and spading into the mixture with both hands. In the Bengal Presidency cocoa-nut is freely used with a curry dressing; and as some men have as great a horror of this addition, as of oil in a salad, it is as well to consult the tastes of your guests beforehand. A Prawn Curry I have seen made in Calcutta as follows, the proportions of spices, etc., being specially written down by a munshi:— <blockquote> Pound and mix one tablespoonful of coriander seed, one tablespoonful of poppy seed, a salt-spoonful of turmeric, half a salt-spoonful of cumin seed, a pinch of ground cinnamon, a ditto of ground nutmeg, a small lump of ginger, and one salt-spoonful of salt. Mix this with butter, add two sliced onions, and fry till lightly browned. Add the prawns, shelled, and pour in the milk of a cocoa-nut. Simmer for twenty minutes, and add some lime juice. </blockquote> [Pg 144] But the champion of curries ever sampled by the writer was a dry curry—a decided improvement on those usually served in the Madras Presidency—and the recipe (which has been already published in the Sporting Times and Lady’s Pictorial), only came into the writer’s possession some years after he had quitted the land of temples. <h4>Dry Curry.</h4> <blockquote> <div style="margin-left:5%"> 1 lb. of meat (mutton, fowl, or white fish). 1 lb. of onions. 1 clove of garlic. 2 ounces of butter. 1 dessert-spoonful of curry powder. 1 dessert-spoonful of curry paste. 1 dessert-spoonful of chutnee (or tamarind preserve, according to taste). </div> A very little cassareep, which is a condiment (only obtainable at a few London shops) made from the juice of the bitter cassava, or manioc root. Cassareep is the basis of that favourite West Indian dish “Pepper-pot.” <div style="margin-left:5%"> Salt to taste. A good squeeze of lemon juice. </div> First brown the onions in the butter, and then dry them. Add the garlic, which must be mashed to a pulp with the blade of a knife. Then mix the powder, paste, chutnee, and cassareep into a thin paste with the lemon juice. Mash the dried onions into this, and let all cook gently till thoroughly mixed. Then add the meat, cut into small cubes, and let all simmer very gently for three hours. This sounds a long time, but it must be remembered that the recipe is for a dry curry; and when served there should be no liquid about it. </blockquote> ’Tis a troublesome dish to prepare; but,[Pg 145] judging from the flattering communications received by the writer, the lieges would seem to like it. And the mixture had better be cooked in a double or porridge-saucepan, to prevent any “catching.” Already, in one of the breakfast chapters, has the subject of the preparation of rice, to be served with curry, been touched upon; but there will be no harm done in giving the directions again. <h4>Rice for Curry</h4> <blockquote> Soak a sufficiency of rice in cold water until by repeated strainings all the dirt is separated from it. Then put the rice into boiling water, and let it “gallop” for nine or ten minutes—no longer. Strain the water off through a colander, and dash a little cold water over the rice to separate the grains. Put in a hot dish, and serve immediately. </blockquote> A simple enough recipe, surely? So let us hear no more complaints of stodgy, clammy, “puddingy” rice. Most of the cookery books give far more elaborate directions, but the above is the method usually pursued by the poor brown heathen himself. Soyer’s recipe resembles the above; but, after draining the water from the cooked rice, it is replaced in the saucepan, the interior of which has in the interim been anointed with butter. The saucepan is then placed either near the fire (not on it), or in a slow oven, for the rice to swell. Another way: <blockquote> After washing the rice, throw it into plenty of boiling water—in the proportion of six pints of water[Pg 146] to one pound of rice. Boil it for five minutes, and skim it; then add a wine-glassful of milk for every half pound of rice, and continue boiling for five minutes longer. Strain the water off through a colander, and put it dry into the pot, on the corner of the stove, pouring over the rice a small piece of butter, which has been melted in a tablespoonful of the hot milk and water in which the rice was boiled. Add salt, and stir the rice for five minutes more. </blockquote> The decayed denizen of the ocean, dried to the consistency of biscuit, and known in Hindustan as a Bombay Duck, which is frequently eaten with curry, “over yonder,” does not find much favour, this side of Port Said, although I have met the fowl in certain city restaurants. The addition is not looked upon with any particular favour by the writer. “I have yet to learn” once observed that great and good man, the late Doctor Joseph Pope,[7] to the writer, in a discussion on “postponed” game, “that it is a good thing to put corruption into the human stomach.” <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 147] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.