I kid you not, but “Gladys Myrtle Harbour — last of the great Anglos,” was how my late maternal grandmother would introduce herself to people she was meeting for the first time. Insisting on including her maiden name, 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, 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 little quirks and peculiarities that would embarrass most people. But not us eight grandkids who were always amused by her antics. Three abiding memories that have stayed with me for 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 was amply reflected in one of my favourite Anglo-Indian dishes, which she was spectacularly good at conjuring up every Saturday for lunch at her home in Jaipur.
Yes, none of that wishy-washy “bad word curry”, or worse, “meat kofta curry”, business for the blush-inducing Anglo-Indian staple of beef ball curry. Nan, in fact, had an even more ribald moniker for it — she’d occasionally call it “spinster’s delight curry.” I rest my case.
The devil’s chutney
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 made sans its trusted cohorts of turmeric-enhanced yellow rice and devil chutney. The latter was a scary-looking but innocuous-tasting condiment made from mild red chillies, tomatoes, sugar and vinegar.
Speaking of deceptive-looking dishes, another Anglo dish, which 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, private ships — licensed but not owned by the East India Company — plying the Indian Ocean and China trade were called ‘country ships’, making their captains ‘country captains’. The hybrid dish of chicken country captain, with 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, hence the name.
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 are 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. 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’, pashidan.
A quick kedgeree. | Photo Credit: Getty Images/ iStock
Khichdi, in English
On the other hand, the etymology of kedgeree is more 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.
Just as Saturday lunch had its ball curry-yellow rice, Sunday lunch at Nan’s was devoted to her favourite duo of mutton jalfrezi-pepper water. Now, the super-spicy jalfrezi is a scrumptious curry that gets the Anglos all divided up in two factions about its origins. While my mum and her sisters claim it was named in honour of an old British Army officer named Colonel Frazer, my grand-aunt Audrey Rose has another theory. According to her, the name of the dish is derived from the colloquial Bengali expression jhal porhezi, where jhal (not to be confused with jhol or gravy) means ‘spicy hot,’ while porhezi comes from the Persian word parhezi, meaning ‘suitable for a diet’.
And its ‘plate-fellow’ of pepper water is nothing but an Anglo riff on the much-loved 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)
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
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 five–seven5–7 minutes.
5. Serve hot with either herbed rice or garlic bread.
The Mumbai-based writer and restaurant reviewer is passionate about food, travel and luxury, not necessarily in that order.