Quick Indian Cooking

The week flew by before I knew it. And what a week. The historic US election, my dad’s fleeting visit to London and a dinner for my colleagues all crammed into five days of euphoric mayhem.

The dinner was planned months in advance. But the US election sweepstake sent a buzz through the office. Spirits were running high. And so were dinner expectations.

Questions came flying thick and fast at me:

• “Can we email requests for the menu?”
• “When will the cabs arrive to collect us?”
• “Can we have a choice for starters, main course and dessert?”

Great. Now I’m being confused for Buckingham Balti.

I threatened them with the local Indian takeaway and secretly panicked. This is a big mistake. I am setting myself up for a fall. My professional image is under the microscope. What if I can’t churn out a meal for the troops like the endless papers I produce?

I decided to match the moment with a fiery meal, planned to ignite their senses. The dinner of Bhuna Gosht, Achari Baingan, Anda Raita, Lasuni Dal Palak and Bhapa Doi went down almost as well as Obama’s victory.  The Lasuni Dal Palak, or garlicky spinach lentils, was taken from One Hot Stove.

Stupendously easy and bursting with flavour, it was the perfect accompaniment for a high-octane evening.
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Once a year I grudgingly give up a Saturday evening, dress up in full traditional garb and drive out to the middle of nowhere for a charity Indian dinner and dance.

All for the benefit of a new hospital in Kolkata. The toothy grin on my ageing former local guardian. And a lavish Indian dinner.

I extracted five metres of thick, South Indian silk from the top wardrobe shelf. Self mutilated myself forcing lurid burnt gold bangles down my wrist. All while remaining outwardly chirpy to egg on the miserable suit-fearing man.

We got there just about on time. As I shuffled through the lobby like a subcontinental geisha, a little girl squealed: “Look daddy, a princess.” And everyone turned to look at me.

This freak theme is a recurring one lately.

I quickly posed for a photograph with her and started moving towards the reception. The Indian canapes were running out with every wasted second. I came across a platter of spring rolls. Then salmon blinis. And then the bombshell.

Tonight, people, we are having a three-course traditional British dinner. I choked on my mini fishcake as uncle delivered the blow. I’d greeted half the aunties. I couldn’t run away now.

I pulled the pregnancy card after dessert and made for the exit. The next day, I feasted on Diwali leftover Dahi Wale Aloo, a supermarket mini naan and some delicious Khanum lime pickle from the box of treats they sent me.

Hardly any effort but worth every minute this time.

PS = I used new potatoes to save peeling time. But by all means use cubed white potatoes…
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I survived the Saturday wedding. Now it was time to brave lashing rain in full Indian festive gear. The annual reconnect-with-my-Bengali-brethren event has commenced.

I’m talking about Durga Puja. Where London’s entire Bengali community descends to find suitable marriage partners, keep up with the Chatterjee’s, and, of course, pray.

For me and sis, the highlight is the Bhog or food offering. There’s something about standing in the mile-long queue, sizing up the crowds and receiving a miniscule portion of food that makes it two times more special than it tastes.

We arrived in matching deep red salwar suits, the traditional trousers and tops, high heels and overcoats. Waited patiently for the queueing to commence, while catching up with the community. And it never happened. Turns out the Bhog of Khichuri, rice and lentils, and Mishti is reserved for the last day or Dashami.

When someone said said “don’t leave now” and rattled off the names of a dozen other long lost Bengalis who were about to arrive, sis and I exchanged a quick look. Then, we legged it to the nearest Indian vegetarian buffet worth its thali.

We’re about to try our luck again. But I’m not taking any chances. I’ve cooked a large pot of Bhoger Khichuri and Beguni, spicy fried aubergines. It’s not quite the same, but it’ll help any disappointment later. Shubho Biojoya everyone!

PS= I have tried to reach a happy compromise with fat in these recipes. Ghee is limited to half a teaspoon per serving and the aubergine is shallow fried instead of deep fried. Come Diwali, I’m done with all this festive fattening…
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Bother.

I can’t write about aloo gobi and chicken curry while the global financial system implodes around me! I feel like those musicians who played while the Titanic sank.

The US Treasury rescue plan has been a particular bee in my bonnet. Free capitalism crumbles. Then the ordinary people have to pay the price.

Meanwhile, Hank Paulson makes the insightful comment of “We need a plan that works” (Financial Times, 30th September). No surprise there, from a fat cat former global bank CEO.

Not that we ordinary mortals would be better off either way. The rot in this system is only just beginning to bare it’s ugly teeth. The greedy scumbags who got us into this mess will sun their pot bellies in far flung destinations. While we pay for in the cost of aubergines and potatoes tomorrow, what we’re reading about in the papers today.

I’m making hay while the sun shines. Buying exotic, expensive vegetables from supermarket shelves before I’m forced to grow my own in my balcony pots. And then turning them into rich and warming feasts for wintry evenings. Like this Dhansak, a vegetarian pumpkin and aubergine filled version of the truly authentic Parsi sweet and spicy Lamb Dhansak.

If everything falls apart, I’ll trade my despair in for a bowl of Dhansak.
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