In defence of curry

When a dear friend recently was clearing out her dad’s house following his death, she uncovered a tin of ancient Harrods’ Madras Curry Powder – several decades old and emblazoned for some reason with the name 'Ameer' on the front. This sort of attic find is considered an offending item nowadays, if the recent ‘curry is racist’ furore is to be believed.

Madras curry powder is an essential ingredient of Anglo-Indian cuisine. Indeed, the flavouring is as much a part of British cuisine as Worcestershire sauce and English mustard. And it is, happily, still labelled 'Madras' – the imperial name for the city of Chennai –  when bought today. 'Chennai curry powder' doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.

The gripe of Chaheti Bansal, the California-based (they’re always based in California) Instagrammer who started the ‘curry is racist’ debate, appears to be that using the word curry to describe all Indian food is offensive as it blankets over the infinite variety of this glorious cuisine, as well as reflecting a laziness on the part of the (white) user. Patrick West has dealt comprehensively with her spurious cultural appropriation argument in these pages. But what has been missing so far in this debate is a proper celebration of fusion food, with Anglo-Indian fare being a prime example.

We owe the word curry to employees of the East India Company (which is now owned, by the way, by a British-Indian businessman having turned it into a luxury tea and spice brand) who adopted the Tamil word kari as a catch-all. When Brits talk of going for a 'curry' they are referring specifically to the British reinvention of Indian cuisine. No one is pretending that Anglo-Indian creations like chicken tikka masala are authentic Indian dishes. And as far as I can tell, nobody criticises the United States for appropriating hamburgers and hotdogs from the Germans. They have made them their own, and are now the most recognisable elements of American cuisine. And indeed Indians have done the same: 'Indo-Chinese' food, beloved on the subcontinent, is not an anachronistic reference to the cuisine of modern-day Vietnam but a fusion of Indian and Chinese flavours to create the likes of 'Chicken 65' and 'Gobi Manchurian'.

There is no rolling back the clock on the rise of Anglo-Indian fare, and it would be a culinary crime to cancel it; it's a riotous mix of flavours. Kedgeree is one of the best breakfasts ever invented. But it bears almost no resemblance to the dish from which it derives – khichri – which I grew up eating. The authentic Indian dish is a mishmash of rice and lentil with a porridge-like consistency, served by my late grandmother – in a grateful concession to her adopted home – with a thick slice of Anchor salted butter melting into a puddle on top. I can only imagine what my grandmother, a strict vegetarian, would have thought of the idea of adding smoked haddock and boiled eggs.

The same is true of the rest of Anglo-Indian cuisine. Mulligatawny soup (which translates into English from the Tamil as 'pepper water') is rather lovely on a wintry day, as good as any chowder. But it is a far cry from its origin, the clear and thin rasam that they eat in South India. Even our beloved poppadoms with mint sauce and mango chutney would be hard to find on the subcontinent. There, the gram flour papads are more usually cooked dry on an open flame so they resemble thin and brittle crackers rather than (deliciously) greasy crisps. Anglo-Indian cuisine is a barstardised version of Indian cuisine. And what’s wrong with that? It was always meant to be: born in the era of the British Raj as British memsahibs interacted with their Indian cooks and sought to make their Indian food palatable to British tastes. And the Indians, like my family, who have since come here and made the UK their home have done precisely the same with British food, adapting British classics to suit their Indian palates’ craving for chilli and spice. 

Until closed by the pandemic, I spent a couple of years running an Anglo-Indian pop-up restaurant in Pimlico, turning the Raj-era conception of Anglo-Indian cuisine on its head. Humble baked beans on toast was jazzed up with masala, as is the favoured preparation in every household of the British Indian diaspora. One of my favourite desserts is an Indian reinvention of Eton Mess. And the triangular cheese toastie has proved too much of a temptation for the British-Indian housewife: stuffed with a mixture of spiced (Birds Eye) peas it has come to resemble a samosa.

 Chaheti and co. argue that white people use the word curry because they think that’s all there is, and that all Indian food is the same. They’re ignorant and think it’s all just different things drowned in tikka sauce. I don’t think that’s true. How many people go into their local curry house and, upon being asked by the waiter what they would like, shout simply 'CURRY'? Most Brits I know would be horrified if they were served a bhuna when they ordered a korma. And most realise that their curry house favourites anyway bear scant resemblance to authentic Indian cuisine. Why else would Brits lay claim to chicken tikka masala as one of our national dishes?

Besides, all national cuisines come to be associated with clichés. My late grandmother used to refer to all Italian food, whether a Risotto Alla Milanese or Osso Buco dismissively as 'pizzapasta', a term I believe she coined herself. Many of us continue to think of French food as rich and garlicky, Eastern European food as stodgy and bland, and Mexican food as snacky bits invariably featuring guacamole and jalapenos and served by someone in a sombrero. Though deep down we know full well that there’s more complexity and variety to each of these cuisines than the clichés suggest. 

British food is subject to the same simplistic characterisations. Indeed, we even use them to refer to our own cuisine. We all talk of delighting in a 'roast', regardless of the fact that there is the world of difference between a topside of beef with Yorkshire puds and pork belly with crackling and apple sauce. And of course the French go one step further and refer to us all as 'Les Rosbifs' as a term of derision. I have had many racist slurs yelled at me in the street but I’ve never yet been called a 'curryhead'.

I hope Chaheti Bansal eats her words. Which of course she won’t. So let’s just ignore the moaning and continue to joyfully eat curry.