By: SKIP BANDELE
Skip Bandele moved to the Algarve 10 years ago and has been with The Resident since 2003. His writing reflects views and opinions formed while living in Africa, Germany and England as well as Portugal.
DOES ANYONE not have a favourite Indian? Growing up – never mind living and working – in England was irrevocably linked with the close acquaintance of an exotic sub-continental temple in the close vicinity.
Korma, Chicken Tikka Masala or even Vindaloo heaven always seem to have been just around the corner. Two years spent in Southall augmented by sporadic visits to Bradford only having enhanced my personal curry culture. In addition, numerous ‘boys’ birthdays at university were spent at the must-visit Newcastle-under-Lyme Taj Palace indulging in Phal daring-do immediately bringing copious tears to the eye which equal amounts of Carling Black Label could not quell.
Those student days are over. I find myself in another country, but the need to mutilate or please, depending what mood or state I am in, my taste-buds still prevail.
During the early days, and I am talking about 1979 and thereafter, we used to embark on monthly expeditions from our Praia da Rocha extended summer holiday base to Albufeira, where the Algarve’s one and only decidedly mediocre Indian restaurant could be found. Times have changed, and today Alvor alone boasts five such eateries, not to mention half a dozen additional options in nearby Portimão as well as all points east and west.
Our last visit to an Indian restaurant which shall remain un-named, was no joke, although it was marked by a lot of hysterical laughter. The occasion was my birthday, and I had chosen a place which had recently advertised itself as the best around. It even boasts a website which I used to book our table for six at 7.30pm on a Sunday evening.
The problems started as soon as we walked through the door, my reservation not having been received. Eventually the waiter reluctantly agreed to move two tables together, something which should not have presented any difficulty whatsoever considering the restaurant was empty. Finally seated, our polite request for some Popadoms was met with a flat ‘no’, a drink order being required first.
Beers and wine in place we turned our attention to the menu which boasted a wide selection of almost 200 dishes. At this point it must be said that throughout our lives my sister and I have grown accustomed to my father’s habit of noting the corresponding numbers of our choices listed against starters, mains, sundries and sweets on a paper serviette, a system welcomed by grateful staff all over the world – not here. No sooner had I uttered the opening words “five times number 12” a hand was raised.
The kitchen, we were told, did not understand numerical orders. The irate waiter/manager then proceeded to accuse my sister of “just being there to make trouble”, an accusation I found somewhat ludicrous considering we were not a group of ‘lager louts’ but family and friends with an average age well over 50.
Having briefly lost my temper in the face of such unwarranted hostility on what was supposed to be a pleasant and celebratory evening, our nemesis was finally cajoled into matching numbers with dishes via the menu and thus communicating our cravings to the kitchen.
The starters arrived and were slammed down in front of us accompanied by staccato shouts of “Nº16”, “Nº18” and so forth. Now, even the most discerning and battle-hardened connoisseur of Indian cuisine will experience difficulty separating vegetable and meat Samosas by sight alone, but protestations to that effect were only met with hostile stares as our ‘maitre de’ stormed off.
In a last effort to rescue what was rapidly turning into a nightmare, I set off on a diplomatic mission to try to pacify our raving host. Platitudes, assurances as to our peaceful intentions and a winning smile eventually had a calming effect despite another member of staff’s whispered urgings to “call the police”. I countered that ridiculous advice by pointing out that we had a member of the local constabulary among our party – and resumed my seat politely ignoring mutterings of “blondie (my sister) just wants to make trouble…”
An hour later, convinced we were being given the ‘Bombay run-around’, but determined to remain patient, we ordered more drinks. At 10pm, slightly disconcerted by what appeared to be frantic activity in the kitchen observed through the open hatch, the lights went out in that part of the establishment. Ten minutes later our waiter returned to our table to inform us that there had been a major dispute between the kitchen staff, resulting in a mass walkout. “I am sorry, but there is no food, please leave now”, were the last immortal words, the night’s only redeeming feature being that no bill was presented. And leave we did.
That was my one and only bad Indian experience after trawling through hundreds of curry houses for the best part of 30 years. This week millions of us will again go to an Indian restaurant or takeaway here, in Britain and all over the globe although the sub-continent’s food has almost been completely absorbed into English culture, transmuting in the process and thus providing a welcome substitute for an otherwise largely absent national cuisine.
Origins
Curry, derived from the miss-spelt South Indian word kari, can trace its origins back to many different countries. Biryani, for example, was brought to India from Persia by the Mughal conquerors in the 16th century while Vindaloo has its roots in the Portuguese spice traders’ preference for carne de vinho e alho – to which a combination of tamarind, piri-piri, cinnamon and cloves was added.
In Britain, curry powders and pastes, advertised as ‘health food’ capable of stimulating the stomach and invigorating the mind, could be bought at chemists by the 1840s. One hundred years later Britain underwent a curry revolution, increased immigration leading to numerous restaurants opening all over the country, albeit now mostly run by East Pakistanis (today Bangladesh).
New curries such as Balti and Phal were invented to suit British tastes and an institution feeding a multi-million pound industry became firmly established. The food served in ‘Indian’ restaurants today is quite unlike anything most Asians eat in their own homes, the British curry having become a dish in its own right – and I for one wouldn’t miss it for the world, usually staggering home both ‘stimulated’ and ‘invigorated’!
