Back Seat Chef

Pride in ones culinary talents and an Indian boyfriend do not sit particularly well together. Although a deft hand at most western cuisines and capable as concerns certain East Asian dishes, the food of the Indian subcontinent still remains elusive.

No matter how perfect my soufflés (and in all modesty they’re Mary Poppins perfect) nor how tasty my moussaka, nor how crack-free my sponge-roll, my creations will never match the dhal and parantha of my boy’s grandmother. Foolishly, after several requests from P, I attempted a “simple” chicken korma. After two hours spent in the grinding of herbs and the frying of oily pastes, I had what seemed to be a very decent curry.

P strides in, waxing lyrical on the heavenly scents in the corridor. Ego: up one. He walks to the stove, lifts the lid and smiles all over his face. Ego: up another one. He reaches for the spoon and prods at the chicken, frowning. Irritation: up one. He squeezes a piece of the succulent meat between his fingers, getting sauce on his cuff. Irritation: up two. He looks at me and says: “You should add some more water. It’s too thick.” Ego: down four.

Remind me next time to serve the food on a plate, looking wonderful. Remind me not allow any more back-seat chef’s into the kitchen.

Gripe over, P actually loved the food. Despite his usually bird-like appetite, he ate enough for three or four decently sized people.

Intent on improving my Indian culinary techniques, I plan on a visit to the Indian Cookery School in Goa sometime in the near future.
See to join me there.

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