I love curry.
I could eat it every day.
The most curries I’ve eaten is six in five days. That was on Manchester’s Curry Mile in Rusholme.
I’ve even heard it said, that some Indian spices, such as cumin, turmeric and coriander are addictive. But I haven’t found any evidence to back that up.
Because I have a love for all things tomato, I prefer my curries on the red side rather than creamy. My favourite being Chicken Rogan Josh, accompanied by a garlic and coriander naan and pea-pilau rice. Wouldn’t harm to throw in a couple of poppadoms and an onion bhaji or two, either. (Don’t get me wrong, I’d never turn my nose up at a Korma or Massala if they were offered.)
I was a curry virgin until my mid twenties. It was my mate, Markham who introduced me to the delights of Indian cuisine when we worked together in Manchester in the mid 80s. He was gentle with me at first, and I started out with a chicken korma. I’ve been hooked ever since.
I’d always been put off by the smell. Not the smell of Indian cooking, I might add, but by the aroma of my mum’s Vesta powdered curry mix, which was my only experience of it in my formative years, (60s/70s). I have no idea what they put in those sachets, but they bear no resemblance to the ecstatic redolence of true Asian spices.
I read somewhere that Chicken Tikka Massala is now England’s national dish as it has overtaken roast beef and Yorkshire pud in terms of popularity.
So, not only am I grateful for curry, but to all the Indians who migrated here during the 1950s/60s and 70s who brought us this manna from heaven.