The Poul of Chicken

Voodoo. There, got your attention. Chickens are a culture-bridging fowl. Practically every tradition has space for it in some respect, and there has almost always been a spiritual element to it - whether in shamanic ritual, in symbolic atonement, in sacrifice. Or even in more everyday uses - waking us up, nourishing us, bringing us together around a table, making us feel part of a community or a family. It's a literal chicken and egg life cycle, a self contained allegory.

Puk-kah?

The relationship most cultures have with chicken as part of their gastronomic heritage is a firm one. Other than those following a herbivore conviction, of course. You cannot speak to anyone of their cultural cuisine without an almost religiously rooted chicken dish being mentioned: fried chicken - soul food; chicken soup - Jewish penicillin; chicken parmagiana - mama's cooking; Jerk chicken - the ultimate summer; coq au vin - wholesome rustic goodness; Tori katsu, teriyaki, yakitori - satisfying Japanese staples; Tandoori chicken - aromatic victory; chicken Paprikash - Balkan piquant delicacy. Numerous others, too many to mention! And of course - a chicken which has been roasted, in hundreds of variations.

For me, chicken has always been a stabilising food in times of crisis or just when life gets you down, in possession of almost mythical healing abilities. Whether psychosomatic, or truly medically beneficial, when I'm unwell I tend to crave it, then feel better almost immediately for having had it. But different dishes are called for different ailments: when it's any form of sniffles - chicken soup. How could anything feel more internally nurturing than that. When I've had a bowl of a clear, slightly fatty, rich broth, I immediately know I can sit back and let it work its wonders, relax and just be ill. And that in itself is half the way to recovery - after all, a neurotic like me isn't going to sit quietly and let illness take control. No! I will arm-wrestle it until, inevitably, I slump back, looking like a wrung rag, and with the horror of the realisation that I truly am sick, shuffle to the freezer and unleash a frozen tub of greenish-yellow ice, run it under the tap until it's loosened enough to plop into a pan and can be melted and brought to a gentle bubble on the stove.


A'mehaye (The Reviver)

To this end, there needs to be foresight and planning. If ever in a farmers market or a butchers, I tend to purchase a carcass, which is the perfect base for a fantastic broth. If a full roast bird has passed through my kitchen (more on that later on), the inedible bones, skin and other parts will not be wasted. Or, sometimes, feeling frivolously extravagant, I would use an actual piece or even a whole chicken to make the soup. But that really isn't necessary, as the meat itself, having cooked in the broth for a good couple of hours, becomes a little papery and crumbly. It loses the succulence which is preserved as a quicker slow-cooked dish; plus because of the long soak in the water, during which it renders all its flavour to the brew, it is left with none. Not that I wouldn't still pick any bits of meat left with zeal.

At any rate, once the chicken component is in a pot of water and has been brought to a rolling boiling point, turn the heat down, skim the top, and add all your veg - for me it's always aromatics - carrot, celery or celeriac, onion, a handful of parsley, a potato or two, courgette, and one tomato to give a lemony zing, plus bay leaves, whole peppercorns and plenty of salt. Leave on a low heat for a good hour and a half to two hours, skimming occasionally. Your poorly body will thank you.

There are some fascists out there, who, granted - make much nicer soup then me, demand that you throw away the vegetables you cooked the soup with, as they have served their purpose as flavouring, then add new ones for a fresher taste, cooked for a further 20 mins or so. Those people, brilliant chefs as they may be, are the enemies of everything that is basic frugal home economics, pushing luxury to an extent only employed by Michelin-aspiring restaurants, certainly not a whim my mum would ever have dreamed of indulging, and they should be stopped. Ok, they're not wrong, exactly... but personally, I really love the taste of my nutritionally devoid holy trinity et al. Unlike the chicken meat itself, of which any trace of flavour has been sucked dry, they function like fruit in a punch bowl - that secret kick at the bottom of your cup, when nobody seems to realise one half-strawberry has soaked more booze into it than the whole glass... a flavour explosion!


What am I, chopped liver?!...

Sometimes a general rundownness takes over - an overall exhaustion verging on ennui. At those times, chopped liver is the law. No, not Pâté, silly - only chopped liver will do. This is made with chicken livers which are sautéed, sometimes with a little red wine but traditionally with fat. They are "chopped", if you will, in a food processor, to a coarse consistency, or even roughly mashed with a fork, and mixed with caramelised onions, chopped hard boiled eggs, salt and lots and lots of pepper. The comforting savoury, chucky paste with its earthy umami and slight contrasting sweetness of the onions, on a slice of, well, anything really, doesn't need to come in large quantities. A small bowlful - which is invariably the amount produced per cooking batch - is more than enough to last a good two or three days.
 
When homesick, the big guns are required, the dish that speaks to the child in me, the essence of every kid who shares my culture - the chicken schnitzel. This, for whatever reason, is a dish that I will petulantly demand my mum make for me whenever I'm at home. It doesn't matter it's the easiest thing to cook in the WORLD, it doesn't matter that I'm an adult and she's possibly now older and wearier than the woman who tirelessly fried off mounds of golden escalopes of joy. The regression cannot be complete until I am 2 or 5 or 12 years old (who knows when I stopped behaving like a spoilt brat, if ever), stomp my foot and stubbornly proclaim 'I want schnitzel!'.
 


The correct serving portion of schnitzels per person

But really, it is so easy to make, almost embarrassingly so. Just take fine quality free-range - always free-range you fucking monsters! - chicken breasts, beat them slightly with some kind of butcher mallet or even a rolling pin, till they're flatter and wider, then dip them in flour, beaten egg seasoned with salt and pepper, and bread crumbs of any kind, then fry in semi-shallow very hot oil until golden on both sides. That's it. You can even zhouzh it all up with grated parmesan in the crumbs, herbs in the flour, chilli flakes, whatever! Or go Cordon Bleu stylee - only bastardised - by skipping the mallet part, instead slicing across the fat breast so you create a pocket, and stuffing it with cheese/ham/spinach/sautéed mushrooms/chorizo - again, your imagination is your limitation. Then flour-egg-crumbs it, fry as before, but finish it off in the oven as the plump parcel would take longer to cook all the way through. Never does a batch last longer than a day or two, at best. Trust me on this, they'll be hoovered up faster than a slingshot chicken.


And of course, the ultimate all-purpose remedy is the roast chicken. Now, there really are so many ways to cook this thing. The truth is that it's perfectly simple, regardless of what seasoning/brining/marinating/stuffing you decide to employ. For a 1.5k bird, heat the oven up to 220C, and put the room temperature anointed beast in, on a bed of vegetables if you so wish. Turn the heat down to 190C (170C fan) and leave in the oven undisturbed for an hour and twenty minutes. That's 1 hour 20 mins. Leave it! Then take it out and prick a metal spike into the fattest part of the thigh, and if the juices run clear - you're all good. Now, take the chicken out of the tray and leave to stand on a plate or board for about 20 minutes. Again, leave it! Don't pick at it or be tempted to eat the crispier bits. The juices that have run out while it stood, plus what's left in tray will make a beautiful gravy, various recipes for which can be found all over t'intermanet.
 

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's superman! No I was right the first time. It's a delicious bird.

 And now, all that's left to do is carve. That's a whole other messy affair... but when that's done, and the screams have died down, you've taken the sheeting off the floor and wiped the juices off the walls and ceiling, you're left with a few vaguely distinguishable chicken pieces, ready to eat with your vegetables, plus a perfectly beautiful carcass and the non-crispy skin at the back of the chicken which you can now use as... that's right, a base for chicken soup! And thus the circle of fowl is complete.

What's your must-have, soul-reviving chicken dish?

The Green Green Windowsill of Home

Plants are a mystery to me. Their needs and caprices, what it takes to make them blossom and bear fruit, how to rid them of pests and dangers, all an enigmatic world I've not been privy to. An urban child rarely gets a chance to see a plant through from seed to harvest. True, there are trees and bits of shrub which we either climb, crash our bikes into or scratch initials on. At school, we're taught the basics - soil, water, sun, compost = happy growth. Not so, apparently - there's infinitely more to it.

Once grown up and out of the parental home, and as a low-maintenance substitute to the unrealistic dream of a pooch, it was the next logical step for me to get hold of a cactus. They're easy to keep, I'd been told. Hardly any watering, a bit of sunshine and they'll flourish, never a thorn in your side (sorry). Apprehensive but confident I purchased a specimen, already potted and looking fairly healthy.

This is an ex-cactus

Alas, the poor creature survived as long as it could, it really did. I tried watering it, not watering it, putting it in direct and indirect sunlight, talking to it - feeling mighty strange doing it I can tell you, even singing on one occasion. Although, my UB40 obsessed neighbour who habitually got drunk, sobbing heartbreakingly and loudly singing along to their greatest hits on a loop, like only a jilted man could, seemed to have only served as a contributing counter-effect to my efforts. Perhaps my cactus preferred their earlier stuff, before they hit the commercial big-time. It was a forgone conclusion that the poor organism won't beat the odds of survival, and within a year it was wrinkled, papery and very much dead.

When your masculine heart's been broken only these guys really get it.
But your cactus won't.

From that experience I'd gleaned that my fingers are as far from green as can be, and from hereon in vehemently opposed any offer or suggestion of placing a plant in my care. I would allow flowers, but those buggers are doomed from the start anyway, aren't they.

Years passed, I watched friends cultivate whole gardens and allotments successfully and, ashamed and ill-equipped, avoided taking part in gardening-centric conversations. Living in a garden flat with several flatmates, they were the ones successfully growing tomatoes, squashes and greens, keeping the bushes plump and fragrant, making our lawn look rich and fluffy, and I could not take part, lest my condemning touch debunk their efforts.

Eventually, I became a tenant in a non-shared flat - oh the joy! It was a long and passionate honeymoon - coming home every day to MY space, I can't explain it but the sense of freedom it gave me, closing the door behind me and being myself uninhibited, uninterrupted, uncritiqued - it felt like an extra dose of tingly heavenly oxygen.

Would you accept a plant
from this man?

And with that, a sense of self that was never before undisturbed - discovering who I really was, at net value. I could experiment with aspects of myself, to ridiculous extremes, falter or fail, and never worry about how the result is perceived. So when the new upstairs neighbour gave me a 'hello' potted plant - species unknown - I was delighted. I was ready to try again. After all, I'd discovered so many talents I didn't know I had, my confidence in my abilities has altered completely. I can do it! I can keep this gift of friendship and nourish it!

The sweet but chaotic neighbour lasted only a year before his young, hot and trendy lifestyle, as well as the punishing London rents caught up with him, the plant lasted even less. This time, though, I felt stoic about it, rather than fatalistic. It wasn't the right match. And when my friends gave me a chilli plant for my birthday that year - I absolutely love all things spicy - I was determined to research, learn and make it work.

And suddenly it stuck. The little plant grew, seemingly hesitatingly at first, then I was startled to realise I would have to re-pot it, so big did it grow. Seeking advice, I gently removed it from its pot, roots and soil quivering loose, placed it in a bigger pot with some fresh earth at the bottom, then added more at the top and watered it, narrating what I was doing out loud all the while, to keep it calm. Then waited with a breath that is bated for the consequences of my deed.

An experimental tentative collaborative effort. A chilli-human co-op, if you will

Soon after, the sun came out with summertime, and my little chilli plant, rather than wilting, flowered with small white blossoms. They came and went, and I saw no fruit. My friends enlightened me by explaining I essentially need to pollinate the flowers myself, as it being an indoor plant, no insects will be around to do the dirty, dirty work. 'Huh', I said, 'so I need to... get sexual with it'. 'Basically, yes', they confirmed. I used a cotton bud to dab pollen from one flower onto the others, feeling a little wrong. But, the moment of perverse conduct paid off, as within a few days, as the flowers began covering the pot terrain with their browning remains, little protuberances became visible, gradually growing into a real boy er... I mean chillies.

The plant was transplanted three times in total - the second into an actual home - my current flat - owned and therefore mine to decorate, embellish, make an extension of myself. I had two fantasies as soon as I saw it - I saw a dining room table exactly where I would want to sit and look out through the window every morning, as I have my breakfast, and I saw a herb garden on the east-facing windowsill in the kitchen.  Soon after, both fantasies were made a reality. Gleefully and confidently I purchased some seeds, soil, and pots, and that very evening had a potential herbarium, seeds nestled in the earth, awaiting the light streaming through the window to provide the energy to grow. Within a month, my window looked encouragingly alive. Within 6 weeks, my gastronomic creations were becoming distinctly more aromatic, to a deeply satisfying degree.



A promising start

A nervous Fittonia

Echeveria Succulent

At the housewarming later that year, friends brought several plants, showing - in my opinion misguided - trust and confidence in my ability to keep these things alive by exercising what can only be described as *gulp* maternal instincts. Right, I thought, I'd better step up to the challenge and take actual responsibility in caring for them. T'internet, after all, is a wonderful source of knowledge, tricks of trade and dummy guides. I was given a succulent, which is a type of cactus, an orchid don't-you-know which frightened me, a beautiful white-veined Fittonia - also called a nerve houseplant, and another chilli plant. By now, having harvested many-a-chilli, as well as the occasional batch of parsley or basil from my indoor garden, I had learned that there is an element of a metaphysical art form to making these things flourish, a sense rather than a science. Each one has its own maintenance requirements, and the margin of error is not negligible. But if you read up, keep vigilant and listen to your gut instinct, it's possible to do good by them. My orchid loves the bathroom, with its humid misty air and filtered sunlight, the fleshier succulent Echeveria is ok right on the sill with minimal maintenace, the fluffy Fittonia seems to thrive in the living room away from direct sunlight, and notifies me whenever it needs a watering, by drooping all its leaves, then perking up like a miracle of being once satiated.

I wish I could say there is a happy ending to the story of my first chilli. Fickle it is, nature. Fickle and stony-hearted. My beautiful, mature, fertile and hardy chilli plant developed a stubborn plague of fungus gnats, lifting into a cloud of dark dots each time I approached the area, followed by a cacophony of my ill-targeted claps designed to destroy the stormtrooper-like critters. After cursory research, I decided to re-pot it. My ill-conceived yet well-meaning plan exposed the noviciate of my abilities - the plant was just in full, lush bloom, all green bright leaves and white flowers, with several tiny chillies already hatched like spearheads with a secret punch. This, as it turns out, is the wrong time to disturb or challenge an organism. When all its resources are directed at its offspring: water, sunlight, food - the whole ecosystem dedicated to inflating and stretching these little pods, green and shiny and protruding, that's when it's best to leave well alone.

But in my haste to come to its rescue, I proceeded as at the previous successful re-potting - gently scraping off the topsoil infected with larvae, turning the pot upside down and, careful as a newly ordained yogi on a bed of nails, tapping the plant out, roots and all. I brushed some of the earth from the roots, then re-planted it into a pot partially filled with fresh soil, and covered the top. I watered it a little and waited.

Within an HOUR the leaves were distinctly droopy, the baby chillies almost invisible, the flowers wilting. A quick internet search revealed that a re-potting of a chilli plant will produce a "root shock" especially if the thinnest ends of the roots are hurt in the process. They can recover if not too many have been damaged, and if the plant is left alone for a while, in indirect sunlight, without too much water other than misting the leaves. And cut all the fruit buds, exclaimed the advice at me from the monitor, as they will be the ones sucking vital energy and making recovery process harder. I would have to say goodbye to the infant chillies!


You monsters! You blew it up! Damn you, damn you all to hell!

Who knew that this loyal and resilient plant was so fragile? It survived a re-potting before, a house move, a few winters. I thought I was saving it from the pestilence of gnats. But all that's left is a shell...

RIP?

Reluctantly cutting my losses, all that's left to do is wait. Hope for a rejuvenation. Chances are looking slim for chilli plant. However... over to the left, the new plant, amongst the purple blossom - what's this...?

Hmm this one's shot up!

Fruit! A living, dark purple, Royal Black chilli, quietly stretching out of its crown of petals cocoon. Life!

It's alive!!

My approach now is to take what I can get, be consistent, revel in results, and cut the losses. This relationship teaches awareness, responsibility, detachment, loss, resilience of nature, fragility of nature, trusting your instincts... a microcosm on my windowsill.

The gang

Ode to the Freezer

Growing up, my parents had the anxiety of recession hammered into them, a traumatic hangover from wartime Europe. They themselves lived in a city that was young and new, low on resources but high on hope. Essentials were scarce and nobody had more than barely enough, yet everyone shared and shared alike, sang and danced in the streets, there was no crime and everyone was beautiful. Ah the good ol' days eh?

One of the aspects, though, of growing up with scarcity is the deeply ingrained panic of the poor, to which people have different emotional responses. My mum was always the one to throw caution to the wind and say 'live!' whereas my dad's predisposition has been the counterbalance of frugality. More than that, he needed to know there was enough to spare. In particular, bread. And in extra particular, frozen bread.

Daily he would peek into the freezer and with a stern expression and pursed lips declare "need bread". That would be the linguistic approximation of what he said, as it had more emphasis on "need" and not much of a pronoun. Or maybe the nearest would be "must have bread". It had the quality of a guttural grunt.

It's a low-on-bread situation

It's not that we didn't have bread. No no no. We had a minimum of one fresh and two frozen loaves at all times, and therefore whenever our supplies dropped to one frozen and one fresh, my dad would take the family's level of peril up a notch from 'substantial' to 'severe', and not rest until he's retrieved an additional loaf or two from the nearest supermarket.

Likely scenario

Our freezer therefor functioned as a security blanket of food. Contained within it were always endless plastic containers of broths, stews, herbs, cooked and uncooked meats, pastry, bits of suet, frozen vegetables, and a couple of ancient containers of the worst and cheapest ice cream money can buy, now all crystallised and revolting, only taken out on special occasions or when my sister would feel psychologically sturdy enough to resist the glare of criticism from my parents.

Some people's ideal vehicle

Later on, my parents purchased a second freezer. At first, it was a honeymoon of sorts - no longer shall we suffer the threat of starvation (none of us has ever been anywhere in that vicinity). Now, years later, our second freeze box stands sad and under-appreciated, still full of meals and meats long forgotten, at the ready to reveal its glut if ever called upon.

My own perception of food's role as a reassurer has, unsurprisingly, been a powerful composite in my relationship with it. I won't go into the psychological and emotional implications, enough material there for a thick volume... but this became particularly noticeable at my previous beloved yet tiny flat, where all I had was a mini-fridge with an ice-box. The kitchen itself, too miniscule for adequate facilities, came complete with a shower cubicle in the corner to save on space. Here, despite my best efforts, I could never meal-plan ahead to my satisfaction - at best I could fit one small container and some herbs into that compartment. I couldn't see it then, but I was constantly on the verge of anxiety.

 

When this year I upgraded to a proper kitchen, the first thing I purchased was a full-sized fridge-freezer. Hideous wallpaper? Bit of a paint job. A cooker which is a serious electrical health and safety hazard? I'll wear rubber gloves when I use it. A rickety wardrobe? Stick some cardboard under it, it'll be alright. My budget prioritisation process became utterly blinkered, and like an out of control untamed horse galloped ahead wildly and unstoppably into the nearest white goods retail website. With fingers that are shaking with glee and anticipation I typed the words "fridge-freezer". Ohhhh the options! The items on sale! The user reviews! The features to choose from! And when I finally chose, and had to speak to a customer service adviser regarding the delivery, she exclaimed 'ooh I've got the same one - I. Love it.' That was enough for me, a spontaneous and earnest endorsement from someone like me. I knew we'd be very happy together, me and my new appliance.

My beloved


The immense sense of calm I gain by filling my freezer with nourishing consumables - soups, stews and dough I've concocted, herbs, and yes - bread, is invaluable. Not only does it put my mind at ease about The Future, as vague and intangible a term as that may be, but it gives me the delusion I'm fulfilling my role as a responsible adult to a satisfactory degree - without actually having to be one - as I sensibly look after, at least, one aspect of my expenditure, by not frivolously frittering money away on extravagant lunches.



Lunches for the next year - sorted

And lastly, it beautifully closes a full circle by providing me with a real sense of home - here is the frozen chicken broth (what's an Ashkenazi household without it); here is the leftover goulash my mum made when she visited months ago; here is my own kitchen triumph of a stir-fry captured and immortalised in ice as proof of competency at something, at least; And even though I don't even particularly eat bread these days - the evils of modern refined carbs etc - I still habitually hoard a loaf as a tribute to my dad; all providing a deep root of confidence in longevity and continuity - survival, if you will; and more than anything - belonging. A home.


Steak Me (New) Home

Adventures come in many guises and it is only a year after my contemplative nihilistic musings on the steps of my old flat, that I am inhabiting a new one. The expedition i've longed for is of a different nature - one of exploring a new area of London, and the pitfalls of property ownership. A challenge I was seeking, and one was provided.

And it is with intermittent exhilaration and groans of irritation that I face what the day brings. Now it's a mystery charge applied by the freeholders, now it's discovering a plethora of exotic supermarkets catering for the diverse local demographic, now it's the lack of recycling in my newly adoptive hood, now it's a surprise hipsterish steak restaurant in what is otherwise a sea of something-fried-chicken takeaways, betting shops and caffs, now it's the tricky art of neighbour diplomacy, now it's the joys of deciding on how to decorate my new home - paintings, furniture, all the bits and pieces I'd never given a second thought to before.

But it's the steakhouse that's worth elaborating on. An utter anomaly for the area, discovered on the day I moved. Suspicious of my new surroundings' cultural thinness and provincial leanings, lack of decent pubs, yet still determined to grow to love it, I paced the streets with a friend. We strolled past the tube station, through the pedestrianised high street with its low-rent Pound shops and cash-converters, and through the market selling net vests and plastic wallets. We were determined to be charmed and so walked to the very last stall.

Here we found a sad, dilapidated, boarded-up pub, but it was the blackboard sign on its wall that caught my eye:

Huh, we thought, we do indeed like all of those things, not least walking around corners. Let us follow the suggested course. Turn right we did, encountering a life-size bovine model outside what could have been a foodie spot plucked out of Dalston high street. But here, in suburban London. Buffed wooden furniture: check. Deliberately placed quirky ornaments: check. Claims for high quality ingredients: check. Aloof staff: check.

 

We weren't hungry, however we couldn't resist a nose around the premises, and were enthusiastically greeted by the self-professed financier, a man I would categorise of the "too posh to wash" ilk. He fluttered around us explaining his and business partner Cristina's vision of pushing the area to culinary eminence, facing off against some of the best London notable steak restaurants. 'Goodmans, Hawksmoor...?' I inquired. 'Erm... yes' he maintained, grasping onto his air of conviction.

I decided that, true or not, this place deserves a try - the menu offered excellent value and wasn't pretentiously complicated, just steak and lots of it. Besides, being as it evidently is the only vestige of fine dining in Barking, my only link back to urbanite sophistication, it would be foolish to dismiss it.

A few weeks later, following a lazy yet weary Sunday with overworked friends, we found ourselves crossing that threshold, with intention to dine this time. Service was lacklustre, verging on the irritable. however, we were tolerant of the fact, as we seemed to have happened upon a celebration of some kind, and staff may have been under duress preparing for the night - attendees adorned in shiny polyester shirts, pointy shoes, sparkly dresses and heavy perfumes, plus a long table set for a blowout party with many bottles of spirits, wine and beer. Attempts to guess at the occasion ranging from christening, confirmation, wedding, even funeral were speculated, but we were too tired and hungry to actually engage with the revellers. To our dismay, they eventually betrayed our gleeful sense of impending riot by maintaining cool and sober decorum throughout the evening. Damn.

The restaurant filled quickly with other diners, some clearly regulars, and we were optimistic. The food, when it arrived, was good but not great - the steaks mainly prepared well, but not as one would expect in the more established London steak joints - the meat has not been prepared with the appropriate heat, it seemed. Fat not crisped enough, sinew more evident than it should be, and even the fillet had a damp, cold quality as if it hadn't had time to thaw out properly before being tossed into he pan. And you've gotta wonder, given the profit margin, could these be superb cuts of beef at these prices? I'd like to believe this must be due to a special arrangement forged with an excellent and ethical meat supplier, but I'm afraid my cynical leanings won't let me.

Sides were tasty, although on the under-seasoned side, and we only got one portion of chips instead of two; however, the bill came to about £25 per head, including a bottle of a decent Vinho Tinto, and I'm certain the lunch menu at £6 for a main and sides, and even the Sunday roast menu for £10 are more than satisfactory.

The claim to quality and style and dogged stubborn insistence on being the leading steak eatery in the area is certainly justified, given that competition is non-existent. And no doubt I would be making repeat visits when I feel the steak urge coupled with a wish to stay local. The restaurant is doing well, management is eager and clientele is loyal, it appears.

Somehow, though, for local eats I prefer the excellent Kolachi, a Pakistani restaurant down the road. Drafty, cramped and garishly decorated with a candelabra, it serves truly authentic Karachi homey food, bowls of glistening lentil and chickpea and slow-cooked lamb stews, served with a side plate of herbs, ginger, limes and crisp fried onions to be sprinkled at your leisure over the dish, or a plateful of expertly grilled chops and skewered meats, aromatically marinated. Here you are expected to eat with your hands and/or paratha and naan baked a minute ago on the tandoor. No sophistication but no pretension either. Here I found the essence of what my new home ground is about.