An Invitation to Indian Cooking - Madhur Jaffrey [3]
KHANSAMAH: Yes, sa’ab, as you say, sa’ab. (Runs off to kitchen.)
Scene shifts to kitchen, where cook is seen hastily throwing spices into box. He runs back with it to officer.
KHANSAMAH: Here is the box, sa’ab. Sa’ab, if your friend also like, for a sum of two rupees each, I can make more boxes for them as well.…
Several years later: Former cook is now successful exporter. He is seen filling boxes marked “Best Curry Powder.” When boxes are filled, he puts them in a large crate and stamps it in black: FOR EXPORT ONLY. Then he goes to his money box, opens it, takes out his money, and gleefully counts it. As scene fades away, former cook and present exporter is doing Dance of Joy.…
So much for my scenario. The point is that no Indian ever uses curry powder in his cooking. Nor do we mix our own, because if we did we would end up with our own blend of collective spices. Cooking again and again with the same blend of spices would make all dishes taste alike. It would be the same as taking a tablespoon each of dried thyme, basil, rosemary, tarragon, bay leaves, and allspice, putting them in a jar, shaking the jar, labeling it “French Spices,” and then using a portion of this mixture for every French dish one made, from soup to salad. Also, since “curry powder” is a blend of ground spices, it tends to get stale very quickly and lose its flavor. So one ends up with something that has the negative aspects of being standardized and somewhat rancid at the same time.
And it isn’t just Britishers and Americans who are misguided. The Chinese, who insist on the freshest herbs and vegetables for all their own food, use some of the stalest curry powder for the curried dumplings they serve in Hong Kong’s best tea rooms. The Japanese, who are probably the world’s greatest culinary aesthetes, don’t hesitate to serve a greenish-yellow glutinous mess over their rice and label it “curry,” and the Frenchman, who insists on a perfect velouté, also eats the most ghastly “shrimp Indienne” in a curry-tinted cream sauce.
But eating habits are changing, and today Americans especially seem to have a great desire to experience the “real” thing, an authentic taste, a different life style. Anything fake is deplored, fake foods included. It is a hopeful trend and leads me to believe that if Indian food is ever going to come into its own in America, this is perhaps the time for it.
What is it then that gives Indian food its particular range of flavors? It may surprise you to know that a great many of the spices we use are ones that you probably have on your kitchen shelves already—cloves, cinnamon, bay leaves, black pepper, nutmeg, and mace. These, along with cardamom, are what we call garam masalas, “hot spices.” They are hot only inasmuch as they are supposed to provide heat for the body. The spices which you may not have would include cumin, coriander, turmeric, fenugreek, black mustard seeds, fennel, and dried hot peppers. All these, I find, are readily available on the spice racks of most big-city supermarkets—all you have to do is to look in the correct alphabetical pigeonhole. Those that are not available can be sent for. At the end of this book I will list retail stores and mail-order houses that specialize in Indian ingredients.
There is a slight problem with supermarket spices which you might as well be aware of. Those spices which do not “move”—i.e., sell fast—tend to stay on the shelves and get stale. A few lose their aroma, others fade in the light, some get oily and rancid. Therefore, try to buy only whole spices and grind them yourself in small quantities. The grinding can be done in a coffee grinder, or, if the spices are slightly roasted first, some can be crushed between waxed paper with a rolling pin. The electric blender will grind spices, if you do them in sufficiently