Tuesday, May 1

Our taste for Tandoori chicken

They are the ‘Best Indian cookbooks ever’, according to an article in the weekend papers (mutton curry was on the homestead’s menu). As with most British homes there are several on the shelf. We stick with a book recommended by Mrs G’s Indian colleagues (not on the list), a couple that impressed me by returning home exhausted every evening and quasi-religiously taking two hours out to prepare, cook and eat a decent meal. There’s no short cut, spices having to be dry roasted, ground and cooked out each time. I developed a taste for curry in the army (a unique variant), and we continue to eat it as a treat once monthly. In my 20s a visit to the high street ‘Indian’ would be a weekly custom, either with Mrs G., or following the match/after work with the lads (following five pints of lager). My last visit to a high street establishment was a decade ago. The meal was execrable. I never understood the need to import people from Bangladesh to cook this sort of crap, not least when a jar of supermarket gloop is probably superior. I recall listening to a group of graduates laughing hilariously when asked why they weren’t following their parents into the restaurant business…why much of our immigration remains little more than a glorified Ponzi scheme.

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