BackThe paradox of vegetarian Anglo-Indian food
Meat is the mainstay of Anglo-Indian cuisine; an amalgamation of British and Indian cooking Vegetarian Anglo food is a bit of a contradiction and is, well, rudimentary. It’s a hat tip to simplicity; often an underrated aspect of making food
PremiumI grew up in Bengaluru amidst strong multicultural influences, with friends who were Mangalurean, Anglo-Indian, Muslim, Tamil and Gowda. The food from these cultures was, primarily, meat. The Gowda family that helped raise me was presided over by a patriarch called Major K.R.A. Gowda, who was 6ft, 2 inches or thereabouts. He snorted at things like marrow spoons and believed children must learn to crack mutton bones.
I was raised in a family that squabbled over the mandatory vegetarian Thursday. Breakfast was often leftover kheema or mutton curry with eggs and dosa. My father had no qualms trying local rats and insects when he hung out with Nagas in the North-East. My brother liked to scrawl “Vegetarianism is the last refuge of scoundrels" on the wall of the room he occupied.
So, when I got married to a vegetarian, my family and friends were incredulous.
My wife found none of this amusing—not the oh-she’s-coming-to-lunch panic that set in during the early years of marriage, not the jokes about grass-eaters and certainly not the overcompensation with vegetarian entrées. She is a dal-and-rice girl and a moody eater, making her an over-eager mother- or sister-in-law’s nightmare (alas, the men are too detached from the kitchens). For 20 years now, they have rarely got her lunch right.
Earlier, she was often touchy about going to a restaurant or situation with a lack of vegetarian options, but she has adjusted greatly since. A part of this adjustment is associated with her frequent declarations that food does not matter very much to her, that she can do with an, um, “liquid" diet. But she is a great believer in neighbourhoods and adapting to local culinary culture.
While she revels in the local Indira Darshini and the little hole in the wall that offers millet idlis, millet dosas and millet bisi bele bhath, the fact is we live in a stronghold of meat eaters, something borne out amply by neighbourhood events and fairs in Richards Town, Bengaluru.
The latest last week was the fair hosted by the local Holy Ghost Church. It had a bouncy castle, a merry-go-round and an inflatable, artificial pond with little kiddie paddle boats. It had candy floss and air-rifle shooting. It had dubious local bands belting out Tamil hits, Elvis Presley and Christmas-y songs. It had home-made wines and home-made pork and sannas, those spongy cousins of idlis, best suited to accompany meat.
Home-made food was the leading feature of the Holy Ghost fair. There were a couple of commercial stalls, but they were almost deserted. The three besieged stalls were those run by Anglo-Indian families and one by a Muslim family. Yes, in good old Richards Town, none of this is unusual, and no one cares that beef or pork are sold side by side—or if they care, they keep it to themselves or adjust. No one is judged by what they want to eat.
My first choice was the beef roll, but the genial Anglo-Indian family said it would take time. There was already a run on their stall, and the grilling process appeared jolly—accompanied by jokes and laughter—but disorganized. I settled for a piping-hot Muslim biryani, but the wife went to the Smoke Signal BBQ (“…it ain’t BBQ if there ain’t no smoke," is their slogan), run by an Anglo family that lives down the street. She procured chicken wings and barbecue pork for my parents, a plate of juicy barbecue pork ribs for the nine-year-old and the only vegetarian option on their menu: a giant chickpea burger. Is there much demand for it, she asked. “We sold two yesterday," they said. “Today you are the first."
It was a languorous Sunday, which extended into an afternoon family movie. By dusk we were home. The child retreated conscientiously into her homework, and our thoughts turned to dinner. For once, I was stuffed, but the wife was hungry. This meant I had to cook, which I don’t mind. Our fridge is often kept empty on the weekends, and that makes me fire up my stove. We derive no real joy from ordering out.
I made a brown rice and a palak dal for the wife, enough to last into Monday. On Monday, I only needed to add on a vegetable. Inspired and intrigued by all that Anglo cooking, I turned to Bridget White, whose Anglo-Indian Cuisine: A Legacy Of Flavours From The Past has graced my shelf for many years.
Vegetarian Anglo food is a bit of a contradiction and is, well, rudimentary. Still, I settled on a tangy, spicy tomato sambal, which turned out to be a strong accompaniment to the dal and rice left over from Sunday. Simplicity, as I often say, is an underrated facet of food. I am lucky to have a family that agrees.
ANGLO-INDIAN TOMATO SAMBAL
Serves 2
Ingredients
1 large onion, finely chopped
3 large tomatoes, finely chopped
2-3 green chillies, finely chopped
Juice of 1 lime
1/4 tsp fresh pepper
1 tsp dried thyme
2 tsp olive oil
Salt to taste
Method
Heat oil in a non-stick pan. Fry onions until brown. Add tomatoes, chillies, lime juice, pepper, thyme and salt. Simmer until the liquid begins to evaporate and tomato begins to disintegrate.
Our Daily Bread is a column on easy, inventive cooking. Samar Halarnkar is the author of The Married Man’s Guide To Creative Cooking—And Other Dubious Adventures.
Twitter - @samar11
Unlock a world of Benefits! From insightful newsletters to real-time stock tracking, breaking news and a personalized newsfeed – it's all here, just a click away! Login Now!
