Over-ordering English Indian Takeaway Treats

Ah the delightfully spiced concoctions of Southern Asia. One of the reasons I return the UK is to seek out their national cuisine, Indian food. As with any national food, there is a wide range of regional styles and delicacies. The one in question here is the mystical realm of the British Indian takeaway. As you should know very well by now, I value comfort. Perhaps it's my often suppressed sociopathic tendencies that lead me to feel such successive stresses in daily life and consequently seek the soft warmth of a humble and satisfying meal. Perhaps I just encounter one too many stupid people per day and the frustration just makes me want to bite things. Whatever it is, every one needs some sort of relief – or indeed stimulation – to alter the otherwise linear course of their existence. 

What better way to escape than to curl up under a fluffy duvet and await the nice delivery man's arrival at the door with a smorgasbord of piping hot ready-to-eat delicacies from the exotic reaches of the not-so-far East. Indian takeaway – the salvation of those with un-stocked pantries and zero motivation to step back outside into the world for a meal in a more social setting. 

So one lazy night whilst I was residing on my not-so-little brother's floor, we decided to indulge and over order from one of his new favourite internet-order-enabled Indian takeaways, Pukka Tiffin in Chertsey. Our initial order plan would probably have fed the entire street with leftovers for the next day. We are easily excited by the promise of mouthwatering magic food that appears at your door. After some vaguely sensible order slashing, we decided on the Chicken 65, Tandoori Chicken, Aubergine Masala, Gurkha's Revenge, Keralayan Fish Curry, Fish Masala, Mushroom Rice, Lemon Rice, Garlic Naan and Lychee Lassis (is that the plural for lassi?) – which I think were changed to Mango Lassis due to unavailability. Just the thought is making me salivate again. Damn my addiction to food porn. The total added up to about fifty quid. For three people, seventeen sterling each for a massive supper with plenty leftover for another meal the next day plus the added comfort of having to do naught but sit on out lazy arses playing video games? Yes please. 

Chicken 65 was the osusume number one super sparkling recommendation from my dekke otouto (big little brother). He had me at lime. I'm a sucker for citrus. We were obviously craving copious portions of protein with the double orders of chicken and fish. Even through our vigorous screening process of filtering out unnecessary orders we settled on both a Chicken 65 and the more common takeaway staple of tandoori chicken. It would give us the chance to conduct a comprehensive comparative analysis of the two varieties of grilled poultry. Yes. Not just being greedy bastards, I swear. The plethora of spices that adorned both portions naturally had similarities, but they still remained unique in their own respects. 

That's the glory of good Indian cuisine which I adore. That ability to harness the subtleties of hundreds of flavours and meld them into one sensationally titillating cohesive culinary experience that does not overwhelm all of your senses and make you blind for a day. In regards to the Chicken 65, I would describe this as an Indian variation of honey-lemon chicken. The citrus flavours are quite apparent, but not in an alarming manner. I find some dishes that advertise the promise of tart lemony tantalisation for your tongue fail to deliver. or indeed rape your tonsils and leave you gagging for a glass of water. The balance of spices and citrus in this chicken was beautifully infused into the succulent flesh and provided plenty of excitement for my ever eager taste buds. The smokey depth from seasonings and the tandoor preparation was apparent in both, with the basic tandoori chicken emanating a stronger barbecued savoury fragrance and the 65 providing a brighter sharp splash of refreshment. 

I adore aubergines. I get ecstatic about eggplants when I see them on the menu. From baba ganoush to grilled miso, the soft and juicy flesh of a nice fat eggplant in any style is hard to resist. The sponge-like qualities of the pale vegetable is perfect for absorbing and mellowing out flavours. The delicate custard texture adds a creaminess on your palette but the fibers create just enough structure to retain its structural integrity even when submersed in a rich curry sauce. Sensational saucy dish but I would recommend caution for those with a fear of the squishy. 

You can have so much fun when ordering from an Indian takeaway menu, especially because  there is so much variety in the components of your meal. My carbohydrate choice for the evening was the mushroom rice. I have a fungal fetish. Also, who doesn't feel a flash of excitement when the fluffy foliage of rainbow pilau rice sits sparkling on a platter in front of your face? Steamy and soft, the long grains hold their succinct shapes but unify in a magnificent flurry of delicate flavour in every mouthful you take. The generous sliced button mushrooms add that extra umami punch and lends a hand in calming and aspirating the stronger flavours of the rich curries for a fuller prolonged experience. 

It's always a pleasure to order fish from a restaurant or takeaway. I find the convenience of the already filleted and mostly boneless slabs of seafood so deliciously convenient. The Keralayan fish curry consists of fried cod chunks covered in a copious coating of piquant curry. With plenty of spices to last you till next Tuesday, the potentially tumultuous menagerie are tamed by the coconut milk base and reawakened by the tart tang of tamarind. The delicate white cod pieces are shielded by their deep fried casing which allows the flaky white flesh within to stay as such despite the fervent surroundings. It is a pleasant dish, quenching my craving for both a juicy stimulating sauce and a nice hefty bite of lean protein.

This last order was made out of curiosity more than an actual craving for any of its features in particular. Gurkha's Revenge. Is that a challenge? Consider it accepted, sir. This particular curry is advertised as a dangerously spicy entity that should only be approached by professional fire eaters in hazmat suits. With such potential volcanic heat, we decided on lamb as the sacrificial meat of choice as it is far stronger in texture and flavour than its companions. Perhaps it would appease the curry gods and they would not burn us from the inside out. We were excited. The excitement continued when we lifted the lid and gazed upon the whole dried chili nestled menacingly atop the fiery red sea of sauce. Our forks penetrated the glossy crimson surface and eased into what we could only assume was a morsel of mutton. We retracted our prongs with the samples firmly attached and braced ourselves. After a final glance towards each other with looks telling of the mutual respect, fear and courage we shared in the face of the imminent torture we were about to inflict upon ourselves, we lifted our forks and bit down. 

Nothing. Nothing? Perhaps it was a delayed heat. We proceeded with caution. There were definitely some strong tastes coming through, but I think we were too distracted by the overwhelming anticipation of Scovillian suicide to concentrate on the subtle qualities of the sauce. It was not hot. This wasn't just coming from two palettes that were raised in the fiery kitchens of Thailand. No. It was not hot. In terms of pure heat, it was on par with Keralayan curry providing only a faint susurration on the Scoville scale. A bit of a tingle but definitely not the roller coaster ride we were expecting. A sharp sourness was strongest presence in the dish. After forgetting about indulging in our masochistic tendencies, the lamb and the sauce was reasonably enjoyable, although it may have been a touch too tart. It was quite nice as leftover lunch the next day. Gurkha's Revenge was indeed a dish best served cold.

Stewing in Throngs of Tumultuous Tourists

It is no secret that I adore food that comforts. I am not referring to spray cheese, triple decker burgers, chips or ice cream. When I use the term comfort food, I refer to flavour, texture, history (not just in the worldly sense, but your history as an individual with personal experiences regardless of how old you are), food that conjures up a sense of tradition (again, how ever long-established that may be for you) and familiarity (in a good way!), taking you to that warm safe cosy place in your subconscious where your senses breathe a welcome sigh of relief and you forget all the troubles of the day for the time being. That is what I feel comfort food is, a private culinary refuge through the doors of your taste buds and olfactory senses. 

For me, nothing can get more comforting than a good hearty stew. The textures of the individual components of each stew can vary from carrots with a smooth bite, soft fluffy chunks of potato, tender juicy meat, soft succulent cabbage to the fluid broth that cradles everything in its warm embrace. But the beauty of a slow cooked stew is that all theses textures meld together in one pot within a single broth so that the once isolated flavours and textures are forever bound together in a harmonious household of gastronomic wonder. They may maintain their unique characteristics but they have joined hands in a united accord to stand together for the greater good of the stew. 

This particular encounter came on a day out with my parents in London. We had been walking for a while in central London and were caught in the overflowing throngs of the city's omnipresent tourists. We needed an escape, fast. The next restaurant in our sight was a Garfunkel's. We thought. We dove in. The horror. Every table was packed with cameras, shopping bags, maps, water bottles and foreign multi-accented conversation. Tourists had already invaded the diner. But we weathered the unrelenting xeno-storm and wedged ourselves into a tiny table in front of a till. I needed a way out. One look at the menu and I knew I had one. Irish stew. Overpriced? Yes. Quality? Not that great. But it still did the job. The lamb was tender but lacked the depth of flavour a quality piece of meat carries with it. The pear barley provided the sustenance I required to fight of the flocks of foreigners (I know, I'm not an Anglo-Saxon but I don't consider myself a tourist in the typical sense when I am in the UK). Pearl barley is so fun to eat. Soft and slippery but with an oat-like bite and substantial density like an oversized grain of rice. Also, even though it is great as soaking up other flavours, it never loses its own fragrance of sweet grain. Despite being mass produced from a run of the mill family restaurant chain, the stew was still  a stew, hearty through and through, delivering the smoky delicious depth that one should always encounter when diving into a bowl of satisfying stew.