On a recent visit to Kerala, I picked up a fascinating new book, Curry In The Crown, published by Harper Collins, but only in India. Written by London journalist Shrabani Basu, the book attempts to explain to Indians how their ex-colonial power became a "nation of curryholics". Basu reports on how a 1997 Gallup survey revealed that curry was, beyond doubt, the nation's favourite food with more than a quarter of Britons eating curry at least once a week. She notes how Marks & Spencer sells 18 tonnes of chicken tikka masala each week - this, the quintessential British "Indian" dish invented in the UK in the 70s and virtually unknown throughout the sub-continent.
Indian readers can now marvel at how "Vindaloo" became the battle cry of English football fans and chuckle at the prospect of a forthcoming album for "curry-mad Britishers" featuring numbers such as Korma Khameleon and Poppadom Preach. Many will be simply staggered to read the book's rags-to-riches tales of UK curry entrepreneurs such as Patak's, G K Noon and Parveen Warsi. "Their climb to the Sunday Times' list of the richest people in Britain adds extra spice to the fantastic tale of this industry," writes Basu.
The thing that will make Indians most incredulous is the fact that the curry to which we have become addicted is overwhelmingly fake. As anyone who has ever eaten a proper banana leaf or thali meal in India will know, the food eaten in the sub-continent bears little ressemblance to what is generally taken as "Indian" food in the UK. "Perhaps the most baffled . . . is the first time Indian visitor to the British Isles. For a start, which Indian has ever used the word 'curry' to describe Indian food?" asks Basu.
She points out that there is a North Indian yoghurt-based preparation called "karhi" and there is the fragrant herb called "curry leaf" - used in South Indian cooking. "But there is nothing in India quite as universal as the British curry," she notes.
The British curry seems to have begun with immigrants from Bangladesh (pre-independance East Pakistan) who settled in the UK, having worked as crew on P&O ferries from India, where they learned to cook Anglo-Indian dishes such as mulligatawny. Setting up "Indian" restaurants, Bangladeshi entrepreneurs then diversified from the "P&O menu" to the famous (or infamous) "one-curry sauce" made from bought-in catering curry paste that continues to reign supreme in curry houses throughout the UK today. As Basu diplomatically puts it, "The intricacies of Indian cooking, the array of non-spicy dishes simply did not feature."
Some 80% of "Indian" restaurants in the UK are still run by Bangladeshis. Basu charts the passing fashions that have reigned in the curry house: the 70s' tandoori phase, the 80s' "balti" phase, (a Birmingham invention), eclipsed in the 90s by the vogue for "karahi" dishes, which unlike balti, are authentic in theory, if not in execution. Though, according to Basu, there are a handful of exceptional London restaurants (such as the Bombay Brasserie, Chutney Mary, Rasa and Café Spice Namaste) which have broken with the curry-house tradition to offer distinctive Indian regional cuisine cooked by Indian chefs, she explains why, despite more discernment among diners and a genuine hunger for real Indian cooking, there is a chronic UK shortage of chefs capable of cooking the authentic article.
The Home Office only allows chefs from India into the UK for up to three years at a time, and only after endless paperwork and procedures are completed. By the time a chef is getting into his stride, it's time to go home. The MP Keith Vaz has been campaigning to have immigration rules relaxed for chefs from India. "Until we look again at the laws governing the entry of specialist chefs, some of these restaurants [seeking specialist chefs] will have to close or simply not sell the kind of authentic food they want," he says. More power to his elbow.
Another approach is to train second-generation British Asians to cook India's rich and diverse cuisines. These days, even Bangladeshi restaurants are trying to serve more authentic Bengali food. But while the Lion's share of our "Indian" food comes out of a bottle or jar, there's a clear need for a restatement of the sub-continent's sophisticated cooking techniques: masalas that are unique to each dish, spices and wet aromatics added at various stages, and the traditional tempering with spice-infused oil.
But in 1998, when the Department of Education came up with a grant of £300,000 for an Asian Academy of Culinary Skills, based at Thames Valley University, the headlines immediately betrayed the sneering racism that simmers just below the surface of our so-called love affair with curry. The Daily Mail described it as "The University of Madras", the Daily Telegraph as "Vindaloo Academy". No wonder that young Asians are not exactly queueing up to go into the restaurant business
