Dinner With Meg

As you grow up and get older, it’s inevitable that so many things change as you go. Your close circle. Your priorities. Even your tastebuds. Yet throughout the years and throughout those changes, one thing has always been a constant for me – my love of a good curry.

Indian food isn’t something I grew to like. I’ve always loved it. Some of my earliest memories are centered around being in a curry house and fast forward to now, Indian food still plays a massive part in my life – mastering how to cook a curry was so important to me when I left home, for example. And it’s one of the things myself and my boyfriend bonded over in our very early conversations.

What you’re about to read is a timeline of my life, but mapped out in a way that portrays my love for curry, and Indian cuisine more broadly, and how that’s altered over the years to mean different things to me. 

In an age of political correctness, I feel the need to state that when I say ‘curry’ or ‘Indian cuisine’ I’m not referring to the authenticity of the streets of Mumbai here, but rather what we have taken and adapted in Britain, and what we serve in our restaurants. 

I’d like to consider myself cultured, but I’m fully aware that a chicken tikka masala is more British than it is Indian…

The early years: pakoras, the fish tank and a rubber chicken…

Influence

Long before I was born, my parents had always loved going out for an Indian. I presume this may have been my Grandad’s influence, as when I grew up I knew he was quite partial to ‘a few scoops and a curry’. Either way, my family would often make the trip to Rusholme to dine at their favourite place on the Curry Mile – Spicy Hut.

And when I came along, that certainly didn’t stop. No, there was just another chair at the table (well, a highchair to be precise). We’d visit often, sometimes on a Sunday, much to my great grandma’s dismay. We’d often stop by and visit her on our way, and as the feeder of the family she often looked somewhat disappointed that she wasn’t cooking for us, and that weren’t having a traditional Sunday dinner. She loved a curry herself, just not on a Sunday… 

It’s probably fair to say that this place is at the beating heart of my love for a curry and influenced this in the early years of my life, and so it’s only right I shed some light on it.

Instant friends

I remember Spicy Hut was always so busy. For my family, it became the go-to for celebrations and by how the tables were always filled in there, it’s clear that so many other people viewed it and loved it in the same way too. Even when I was born, and followed by my cousins and my sister, I’m told the restaurant owner would give our family cards and money so they could celebrate our arrival and buy us something, and even on occasions like our christenings too. 

Now, giving us gifts and money wasn’t ever important to us. When I say that, I don’t mean it wasn’t appreciated because of course it was. But what I mean is, it’s not like we kept going back there because of that. We kept going back because the food was out of this world primarily, but also because the service made you feel like the most important people in the room. And I’m sure every table would say the same, which for me is one of the signs of an incredible restaurant. Giving us gifts symbolised generosity and friendship, and remembering those occasions I guess were all a part of the service.

As a child, I always remember finding one waiter in particular a bit of a joker. If you were a first-time visitor, unaware of his humour, and ordered chicken from the menu, he’d bring out a rubber chicken hidden under a cloche to take you by surprise. 

If you ever asked for a small portion, he’d first bring out whatever you’d asked for in a tiny dish. Same went for beers. If you order a small beer, he’d bring it in a shot glass.

Simple and daft things, but it made first-time visitors feel like they were instantly in the company of friends.

Changing tastes

As I grew to old enough to remember this, but still young enough to find such amusement in it, I remember there was a fish tank at the restaurant – full of tropical fish. Even they became familiar faces. My parents, auntie and uncle would always request the table closest to the fish tank so us kids could amuse ourselves watching them, between games on our Nintendo DS’s, and bites of chicken pakoras. 

I’m told that before I was old enough to remember I’d often sit in my highchair at the restaurant, nibbling on a popadom whilst the adults indulged in food that would’ve probably scolded my tastebuds forever if I were to try it as a toddler. But, eventually my tastebuds did evolve.

I went far beyond the nibbles of a popadum and began to enjoy proper curries. Well, I say proper curries, my gateway was a korma, so take from that what you will. Luckily the fixation on korma soon passed, and I began to order a chicken tikka massala at every given opportunity. I enjoy spicier curries now, but find myself ordering a massala everything now and again just for a little taste of nostalgia…

The teenage years: Shami to sheek, bhuna to balti, and the Christmas Day curry…

Changes

Our beloved Spicy Hut closed when I was in my teens. My 16th birthday was the last I celebrated there, before the owner retired and it closed its doors. By that time, and thanks to the evolution of my tastebuds, I was well versed with various and spicier offerings on the menu compared to when I was a child. 

A makhani was always my go-to, and I always remember the shami kebabs there, that were served with a green dip. I wasn’t into cooking then as I was probably still too young, so didn’t have an awareness of what exactly that dip was made from. But my god it was good.

We’d been splitting our time between Spicy Hut and another, more local restaurant to us called Amans, so naturally when the former closed down we started to spend more time at the latter. It houses our celebrations, and perhaps one of the biggest annual family celebrations of all…Christmas.

Sundays and Christmas

Yes. We were those people. We went out for a curry on Christmas Day. For many years infact, before COVID came along. It all started when one Christmas, there’d have been 10 of us around the table. No one really wanted to cook for a large group and it was difficult to find the space, so we opted as a family to go out for Christmas that year. Going out for Christmas dinner isn’t cheap, and when given the choice we’d all choose to have a curry instead anyway. So as a cost-effective and tastier option, we’d head for an Indian on Christmas Day. 

Christmas Days spent at the Indian are now one of my core memories when I think about growing up. We had a routine every year – a quick drink in the local, followed by a curry. And we’d always get so much food that inevitably we’d need to take some home with us. When the majority of the nation were cracking open the cheese and biscuits on Christmas Day evening, we were mopping up leftover sauce with a piece of roughly torn naan bread. 

And THEN we’d have the cheese and biscuits.

One of the other memories is going for a curry on a Sunday still, just at the local Indian rather than in Rusholme this time. Grandad was a big advocate of a Sunday curry. If he rang us on a Saturday or a Sunday morning, chances are it was to ask if we wanted to book a table for Sunday evening. Now, this was pre-COVID, so as a family full of sensitive stomachs when working from home wasn’t yet an option, this often felt like risky business.

We’d toy with the idea for a couple of seconds, deciding whether it was a wise idea, but we always knew that the answer would be a resounding yes. Our love for a communal Indian overpowering the anxiety of a potential stomach ache. And it always delayed the school Sunday scaries for a few hours longer that evening.

Different tastes, different chapters

In my teenage years, this is where I became a little more open to trying different curries, graduating from a masala to the likes of a chicken tikka bhuna and a keema balti. Much like the shami kebab, I’d opt for a sheek kebab to start on most occasions here. Same concept, just a different shape. 

Amans is where I celebrated my 18th birthday (and many other celebrations too). Me and my friends would even come here as a group around the age of 15-16 as all of our families did, and so the owner and staff knew us all. We know we’d be well-looked after, and our parents knew where we were and who we were with. The restaurant has witnessed a lot of different life stages within those walls, between us all. It’s housed a lot of happy memories.

The twenties: Nostalgia, the homecooked curry, and the compatibility test…

Ah yes, my twenties. Arguably the era where the curry means the most. I’m old enough now to attach a sense of nostalgia to curry, and sitting in an Indian restaurant is at the heart of so many memories, many of which I’ve already discussed. It’s also at the forefront of thoughts I have when I remember my Grandad. Don’t get me wrong, my love of curry is perhaps the strongest it’s ever been now that I’ve developed a real appreciation for all things food, but it’s definitely the nostalgia and reminiscence that adds to my adoration. 

In terms of tastebuds in my twenties, I’m open to trying anything but I’ve definitely found my firm favourites in a keema balti, chicken tikka bhuna, and chicken tikka masala. I could go spicier, but fear I wouldn’t enjoy it as much. And much like my teenage years I still have the appetite of a teenage boy, so I am partial to a tandoori mixed plater starter every time I pay Amans a visit… 

A curry abroad

In my twenties, going out for a curry is still a big part of my life, but probably now in a different way. I don’t go for one as much as I used to, probably because as you get older you don’t tend to go out with your parents or your family as much. But now that I’m old enough to drink, I get the appeal of having ‘a few scoops and a curry’. Whether curry and a catch up, a spontaneous plan to go out, or even a curry on holiday, it’s still an experience I love.

A curry on holiday is particularly special. Not only does it signify that the people you’ve gone away with have an excellent choice in cuisine, but there really is something about being chilled out, in the sun all day, and then getting ready to go out and have a few pints and a good ol’ curry. 

When I think of this experience, I always think about Benidorm. Say what you want about this place, but I love it, and it has a cracking Indian called Clay Oven (thanks to my best friend, Shona, for the introduction). What I love about this place is being sat around the round table. There was five of us on my last visit there and no one was sat as the odd one out on the end of the table. We chatted for hours over curry, and one of our mate’s questionable choice of the ‘mango curry’ from the menu (that actually turned out to be very nice…). This was already a treasured memory, but upon this friend’s very recent passing, it just became a whole lot more special.

Homecooking

My twenties also marks the decade I moved out. I stayed at home when studying at university, but eventually decided to go and embrace city living when I turned 24. This is where I really grew to love cooking, and mastering a homemade curry was something I was keen to do early on. When I make a curry, I make one curry. I haven’t ever tried to make any other besides the one I whip up every time, which sounds odd considering how I love experimenting in the kitchen and cooking new dishes.

That being said, I think the curry I make also has nostalgia attached to it, hence why I seem to make it time and time again. It’s a curry that my mum and dad would whip up – they were very similar, but something that separated my dad’s version is that he wouldn’t mince the garlic and instead would slice the cloves so the pieces were still quite chunky. That’s something I’ve taken forward with me. I used to love eating the curry growing up and getting a chunky piece of garlic on my fork.

Curry as compatibility

And rightly or wrongly, a love for the Indian cuisine has been my way to gauge romantic compatibility (most of the time…). Granted,  when my ex told me he would never choose to go out for an Indian and it would be his last choice of food to eat, I should’ve known there and then that this was a red flag and the relationship wouldn’t go the distance. But, we live and we learn. 

I’m now happily in a relationship and can wholeheartedly say that this will go the distance. And infact, me and my boyfriend in our earlier days of talking and dating did bond over our love of an Indian. We’d stay up late texting and talking about absolutely anything and everything, and a lot of the time food was always at the centre of these conversations. We were very passionate about food, and curry in particular, and we’d spend time carving out what our ideal Indian takeaway order would be, almost as a compatibility test.

And then when he didn’t flinch at the notion of curry on Christmas Day, and actually had that experience themself? Well, sealed the deal.

What this article has really brought to light for me is that as much as I love Indian cuisine for its variety of flavours and tastes, there’s a lot of emotional attachment there. Particularly nostalgia. For me, the cuisine acts as a symbol of so many things and different stages in my life.

And that for me is why I love food. I love restaurants. I love dining experiences. Now clearly I’m somebody that does romanticise things in life (but why shouldn’t we?) and I’m sure people would never read into these sorts of things with such depth. But as an emotional person that draws connections in everything and feels things very deeply, I do love that food and places (restaurants, in this instance) have the power to make us feel certain things and remember certain times. Indian cuisine has the power to do that for me.