SpiceLines

Like cookbook author Madhur Jaffrey, we love Thai curries with “an unholy passion.” Curry pastes—those pungent blends of shallots, garlic, lemon grass, galangal and of course red or green chiles—are so addictive when mixed with coconut milk and lime leaves that the addition of shrimp or pork or chicken seems almost an afterthought.

Culinary scholars may bicker over curry’s exact origins, but all agree that India was its birthplace. As Jaffrey notes in From Curries to Kebabs, the subcontinent’s wondrous blends of spices and cooking techniques gave rise to delicious new dishes, as Indian emigrants adapted foods of their homeland to new ingredients found in countries around the globe.

On February 16th, Jaffrey will join other culinary mavens at Asia Society in New York for a panel discussion, “Currying Favor: A History of Indian Food in America.” She will be joined by Tabla chef, Floyd Cardoz, Union Square Hospitality Group president Danny Meyer, cookbook author Julie Sahni, Bombay Times food critic, Rashmi Uday Singh and others as they explore the popularity of Indian food in America, the variety of regional cuisines available here, and the latest trends in Indian food. Mimi Sheraton will moderate.

For details, contact: Asia Society and Museum, 725 Park Avenue, New York City. Telephone: 212.288.6400. Web: www.asiasociety.org.

We’d trade places with Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid any day.

For three decades this Toronto-based couple has backpacked around the world, notebooks and cameras in hand, searching out the most delectable and authentic food. They photograph it, write about it, then come home and test recipes in their urban kitchen, eventually producing ravishingly illustrated books filled with beguiling tales of their latest journey and adventurous recipes. Somehow they’ve managed to take their two sons on their travels, escaping the stultifying trap of regular school.

In their latest book, Mangoes and Curry Leaves, Alford and Duguid leisurely wend their way through the Great Indian Subcontinent. This is a journey they’ve taken many times before (they met on a hotel rooftop in Tibet, not the subcontinent but close) and they write with passion and authority about the cooking of India, Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. Luckily, the book doesn’t even try to offer a comprehensive view of the cuisines of these regions. Rather, it is an intimate diary of the places they’ve visited, the people they’ve encountered and the great food they’ve eaten.

Dipping into the book, we felt as if we too had skipped school to travel alongside the authors. In Ladakh, north of the Himalaya, we shared tart dried apricots and tea with a goatskin-clad Dard woman at a monastery festival. In the desert of western Gujarat, we salivated hungrily as Sona Bai and her 12-year-old daughter made a simple potato curry, fragrant with chiles, turmeric, black mustard seeds, cumin and coriander, and baked flatbread on a clay griddle. And in Udaipur, we spent days with Sangana Bai creating a tandoor oven, kneading and mixing heavy clay, straw and manure, building up thin layers that must dry overnight, until the four-foot-tall, barrel-shaped oven was finished. This episode, by the way, perfectly describes the gaping difference between Alford’s and Duguid’s style of travel and our own.

On their journey, they’re “continually amazed at just how good common everyday food is.” This is the mantra behind the more than two hundred traditional recipes in the book. Among our favorites are Coconut Chutney, spiked with tamarind, ginger and green cayenne chiles, Chile Shrimp Stir Fry from Goa, subtly flavored with cinnamon, clove and cardamom, and the lovely Bengali Fish in Broth. In the later, chunks of cod are tossed with turmeric and salt, then stir-fried in mustard oil and cooked in a fragrant broth with tomato, zucchini and eggplant. It was a perfect one-dish Saturday night supper.

Mangoes and Curry Leaves: Culinary Travels Through the Great Subcontinent, Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid, Artisan, 2005.

To read more about the award-winning authors and their four previous books, go to their website, www.hotsoursaltysweet.com.

“The discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a new star.” Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, La Physiologie du Gout, 1825.

This was it for us, a dish far better than the discovery of a new star. Twelve years ago in Singapore, the vibrant flavors of cilantro root, birds-eye chiles and kaffir lime rind mixed with freshly pressed coconut milk awakened every one of our10,000-plus taste buds. And it can be made in 30 minutes or less.

The Thai curry was the high point of a day spent with K. Karuna, a vivacious cooking teacher, local TV personality and cookbook author. That morning, Karuna, a fifth-generation Singaporean of Indian descent, took us to one of the island’s famed wet markets, where we reveled in the sight of giant red snapper heads and bamboo baskets seething with brown Sri Lankan crabs. Like shopping fools, we scooped up every type of packaged curry paste we could find, plus fragrant kaffir lime leaves, milk squeezed from freshly grated coconut, and plump green Thai eggplants. Back in her outdoor kitchen, Karuna showed us how to make the curry in an earthenware wok over a gas flame.

Karuna made her green curry with chicken—the recipe also allows for pork, lamb or beef—but we often use shrimp. Like Karuna, we also use ready-made curry paste, usually the Mae Ploy brand, but we boost its flavor with fresh chopped herbs. Of course, homemade green curry paste is much better--we include a recipe from the Periplus series of books on Asian cookery—but that would take another 10 or 15 minutes.

To see more about K. Karuna, go to www.kkaruna.com.

Quick Green Curry

(adapted from K. Karuna)

For 4 people

Ingredients:

1 tablespoon Thai green curry paste, or to taste (see note)
7 ounces unsweetened coconut milk
1-1/2 cups water
1 tablespoon sugar, or to taste
1 tablespoon coriander leaves, very finely chopped
1 tablespoon green scallion tops, very finely chopped
1 tablespoon lemongrass, finely sliced (use only the tender inner core at the base of the stem)
2 lime leaves (see note)

1 purple oriental eggplant, cut into thin rounds (optional)
1 pound chicken, pork, lamb or beef cut into strips
or 1 pound shrimp, shelled and deveined
1 tablespoon coriander leaves, chopped
1 small lime (optional)
Salt

Method:

1. In a large saucepan, stir the curry paste into the canned coconut milk and water. The paste is quite spicy, so the first time, mix it into the coconut milk by the teaspoonful, tasting as you go. Do the same as you add the sugar. ( We usually add just one teaspoon.) Add the chopped coriander leaves, scallions, lemon grass, lime leaves, eggplant if desired, and chicken, pork, lamb or beef. Bring to a gentle simmer and cover. Cook for 20 to thirty minutes, until the meat is done and the gravy has thickened. If you prefer a thicker gravy, remove the cover midway through the cooking.

2. If you are using shrimp, combine coconut milk, water, green curry paste, sugar, chopped herbs, lime leaves, and eggplant (if using), and simmer for 20 to 30 minutes until the mixture has thickened. Add the shrimp at the end, and cook just until they turn pink.

3. Taste and correct seasonings. You may wish to add a little salt or a drop of lime juice. Sprinkle with coriander leaves and serve with white rice.

Note: Kaffir lime leaves are often available frozen in Asian markets. Mae Ploy green curry paste is also sold at Asian markets. The Thai Kitchen brand can be found at Whole Foods and some supermarkets.

Thai Green Curry Paste (Nam Prik Gaeng Kheow Wan)

(from The Food of Thailand, Periplus World Cookbooks)

Ingredients:

1 tablespoon coriander seeds
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
15 green bird’s-eye chilies
3 tablespoons finely chopped shallots
1 tablespoon finely chopped garlic
1 teaspoon finely chopped galangal
1 tablespoon finely sliced lemon grass
1/2 teaspoon finely chopped kaffir lime rind
1 teaspoon finely chopped cilantro root
5 black peppercorns
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon shrimp paste

Method:

Dry fry the coriander and cumin seeds in a wok over low heat for about 5 minutes, then grind into a powder. Put the rest of the ingredients, except the shrimp paste, into a blender and blend to mix well. Add the spice seed mixture and shrimp paste, and blend to obtain 1/2 cup of fine-textured paste.

What is curry exactly? This is one of those prickly issues that foodies love to debate, even as we are stuffing our mouths with, say, the most delectable fish curry from Goa, practically wallowing in the irresistible flavors of fresh coconut, sour tamarind and fiery kashmiri chilies.

In A Historical Dictionary of Indian Food, K. T. Achaya defines “curry” as an “Indo-Anglian” construct “which has come to symbolize Indian food for the westerner.” Derived from kari, the Tamil word for black pepper, it originally described any spicy dish that accompanied South Indian food, then came to embrace “a liquid broth, a thicker stewed preparation, or even a spiced dry dish.” Achaya dryly adds that one Eliza Fay served curry and rice “as a matter of course” at her Calcutta table in 1780, “as did thousands of other colonials living everywhere in India.”

The mystery of curry is more fully revealed in Lizzie Collingham’s new book, Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors. This densely written history of Indian cuisine invites the reader down so many intriguing byways that one sometimes loses sight of the main idea: that the evolution of Indian cuisine was spurred by hordes of invaders—the Mughals who originated in Central Asia, then the Portuguese and the British—who fused their own culinary traditions with those of the Subcontinent, producing entirely new dishes such as, yes, curry.

As Collingham explains, Indians would never have called their own food curry. “The idea of curry is, in fact, a concept that the Europeans imposed on India’s food culture….[Indian] servants would have served the British with dishes that they called, for example, rogan josh, dopiaza or quarama. But the British lumped all these together under the heading of curry.”

The English got the word “curry”, she says, from the Portuguese who had arrived in India in 1498 with Vasco da Gama. They used the terms “caril” or “carree” to describe broths “made with Butter, the Pulp of Indian Nuts…and all sorts of Spices, particularly Cardamoms and Ginger…besides herbs, fruits and a thousand other condiments [that they]…poured in good quantity upon…boyl’d Rice.” The Portuguese had in turn drawn these words from three South Indian languages: karil in Kannadan and Malayalam, and kari in Tamil, both meaning spices as well as sautéed vegetables and meat. The British generically applied the word curry to “any spicy dish with a thick sauce or gravy in any part of India.”

Collingham traces in gruesome detail the devolution of curry from a spicy pan-Indian dish with many regional variations into a noxious all-purpose turmeric-heavy powder manufactured in England for returning civil servants who pined for the lost pleasures of the Anglo-Indian table. Fortunately, in both England and America we are enjoying a surge in restaurants serving regional Indian cooking, so we can taste the real (but still evolving) thing.

See K.T. Achaya, A Historical Dictionary of Indian Food, Oxford University Press, 1998, and Lizzie Collingham, Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors, Oxford University Press, 2006, both at www.amazon.com.

A rich duck curry, served with basmati rice, gets an unexpected lift from a
sweet and hot cranberry chutney with ginger, tangerines and walnuts.

We’re deep into fall: The lawn is a crunchy tapestry of red, gold and brown leaves. Gusts of wind set them swirling like cyclones, only to resettle in drifts around the trunks of nearly bare maple and crab apple trees. The last of the Canadian geese, honking plaintively, straggle south over the pasture. The scent of wood smoke perfumes the chill morning air. In the kitchen, it’s time for duck…

In her new memoir, Climbing the Mango Trees, Madhur Jaffrey writes that the men in her family were avid hunters. Winter dinners in India usually included game from the day’s outing: “There might be duck or partridge or quail, some with pellets still inside them, cooked with rich cardamom-flavored sauces; or my father’s favorite, leg of wild boar, cooked for a whole day in beer.” These were served with cauliflower and peas, spinach, or carrots with fenugreek greens, along with phulkas, “little puffed whole wheat breads” similar to chapatis.

Upon reading this, I immediately flipped to the recipes at the end of the book and, yes, there was one for duck curry cooked in medley of warming spices. The dish is sublime: A large Pekin duck, cut into pieces, is slowly simmered in a sauce enriched with creamy yogurt and a fragrant blend of sweet and pungent spices—ginger, garlic, coriander, cumin, cardamom, cinnamon and Kashmiri red-chili powder—until it is falling-off-the-bone tender. The curry is quite good served over basmati rice, but even better with the delicate phulkas Jaffrey recommends. Phulkas are easy to make and can be puffed up on a hot griddle just before serving the curry.

A spoonful of sweet chutney is a delicious counterpoint to the spices in the curry. You can always open a jar of mango chutney, but, as Thanksgiving approaches—why not take a more adventurous route and serve Laxmi Hiremath’s sweet and hot cranberry chutney with ginger and tangerines from her book, The Dance of Spices?

Classic Duck Curry with Coriander and Cardamom
(adapted from Madhur Jaffey in Climbing the Mango Trees)

To serve 4

Ingredients:

4-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and chopped
6 large cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
4 tablespoons whole coriander seeds
2 teaspoons whole cumin seeds
1 teaspoon cardamom seeds (see note)
1/2 teaspoon whole cloves
2-inch stick cinnamon, crushed
1 teaspoon Kashmiri red-chili powder (or 3/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper)
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
4 tablespoons olive or peanut oil
6-pound duck (see below)
2 medium onions, peeled and finely chopped
8 tablespoons plain yogurt
1-3/4 teaspoons salt, or to taste

Method:

1. Have your butcher cut the duck into 8 pieces: 2 drumsticks, 2 thighs, and 4 breast quarters. Reserve the wings (discard the tips), back, sternum and gizzard for the sauce, if desired. Remove all the fat and skin that hangs from the sides or ends of the duck, leaving only the skin that sits on top of the meat.
2. Put the ginger, garlic and 1/4 cup water into a blender. Blend thoroughly until you have a smooth paste. Set aside.
3. Combine the coriander, cumin and cardamom seeds, cloves and cinnamon in a clean coffee or spice grinder. Grind as finely as possible. Empty the spice mixture into a small bowl. Add the red-chili powder, turmeric, vinegar and about 3 tablespoons of water to make a thick, dryish paste. (The paste may be very liquid at first, but it will thicken after a few minutes.)
4. Pour the oil into a large sauté or frying pan and set over medium heat. When it is hot, put in as many duck pieces as will fit easily, skin side down. Brown the duck on one side. Turn and brown the other side. Remove to a bowl. Continue to brown all the duck pieces in the same way.
5. Add the onion to the same hot oil. Stir and fry until the onion pieces turn reddish. Add the ginger-garlic paste and turn the heat to medium low. Stir and cook about 2 minutes, then add the spice paste, stirring and cooking over medium-low heat for another minute.
6. Add 1 tablespoon of yogurt. Stir and cook until it seems to disappear. Add the remaining yogurt in the same way, a tablespoon at a time. Now put in all the browned duck and any juices that may have accumulated in the bowl, the salt and 2-3/4 cups water. Stir and bring to a boil. Cover and turn the heat to low, and simmer gently for 1 hour and 15 minutes, or until the duck is tender. Stir gently every 10 minutes or so during the cooking period, turning the duck pieces over now and then.
7. Lift out the duck pieces and place them in a bowl. Tilt the cooking pan and spoon off as much of the fat as possible from the sauce. Pour the defatted sauce into a blender and blend very fine. Pour this sauce through a coarse sieve or strainer right over the duck pieces, pressing down on the sieve to extract all the possible juices.
8. The duck may be reheated and served the same day, or it may be refrigerated and served a day or two later. Serve with basmati rice or phulkas (see recipe below) and a spoonful of sweet chutney.

Note: Cardamom seeds removed from their shells can be found in Indian markets or ordered from www.penzeys.com.