Food 21: Eating your way home

more memoir this week, plus one outstanding recipe (and a poem)

I’m half Pakistani, and occasionally I wonder if it’s odd that this expresses itself almost exclusively through food. Is it odd? Is it enough? Is it okay to only express part of who you are in a highly specific way?

Here’s the back story.

My mother left Pakistan to study in New York when she was very young. She ended up in Brussels because her university friend, my cousin, suggested she come and visit at the end of the year. My mother was interested in seeing Europe, so that’s what she did.

In Brussels, my cousin threw a dinner party for my mother. Someone cancelled at the last minute, meaning my cousin was one man short. In desperation, she asked her fun playboy uncle to come and make up the numbers. The fun playboy uncle dutifully turned up and, plot twist, proposed to my mother more or less on the spot - I want to say that night, but it may have been the next day.

She said yes. She was very green and not even 20; he was 35, a man of considerable charm and wit. (I try not to see the age gap from a 21st century perspective because I don’t like it. The marriage lasted two seconds but they stayed friendly until my father’s death decades later, when my mother came to Brussels with me for the funeral).

My mother and me

I have no recollection of my parents living together, though they did, briefly. What I do remember is that in these years - before and after they’d separated - we ran off to Pakistan more than once. (One of the times the plane felt like it was going to crash. People were flying around the cabin bashing into things and everyone was screaming and crying. ‘Turbulence’ meant something different in the olden days - it was really wild. My mother was memorably cool in the face of imminent death).

Fort Street in Lahore, which I learn from The Diary of a Nomad is extremely foody these days. Image: The Diary of a Nomad. The colours!

The visit to Pakistan I remember properly - well, as a series of vivid snapshots - happened when I was six. I remember the incredible scent of the marigold and jasmine garlands my grandmother, aunt, uncle and assorted cousins piled around our necks at the airport; the thrillingly noisy and chaotic traffic, with people hanging off mopeds laughing and yelling; the very bright white neon lights shining on night-time shops and stalls; my first taste of Heinz tomato ketchup, which my grandmother had at home - I could not get over the deliciousness; mangoes, bitter greens and a fruit called a chikoo (same); an international school I was briefly at, despite not speaking any English (I spoke French, though at this point also okay Urdu, sadly now forgotten though I like to imagine merely dormant).

These are chikoos. They are delicious.

The third war with India (1971, led to the creation of Bangladesh), broke out during our stay. I remember having to draw the curtains before watching Bewitched on a tiny black and white tv - ketchup, Bewitched: it’s odd how my first experiences of US culture happened in Pakistan - and not being allowed to have any lights on whatsoever after dark. I also remember sirens going off, and squeezing in to a nearby bomb shelter, which was extremely hot and crowded. My grandmother told my mother off for letting me play in the garden during this period and they had a row, with my mother saying that if we were going to be bombed, we might as well die in the fresh air having a nice time.

After or before this war - which only lasted two weeks - I remember a goat being sacrificed and cooked for some sort of outdoor party, and loving that goat when it came cheerfully trotting down the path with bells around its neck, and my mother putting me inside the house while a man slit its throat. I hated everything about this day. I can’t remember if I later ate the goat curry or not. I want to say no but I can’t be sure.

Anyway - after this particular interlude we went back to Brussels, and stayed put. My father had acquired a Dalmatian called Sophie, which I was pleased about because if anyone ever made me say my prayers I’d close my eyes and just ask for a dog over and over again (years before Sophie he had had a dachshund called Felix, who I only knew from photographs and yet somehow missed. Later one of his girlfriends had two Dobermans - not cuddly - who took me for walks in the country. This girlfriend explained that I was very safe with the dogs because they were trained to go for the throat of any potential aggressor. It was intended to be reassuring).

Rooh Afza, which I remember having with milk. It’s pandan leaf and rose water syrup and you dilute it with iced water to make sharbat/sherbert. You can easily get it in the UK, including from Tesco.

In 1975 my mother remarried and we moved to London. I never went to Pakistan again, though I’d like to and will, at some point. But I ricocheted between London and Brussels regularly until my father’s death, by which time I had children of my own. So while I am absolutely delighted and proud to be half Pakistani, I feel myself to be culturally both European and From London.

Can food be part of your identity - just food, I mean? My experience is atypical - my parents were comfortably off, there is no immigrant-up-by-the-bootstraps narrative, no self-sacrificing elders trying to ‘assimilate’ and in doing so heroically laying the path for future generations. We arrived fully formed and just sort of carried on, cushioned by social class and I think also to an extent by my mother’s beauty. There was nothing timid or hesitant about any of it. Of course my mother had, and has, Indian and Pakistani friends, but they also led pretty rarified lives: the classic working class immigrant experience (and community) was not theirs or hers or mine. I’m sure my mother encountered racism, but not of the kind where you’re insulted in the street and frightened for your physical safety - both commonplace in parts of the UK in the mid 1970s.

My mother is an amazing cook, of Pakistani and Indian food as well as French. I grew up on it. Her mother, my lovely grandmother, lived with us for years in London, and she was an amazing cook too. She’d make us perfectly triangular parathas and eggs for breakfast, and along with my mother produce feasts for dinner. (My very English stepfather was at this stage the editor of The Economist magazine, and he’d come back from his office in St James’ Street, change out of his suit and Turnbull & Asser shirt, put on a shalwar and eat dinner with his hands).

These are shami kebabs, which are not remotely kebab-like, being delicate, exquisite and a faff to make. They are one of my favourite things to eat in the world. My mother and grandmother both made them for special occasions; my mother still does. Image and recipe from here.

All this time later, there is a sort of plain English food that I love, but I’d be lying if I said it was my favourite. My three children were weaned on kitchri - rice and lentils - and I very rarely cook completely English food at home. There are always green chillies and ginger in the fridge, rice is my carb of choice, I make dal or potato and pea curry if I’m tired and haven’t been to the shops, I need very little persuading to make pakoras. On average I make either Indian/Pakistani-ish or Middle Eastern-ish food maybe five nights out of seven. If I’m frying an egg, I give it brown frilly edges and have it on toast with sliced green chillies, or put chaat masala on top (I put chaat masala on top of everything. We keep a jar in the glove compartment of the car for fish and chips). I like chilli oil on top of my pasta. I find roasts incredibly bland. You get the idea.

Is it enough? I think so. Well, what I mostly think is that nobody but me gets to decide whether it is or not, but I’m writing this because I find the question interesting, not just in terms of whether people of mixed heritage can ever navigate both parts of their identity equally, but also in terms what we choose to eat. If I could only eat one sort of food for the rest of my life it would be broadly North Indian, and if it couldn’t be that then it would be broadly Belgian/French. Surely that’s not by accident.

Now: I want to draw your attention to two quite apt cookbooks this week. The first is this. Romy Gill writes really outstanding recipes. It’s also particularly beautifully produced, so that it’s a real delight to read.

She has very kindly let me reproduce a recipe for you in advance of the book being published on Thursday. I’ve picked this one because it’s delicious whether you’re an omnivore or vegetarian or vegan. It’s paneer cooked with cashews, kind of like butter chicken but without the chicken. It’s simple to make and deeply delicious, we had it last night. You need to start it the night before because of the marinading. Or this morning for supper tonight. As she says the head note, swap tofu for paneer if you’re vegan.

Shahi Paneer, extracted from Romy Gill’s India

Cubes of paneer covered in creamy, aromatic gravy; this is a dish similar to butter chicken, but it's perfect for those who aren't meat-eaters. You can switch the paneer for tofu if you follow a plant-based diet. The subtle sweetness of the cashews works beautifully with the tomatoes and spices.

Every bite will unfold a symphony of flavours.

For 4-5

• 400g (14 oz) paneer, diced into 3cm (1 inch) cubes

• 2 tsp sunflower oil

For the marinade:

• 1 tsp tandoori masala

• 1 tsp garam masala

• 1 tsp chilli powder

• 1/2 teaspoon salt

• 10g fresh ginger, peeled and grated

• 2-3 large garlic cloves, peeled and grated

For the sauce:

• 30 ml (1fl oz or 2 tbsp) sunflower oil OR 4 tbsp melted ghee OR 25g (1oz) butter

• 1 large onion, peeled and roughly chopped

• 15g (1/2 oz) fresh ginger, peeled and roughly chopped

• 3 large garlic cloves, peeled and roughly chopped

• 2 medium tomatoes, roughly chopped

• 25g (1 oz) cashew nuts

• 1 tsp salt

• 1 tsp tandoori masala

• 1 tsp garam masala

• 1 tsp ground turmeric

• 1 tsp red chilli powder

• 1 tsp caster (superfine) sugar

• 5-6 green cardamom seeds, crushed

To make the marinade, place the spices, chilli powder and salt in a bowl along with 20 ml (1½ tablespoons) water. Mix well, then add the ginger, garlic and paneer.

Gently toss the paneer in the marinade to ensure it is well coated, then leave to marinate for an hour in the fridge.

Meanwhile, make the sauce. Heat the oil, ghee or butter in a frying pan (skillet) over a high heat. Once hot, add the onion, ginger and garlic and cook for 5 minutes, stirring continuously. Add the tomatoes and cashew nuts and cook for a further 5 minutes. Add the salt, tandoori masala, garam masala, turmeric, red chilli powder and sugar and cook for a further 2 minutes. Remove from the heat and set aside to cool.

Once cooled, place the mixture in a blender or food processor and blitz to a fine paste. Pour it back into the same pan and cook over a low heat for 3-4 minutes, stirring regularly.

While the sauce is cooking, heat the 2 teaspoons sunflower oil in a pan and, once hot, add the marinated paneer. Cook for 3-4 minutes or until light brown. Add the paneer to the sauce and cook over a medium heat for 2 minutes. Add 200 ml (7 fl oz/scant 1 cup) water, bring to a boil then lower the heat, cover the pan with a lid and cook for 5 minutes. Once cooked, sprinkle with the cardamom seeds and leave to rest for at least 10 minutes before serving. Enjoy with rice or Indian flatbread.

(I prefer mine with a crispy naan).

The other notable cookbook on my radar is, appropriately enough, the reprint of this:

Originally published in 1996, when it was called Everyone Eats Well in Belgium (true) and sold 50,000 copies, it is also absolutely terrific. The photography for this new edition is by the monumentally talented Regula Ysewijn MBE, also known as the blogger Miss Foodwise, whose own gorgeous, scholarly books about baking in the Low Countries have won her many awards. I first came across her because she also wrote a genius book about beautiful old Belgian cafes and their proprietors. Look at these two:

I really must do a post about where to go in Belgium if you like flea markets, art, food and sitting around in ancient old bars. Anyway: if you’re interested in traditional Belgian food, Ruth’s book is the authoritative last word on it, packed full of stellar classics, from proper Belgian mussels and proper Belgian chips to waterzooï (a sort of chicken stew) to spinach and sorrel soup to prawn croquettes made with little grey North Sea shrimps, one of my numero uno things to eat. There’s more sophisticated fare in there too - rabbit with prunes and beer, endives Flemish-style, lace biscuits from Bruges. It is the most wonderful book, a veritable bible of good cooking (hearty - it’s carb and meat heavy and probably not for you if you are vegetarian with a bird-like appetite). The recipes are easy to make at home and family-friendly. I love this book, and not just for reasons of nostalgia.

Two other quick things:

This app, called Pestle, lets you easily import recipes from anywhere on the internet including Instagram (but not TikTok, though I’m sure that’s coming). It works perfectly and is incredibly useful. It can also scan recipes and make you a shopping list.

And also this poem, which I have been meaning to share with you for months but keep forgetting about on the days when I’m actually sitting down to write the post. Cooking can sometimes feel like such a repetitive slog, and it’s nice to be reminded of how fun it can be to feed someone you fancy.

The Love Cook by Ron Padgett

Let me cook you some dinner.
Sit down and take off your shoes
and socks and in fact the rest
of your clothes, have a daquiri,
turn on some music and dance
around the house, inside and out,
it’s night and the neighbors
are sleeping, those dolts, and
the stars are shining bright,
and I’ve got the burners lit
for you, you hungry thing.

Oh actually, one third thing. If you are on Substack because you only read one or two newsletters and are confused by how the rest of it works, you will find this post from Alexina of Small Wins tremendously helpful.

Thank you for reading! These fortnightly food posts are free for everyone. They alternate with shortish picture posts, which are also free. Everything else is for paid subscribers. Have a wonderful Sunday, enjoy the last of the sun if it decides to appear where you are (it’s looking doubtful here), and if you liked this post then do please super kindly hit the ❤️ button - it makes it more visible to non-subscribers. Thank you!