Get that bread

In the modern world you don’t have to get someone to bare their soul to really understand what makes them tick, just look at their Instagram feed. It may seem obvious – an algorithm of things based on things you like and people you follow – but I can genuinely say I was absolutely fascinated the first time I noticed my friend scrolling through her suggestions and finding it was a list entirely populated by pugs and reality stars in bikinis.

Clearly my feed is far more prosaic; mostly featuring pictures of murky pints and a proliferation of carbs, but we do have my browsing history to thank for alerting me to the existence of the giant naan bread served at Taste of Pakistan.

Obviously I made it my priority to hunt it down and try it, although this wasn't going to be my first experience with the kind of naan that resembles a satellite dish. That award goes to the famous Akbars in Leeds, on a visit to see my aunt and uncle. Which is probably too far, even for me to suggest, to travel for a curry. 

That said, Taste of Pakistan is in an unlovable corner of Hounslow which, on a Sunday afternoon sitting on the M25, felt as if it took nearly as long to drive there as some of our trips up to West Yorkshire. 

Ever eager, we were the first to arrive - the closed sign was still hanging in the window as we rocked up, giving me momentary concern lunch was off -  but within about fifteen minutes of us being the first to sit down, nearly every table was full of Pakistani and Afghani families all ready to, literally, break bread.

First up, to keep the Ewing amused, came a plate of fresh salad and two silver jugs containing a spicy fruit chutney and a benign-looking, but also spicy, yogurt sauce. To drink, we ordered a jug of excellent mango lassi, which was even better than the version I had enjoyed the week before at Thattukuda.

Even more exciting than the prospect of the giant naan was the chapli kebab. Originating from the Peshawar region of North West Pakistan, it’s a flat patty of ground meat, usually beef or lamb, mixed with various other ingredients including onions, tomatoes, chillies, and herbs and spices. Traditionally they are deep fried in lamb fat, but vegetable fat may be used in some vague pretence of being healthy, and are served hot with chutneys and raita with rice or in a ‘bun kebab’, which is pretty much a burger by any other name.

While the city of Peshawar alone boasts over 2,000 kebab houses that serve the chapli kebab, it’s a rare beast here, often being overlooked for the better-known seekh and shami. Which is a shame, as the Taste of Pakistan version - a hefty, crisp-edged, well-seasoned disc of tender meat -  is an awesome thing. (oh yeah, I would definitely order this over the others if I had the choice - TE).

Sindhi biryani - originating from Sindh, one of the four provinces of Pakistan - managed to pack hugely complex layers of flavour into what appeared a simple dish. Glowing with the deep orange hue of saffron and studded with spices and chunks of meat, it made me reevaluate my usual indifference to rice dishes from the Indian Subcontinent (who would ever pick a pilau over a peshwari naan?).

Wikipedia reliably informs me that it's a dish served on nearly all Pakistan International Airlines flights, which I'm sure would be a huge improvement on the 'english breakfast' BA served to me recently. (anything would be an improvement on that - TE). 

The chicken karahi was the sleeper hit. A unprepossessing-looking dish – named after the metal pot it’s cooked and served in, cooked here over fierce flames that you can see in the open kitchen at the back of the restaurant  – this was one of the best things I have eaten in a long while. Even the Ewing, notoriously fussy when it comes to a chicken curry, declared this top draw and was thankful the molten hot dish made it difficult to access from my side of the table.

Wikipedia informs me the difference between a North Indian and a Pakistani karahi is the absence of green peppers and onion in the latter. Which can only be a good thing as there are no good uses for a green pepper, although this did contain delicious roundels of green/yellow chilli alongside the chunks of chicken. Buyer beware, there were some splintery bits to negotiate, but serving the meat on the bone kept it juicy and tender, contra to many chicken curries, full of lumps of tasteless cotton wool-esque protein.

And finally to the pièce de résistance, the duvet-sized naan - I certainly needed a lie down after eating it - served piping hot straight from the tandoor; theatrically impaled on a huge metal spike.

I have to be honest and say I don't remember Akbar's effort, to compare them - it was doubtless after an all day pub crawl around Leeds - but this light and fluffy effort was leagues ahead of some of the big breads I have eaten in the Balti Triangle, that more resembled giant Jacobs Cream Crackers.

I was too full to try their homemade kheer, but they kindly brought us complimentary Afghan tea - flavoured with green cardamom - and a dish of sugared almonds. Which, honestly, weren't really my cup of tea, but the Ewing enjoyed them and it made a nice way to ease the digestion before the long drive home. At least the journey back gave me plenty of scrolling time on Instagram to find the next carb-filled culinary adventure.

Harry and a curry

A cemetery in deepest East London might seem like a strange place to start this post, but I do have a life outside of taking pictures of my lunch. Even if it happens to be taking pictures of gravestones en route to taking pictures of my lunch. I promise, this does get better....

The reason for ending up in Barking on a sunny Monday Morning in June goes back a few years, to my previous incarnation working in public libraries. During that time I had become involved in curating an exhibition that commemorated the centenary of the start of WW1. A fascinating and sobering project that lead me to start to research something about my own family, culminating in discovering my great-grandfather, Private Harry Roscoe MM.

Harry was born in Wigan circa 1890 although, by 1914, he had ended up in Romford, married to my great-grandmother, Florence, and with a son, Alan. My grandfather. Alan isn't around anymore, and there is no one else left to ask how or why Harry ended up in Essex but, as my colleague so succinctly put it; 'in those days, it would be for work or a woman'.

In 1915 Harry had enlisted to the West Ham Pals, aka 13th Battalion of the Essex Regiment, and by the end of the year had been sent to France to fight. The battalion were involved in many battles of the Great War, including at Vimy Ridge, Cambrai and the Battle of the Somme, and it was here that Harry won the Military Medal for gallantry. Awarded for an act of outstanding courage or devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy.

The excerpt above shows the war diary from the week Harry was recommended for his honour. A scan kindly provided to me by Elliot Taylor, who has a blog and has written a book about the Pals.

Harry died in December 1918, a month after the war had ended, most likely of his injuries. A pointless loss in a pointless war. My granddad was four. My great-grandmother remarried the following year, and Harry was never spoken of again. As my granddad never really spoke much about the past, we don't even know if he knew about Harry, or where he was interred. 

While it's a bittersweet story, I have to say I felt quite touched to finally find Harry's grave - commissioned by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission whose work ensures that men and women of the Commonwealth forces who died in the First and Second World Wars are not forgotten - and be able to give thanks for the sacrifices he, and many others, have made for our freedom.

Of course, I couldn't go all that way without thinking about what I was going to eat next and fortunately Thattukada, one of Eater's recent recommended restaurants, was just two stops away on the District Line.

Thattukada is a basic no frills Keralan restaurant - with a nod to God's own country evidenced by the pictures of vallam kali, the state's annual snake boat race, that cover the walls - that offers a selection of home cooked favourites that brings homesick Keralans to eat from all across London.

I started with a mango lassi which, in the absence of a dessert menu, also served as pudding. There's nothing more glorious to accompany food from the Indian subcontinent (ok, maybe on par with an icy cold lager). Sweet and tangy and fragrant and providing a soothing balm for the tongue after a surfeit of chilli spice.

The chicken fry or, to give it its full name, the Thattukada Special Nandan (Traditional) Chicken Fry Half (Kerala Style) 10 pieces, is becoming a bit of a signature dish. A whole (or half) chicken is expertly cleaved into bite-sized chunks on the bone, before being marinated in a lurid spice paste glowing with chilli. It's then deep fried and covered in a dreft of golden fried onions.

This tasted as excellent as it looks. Crisp, hot, salty, spicy. It was surprisingly effortless to eat ten pieces to myself. Maybe because I'm some kind of heathen, I really wanted something to dip this in. Some kind of yogurt-based dip perhaps; or just a big squirt of mayo, if I'm honest. But then I do drown my KFC in the Colonel's gravy. So what do I know.

I almost passed on ordering the appam, which would have been an error as these were the finest I have tried. Spongy and slightly sour, the plain version - they are also available filled with condensed milk or a whole egg, steamed into the centre - are particularly good for helping scoop up curry with your fingers. As evidenced by many of the patrons who were there on my visit. Luckily they took pity on me and kindly also provided a fork without asking.

The utensils were something that was in everybody's interests, as my attempts to eat the fish moilee - a deep and fragrant coconut based curry with cashew nuts and tomatoes and a the beautifully cooked kingfish steak that fell from the bone - would have been less than couth with out them. Although, in all honesty, if no one else was around I would have happily licked the bowl clean.

Oh, and for the record, the long green things were not beans, but chillies. Something that I found out when I ate a whole one. And, for the second time that day, I had a tear in my eye. Good food and family; sometimes there is nothing finer.