Dad appointed me his apprentice taster before allowing me to even stir the curry simmering in the kitchen. He is an accomplished cook in a rather slap-dash way – not for him the precise measurements laid out in cookbooks or dished out by celebrity chefs on TV. He trusts his instinct a lot more than he does ounce glasses and measuring spoons. A fistful of salt, a handful of coriander, a few dollops of ghee and so on. Of course, he uses a rough-and-ready measure for rice and water – but that's the only compromise.
That's where I came in. As a tiny kid wandering around the house in search of new comics and books to devour, I'd stumble into the kitchen in search of stop-gap snacks. Maybe it was the spicy smell of 'Mutton Ashirwad' (as it came to be called later) that drew me there but I can't be entirely sure now. Maybe it was the chef gene making its early presence felt. In any case, at some point, Dad would thrust a half-ladle of gravy and instruct me sternly, 'Taste it'.
Now, that was one hell of a job. For, I had the onerous responsibility of passing judgement on the curry of the day, and in a larger sense, his culinary ability. I'd blow a bit on the hot curry and piece of potato (there had to be potato in the meat curry, that was my only wish), gingerly tip a bit of it into my right palm, delicately flick my tongue out and lick at the thick gravy. Sometimes, it'd be a bit too spicy, sometimes less so but always tasty; the signature of 'Mutton Ashirwad' firmly in place. Dad had named our house Ashirwad (‘blessing’ in Sanskrit) and my sister put home and curry together to come up this enduring name.
Since I was the official taster, I had to put on an air of gravitas, which I did with some relish and pronounce 'Too khara' or 'Too salty' or 'OK'. But it never actually mattered because Dad, like all good cooks, had already tasted the curry and assessed what it needed, if at all. By some miracle, usually it needed just was a wee pinch of salt or an extra slice of tomato to counter the sting of the Byadgi chillies. But even that was more a ritual to ward off the evil eye than a necessity. How he got the proportions right and transformed dead meat into succulent morsels I can never figure out to this day. He's pushing seventy-five but still gets it right even now.
The role of official taster drew me deeper into the kitchen. Until one day, a knife was brusquely thrust into my hand with a stern order 'Chop up an onion'. I reached for a large onion, deftly removed the skin and neatly cut the two halves into chunky slices. I'd seen it being done so often that like an assistant surgeon being asked to finish an operation, I was quite ready. It was a humble initiation; there was neither praise nor retribution. Silent approval was more his style in an undemonstrative family.
I knew I'd taken the first slice; in the goodness of time, I'd take my place among the array of six brothers (make it five, one couldn't boil milk or so the legend went) who could prepare a festival feast for family and friends so efficiently that their mother would look upon them with silent approval. But that's another story. For now, bon appetit as your sweat beads on your scalp as you tuck into this fiery curry.
Mutton Ashirwad
You'll need*
1 kg lamb
Handful or more of Byadgi chillies
Half a fresh coconut
Spices – black pepper, cinnamon, jeera
Rock salt
1 large onion
2 large, firm tomatoes
2 medium potatoes
Half a handful of peeled garlic
Enough ginger
Lots of Coriander
Groundnut oil
Method**
Remove all traces of fat from the meat pieces. Place in a cooker section with enough water to cover all the pieces. Sprinkle some turmeric powder, a few black pepper corns and sliced onions over the meat. Pressure cook the meat.
Masala: Remove the stem of the chillies and roast them along with the spices on a hot pan. Fine slice the coconut pieces and put into the grinder bowl. Add the roasted stuff from the pan and add the coriander, ginger and garlice. Add enough water so that the grinder blade doesn't get jammed. Grind the paste to a medium-to-thick consistency. Take care that it's not too smooth like a dosa batter.
OK, so you've got your boiled meat and your masala ready. In a vessel for the curry, heat the oil till it starts smoking very lightly. Add the sliced onions (lengthwise) and cover with a lid till they're golden brown. Add the masala paste and stir till the paste so that it doesn't stick to the vessel.
Separate the lamb pieces from the stock. If you're so inclined, have a glass of the mutton soup. It may not as good for the soul as its chicken counterpart, but it's quite good anyway. Add the lamb pieces to the onion-masala paste and stir gently but firmly so that every piece get its share of the spices. Add the stock slowly. Pour in water as required --- the thumb rule is not to put too much else it becomes a watery mess and not too little lest it's no longer a curry but a dry fry! Add diced potatoes – keep the skin, it adds its own flavour. Let the pot boil while you catch up with the news or whatever.
Once the potatoes are three-fourth cooked, add rock salt to taste – latest medical findings suggest as far as salt is concerned, less is better in the long run – it keeps heart disease, diabetes, etc at bay. But hey, don't compromise on taste. Add diced tomatoes and give it a few minutes more. Take it off the high heat and let it cool for a few minutes.
Serve with chappati, rice, dosa, pav…
Recommended accompaniment: onion rings that have been lightly brushed with table salt and pepper powder and lemon juice.
* Be warned that the quantities are very, very approximate.
** Remember this is only a broad guideline.
–Neil Collins
