What to Curry.

Turbot. Sole. Cod.

Lobster. Crayfish. Prawns,—but not the so-called “Dublin Prawn,” which is delicious when eaten plain boiled, but no good in a curry.

Whelks.[6] Oysters. Scallops.

Mutton. Veal. Pork. Calf’s Head. Ox Palate. Tripe.[6]

Eggs. Chicken. Rabbit (the “bunny” lends itself better than anything else to this method of cooking). Pease. Kidney Beans.[6] Vegetable Marrow. Carrots. Parsnips. Bamboo Shoots. Locust Legs.

A mistaken notion has prevailed for some time amongst men and women who write books, that the Indian curry mixture is almost red-hot to the taste. As a matter of fact it is of a far milder nature than many I have tasted “on this side.” Also the Anglo-Indian does not sustain life entirely on food flavoured with turmeric and garlic. In fact, during a stay of seven years in the gorgeous East, the writer’s experience was that not one in ten touched curry at the dinner table. At second breakfast—otherwise known as “tiffin”—it was a favoured dish; but the stuff prepared for the meal of the day—or the bulk thereof—usually went to gratify the voracious appetite of the “mehters,” the Hindus who swept out the mess-rooms, and whose lowness of “caste” allowed them to eat “anything.” An eccentric meal was the mehter’s dinner. Into the empty preserved-meat tin which he brought round to the back door I have seen emptied such assorted pabulum as mock turtle soup, lobster salad, plum pudding and custard, curry, and (of course), the surplus vilolif; and in a few seconds he was squatting on his heels, and spading into the mixture with both hands.

In the Bengal Presidency cocoa-nut is freely used with a curry dressing; and as some men have as great a horror of this addition, as of oil in a salad, it is as well to consult the tastes of your guests beforehand.

A Prawn Curry I have seen made in Calcutta as follows, the proportions of spices, etc., being specially written down by a munshi:—

Pound and mix one tablespoonful of coriander seed, one tablespoonful of poppy seed, a salt-spoonful of turmeric, half a salt-spoonful of cumin seed, a pinch of ground cinnamon, a ditto of ground nutmeg, a small lump of ginger, and one salt-spoonful of salt. Mix this with butter, add two sliced onions, and fry till lightly browned. Add the prawns, shelled, and pour in the milk of a cocoa-nut. Simmer for twenty minutes, and add some lime juice.

But the champion of curries ever sampled by the writer was a dry curry—a decided improvement on those usually served in the Madras Presidency—and the recipe (which has been already published in the Sporting Times and Lady’s Pictorial), only came into the writer’s possession some years after he had quitted the land of temples.

Dry Curry.

1 lb. of meat (mutton, fowl, or white fish).
1 lb. of onions.
1 clove of garlic.
2 ounces of butter.
1 dessert-spoonful of curry powder.
1 dessert-spoonful of curry paste.
1 dessert-spoonful of chutnee (or tamarind preserve,
according to taste).

A very little cassareep, which is a condiment (only obtainable at a few London shops) made from the juice of the bitter cassava, or manioc root. Cassareep is the basis of that favourite West Indian dish “Pepper-pot.”

Salt to taste.
A good squeeze of lemon juice.

First brown the onions in the butter, and then dry them. Add the garlic, which must be mashed to a pulp with the blade of a knife. Then mix the powder, paste, chutnee, and cassareep into a thin paste with the lemon juice. Mash the dried onions into this, and let all cook gently till thoroughly mixed. Then add the meat, cut into small cubes, and let all simmer very gently for three hours. This sounds a long time, but it must be remembered that the recipe is for a dry curry; and when served there should be no liquid about it.