A former work colleague of mine, native to Nandyal in Southern India, would jump at every opportunity to remind me that the food in our British curry houses isn’t truly authentic fayre. I think we’ve all known this for quite some time, deep down, not least because two of the most popular dishes on every menu are commonly known to have been created over here! Still, this has always been the furthest thing from my mind whilst enjoying a slap-up meal down the Curry Mile. One thing that can’t be ignored, however, is that the majority of food on the curry house menu does at least have its roots in the Subcontinent, although perhaps in name alone.

Bhuna would be a good example. Order one in your local Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi restaurant or takeaway and you know exactly what you’re getting; the meat of your choice swimming in a spiced gravy. But what of the bhunas served at bazaars, by street vendors and by ‘homemakers’ in these countries? Not an easy answer to track down by any stretch, but many accounts describe the dish in a different light. Bhuna, meaning ‘brown’ in Hindi/Urdu, is a cooking method by which a masala of spices are browned in a karahi pan before the dish’s other ingredients are added to receive the same treatment. Instead of a thin gravy, the cooking liquor is heavily reduced down to coat the meat, ultimately creating quite a dry dish, ideal for eating with flatbreads such as my personal favourite, chapatis. As for the bhuna’s origins, I suspect that might be a leap too far into history, although I was quite taken by a suggestion that it was influenced by the Tibetan/Chinese method of stir-frying. Geographically, that appears to hold water with China’s proximity to Bangladesh and Punjab (seemingly bhuna central) although it is a dish enjoyed far wider than in just these territories.

This Bhuna Gosht recipe has been a firm favourite of mine for the best part of a decade. The ‘gosht’ (or meat) that I’d normally use would be shoulder of lamb but on this occasion I had the opportunity to use mutton from a reputable Lakeland farm. The depth of the dish is just astounding, with the fennel seed and fenugreek flavours so far removed from those that you would shovel down with several pints of Cobra beer at the nearest balti tavern… not that I’m promising to give up the latter! Here’s the skinny… > > Read on > >

Industry holidays in Britain, known as ‘Wakes Weeks’ in parts of Northern England, were one week in the year during the latter part of the Industrial Revolution when whole mills and factories would down tools and its employees would flock to the seaside and other resorts for a week of well deserved vacation. And flock is an understatement, with literally millions of people descending on seaside resorts such as Blackpool and Llandudno. Trains had to be chartered especially to accommodate the summer madness. The term ‘Wakes Week’ was probably coined from religious celebrations held a few centuries earlier but was adopted by this summertime coastal migration. Wakes (also known as Fairs in many parts) still take place to this day. Indeed, my own town in Scotland had its annual Fair last month, although this has been trimmed down from a week’s holiday to just a single day, shame! Even so, the extent to which the town closes down is simply astonishing. Not a car on the road, not a person in the street.

Hindle Wakes is a dish from Lancashire eaten to celebrate this holiday. A whole chicken is stuffed with black pudding, prunes, bacon and other goodies before being braised, then roasted and served with a creamy lemon sauce. Its origin is accredited to 16th century Flemish immigrants but its name is a little more uncertain. I did see a couple of naughty websites describing it as being, “A dish eaten in Hindle, Lancashire during the annual Wakes.” No gold stars I’m afraid. Hindle is a fictional town dreamt up by playwright Stanley Houghton in his 1912 play which shares its name with (or possibly lends its name to) this dish. One credible explanation is that it derives from, ‘Hen de la Wakes,’ owing to its Flemish origins, but I favour that the dish simply adopted its name from Houghton’s play as there seems to be no documentary evidence that this name existed before his controversial tale of scandal and tragedy took to the stage.

Traditionally, Hindle Wakes would be served as a whole poached and roasted bird, liberally stuffed, smeared head-to-toe with sauce and served as a centrepiece. However, I’ve pulled it apart somewhat and used only the legs of my chuck, quite simply because I have other plans for the breasts and carcass, but using a good slug of my chicken stock in the stuffing to preserve its integrity. It’s quite an alien palate of flavours; chicken, prunes and lemon are a combination that time has forgotten and undoubtedly this does smack of history. But are the flavours wrong? Well, no, and it was quite a pleasure to taste something a little out of, what we might call, the ordinary. Here’s how it goes… > > Read on > >

Okay, so this one’s really going to separate the kids from the grown-ups, the wheat from the chaff, the Transformers from the GoBots.  There’s probably no greater litmus test for food loves and loathes than Marmite. If you’re not familiar with this foreboding brown spread, Marmite is a strong-flavoured spread for toast and sandwiches first produced in 1902, taking advantage of German chemist Justus Liebig’s discovery that the cells of brewer’s yeast could be extracted and concentrated. Using these techniques the Marmite Food Extract Company set about creating something that would have turned Robert Oppenheimer into a Buddhist monk.

The company, understandably, set up their factory in Burton-on-Trent, a town in Britain that every beer-lover knows is the Mecca of beer. In fact, it surprises me that beer drinkers don’t hold an annual pilgrimage to Burton akin to the Muslim Hajj. I myself have never visited the town, although I do turn to face Staffordshire when I sip my first pint. A great little snippet of fact I often regurgitate is that brewers in Bavaria and elsewhere treat their water with minerals and salts to mimic the properties of Burton’s mineral water, a process known as ‘Burtonization.’ But it was, of course, the perfect place for Marmite to set up their brewer’s yeast-based base of operations.

And so, for more than 100 years, Marmite have given us a product that has firmly cemented itself on the British psyche, despite people’s opinions of it truly ranging to the polar opposites. Marmite themselves ran an advertising campaign over several years declaring that we will either love it or hate it. You might imagine that a company declaring that 50% of people will hate their product is commercial suicide but in Marmite’s case it is very shrewd thinking, being true beyond argument.

One of my oldest friends, Bowlhead, (not his real name, you understand) delivered me a Marmite recipe. He swears that a diamond cubic zirconium in the rough was served up to him by his grandparents on Merseyside, back then a part of Lancashire. A dish, very aptly titled, ‘Cheesy Frizzles,’ might well resemble Cheese & Marmite Eggy Bread, which is essentially what it is. No matter what the name, I gave it a go by sandwiching a slice of cheddar cheese between two slices of white bread, a thin pellicle of Marmite smeared upon one, cut into neat triangles and dipped into beaten egg and cream before pan frying on both sides until golden brown. What the hey, a perfectly decent snack. Actually, I think I overestimated my manliness by spreading both slices of bread with Marmite making the whole thing a little too, Marmitey?

I’m sure I’ve managed to wholly throw the dogs off the scent with this post, so I’ll leave you with Paul Martin of the BBC smash hit, ‘Flog It!’ to tidy things up for me. He takes us to the Burton factory and has a very interesting discussion with Robert Opie, an expert on brand history. It took me an eternity to figure out how to edit and upload a video to Youtube, so you will bloody-well enjoy it!

Nutritional info: Marmite is not gluten-free and may contain traces of evil.

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