My Authentic Curry Source [sic]
When I was told my stepmother had passed away, I registered a moment of Camus indifference. I haven’t spoken to my father in over thirty years and felt emotionally detached from the loss of his second wife, but, she was, I recall sincerely, a kind woman and the source of my earliest curry experiences.
In my early teens and subject to visitation rights I made a fortnightly trip to their Harlow home. It wasn’t necessary to know the exact address; I could just follow the trail of exotic aromas wafting from her kitchen, like the cartoon-character from the Bisto ad. The house itself was small but always packed with extended family. Aunty Colleen, as we called her with due deference, had nine children of her own and amongst an ever-present crowd of his’n’her cousins, no-one cooked a curry like her. However, should the dishes prove too spicy for our young palates she’d willingly prepare an alternative, to order, to keep everyone happy; but I always looked forward to her curries.
By the mid-80s culinary experimentation was on the rise though Chicken Tikka Massala hadn’t yet become the nation’s favourite dish. Such was the demand for Aunty Colleen’s cooking that her eldest son had the acumen to take the essence of her recipes and start a business. It was challenging to balance spices, in mass-produced batches, and still reflect the authenticity of the Anglo-Burmese cuisine [the British public will never take to dried prawn balachau] so his range expanded to include different strength curry ‘pastes’ from Korma to Vindaloo; all developed under the keen eye of Aunty Colleen’s quality control.
My father encouraged this entrepreneurial spirit and for the one-and-only occasion in my adult life we shared a trip, to the outskirts of Liverpool, where the kitchen set-up was based. I’ve no recollection of how I came to be in tow, but I duly appointed myself ‘Head of Sales [London]’ and laden with trays of samples I aimed to sell thousands.
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I delivered my sales pitch at numerous corner-shops where owners were adamant the sauces would never replace homemade curries and speculative letters to supermarkets went unanswered. By the time I approached Chinatown my enthusiasm was flagging but there a shopkeeper suggested he take a couple on trial. I had stumbled on a way to generate sales, let people try before they buy. I handed-out my entire stock and prepared to be inundated with orders. However, production at HQ had halted. Aunty Colleen’s son had another child on the way, bills were mounting and a steady income from teaching was more appealing than slaving in a hot kitchen.
Within a decade, readymade curry sauces had become a multi-million pound industry. Perhaps the owners of Pataks (other brands are available) were at one of those corner shops, that I visited, and took inspiration to make their fortune. On reflection, I might have grasped the opportunity myself and taken on the business but, honestly, no-one cooked an authentic curry like Aunty Colleen.
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[Kindly note that this is part of a wider collection titled ‘Just Crumbs’ — Please refer to the ‘foreword’ page for an explanation.]
As a precursor, I invite you to listen to … You Always Hurt the One You Love — Mills Brothers
I am told that my stepmother once performed this song on local radio, not as the duet I was once privy to, but clearly a special song to her.
