As with many things, the build up contributes to the evening's pleasure, especially when a routine develops. The evening begins around 7.30 pm, when the man of the house - P. - announces that he's about to order. He checks - though this is no longer truly required - that our son - J. - and I want the same meal, that we've been having for about 18 months: chicken kurma. We assent, at which point J. reminds him, with an unwarranted anxiety, that he wants a garlic nan. The nan, in fact, is the only item necessitating discussion. The plain ones - we all agree - are a bit boring. The Peshwari nans, containing shredded carrot and sugar, are okay in very small doses. Personally, I'd love the ones stuffed with minced meat, but Khushi's don't do these any more. The garlic one is what we have now.
Poppadoms are always part of meal. And bucketfuls of pilau rice - yum. For any Indiophiles, kurma is a mild curry, a 'learner' dish. P. opts for something hotter - a jalfrezi or Madras, containing hot chillies, capable - I remain convinced, of eroding the intestines. Occasionally I've attempted to eat his leftovers the following day and despite dollops of yoghurt to cool down the curry have almost gone on fire. For a while I chose a Kashmiri dish, which is mild curry with added lychees and bananas. Now we add our own fruit to the Kurma.
P. goes to Kushi's to order the food - and this is where the ritual truly begins. He chooses not to phone in our order, preferring to give it face to face, perhaps because we've got to know the staff over the years. On his way back, he stops off at a grocer's and buys several cans of fizzy drinks: coke for me (I know, the ultimate of sophistication), Fanta mixed fruit, for J. P. will have a beer - already in our fridge - with his meal. While he's away, J. has instructions to prepare a tray with cutlery, mango chutney, lime pickle, glasses and a jug of water and put this on the coffee table in the sitting room.
Other tasks to be done - and here our roles become more blurred - are to heat up plates and serving dishes in the oven, to open a tin of lychees and chop up the fruit. If I'm involved in this, I usually also chop up a banana. P. returns from his shopping and food ordering and assesses progress. By this time - certainly during the cooler, shorter days, the shutters in the sitting room will be closed, and the lights on. I have a 'thing' about bright lights. I hate them.... So the standard lamp will be switched on, also the lamp on the mantelpiece, and the one on the bookcase. The room looks cosy. J. will be priming the DVD.
About 20 minutes after returning, having issued instructions for what still needs to be done - should we have been lax or tardy in our preparations - P. leaves to collect the curry. From time to time, I offer to do this, but he insists on going himself. It's a ritual. At this stage, I will fuss around the sitting room, plumping up cushions on the smaller sofa. Tidying away bits of musical equipment, throwing in a groan or two about mess.
P. returns with our food, and there follows some frenzied activity, as if it's an army protocol we've signed up to. He unpacks the six foil cartons and two paper bags: The chicken kurmas are added to the serving dish which contains the chopped up lychees and fruit and this is shoved into the oven for further heating up. The cartons of rice are added to another serving dish. The bag of poppadoms and the one containing the garlic nan go straight through to the sitting room as they are. Shortly after, the dishes of kurma and rice arrive in the sitting room. We are ready.
Gratifyingly yours
Jane
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