A few weeks ago, one of the oldest clubs of Kolkata held its annual heritage dinner. This year’s theme was Anglo-Indian food. Ironically, however, the chief guest was a retired Bengali bureaucrat and not as one would expect any famous Anglo-Indian personality. Earlier, on such an occasion, one would see Neil O’Brien or Leslie Claudius as the guest of honour. Anglo-Indians once adorned many walks of life from sports to the armed forces. Though O’Brien’s two sons – Derek and Barry – are celebrities in their own right, now one does not find too many prominent Anglo-Indians in any field. Ruskin Bond is the last of the Mohicans.
Much like the Parsis, the Anglo-Indian community is dwindling. Depending on the definition of Anglo-Indians one adopts, their total population around the globe is estimated to be barely half-a-million. Now, only about thirty thousand remain in Kolkata, which once had the highest concentration of Anglo-Indians. The once famous Bow Barracks and Ripon Street do not have many Anglo-Indian families left. Many of them migrated to Australia, Canada, New Zealand and some to other cities in India like Bangalore that offered better job opportunities. Apart from the metro cities, there are small pockets of Anglo-Indian people in old railway towns, some hill stations like Darjeeling, Kalimpong and the Nilgiris in the South.
However, as the numbers decline, it gives rise to a sense of nostalgia even among those who were not part of the tribe but have shared memories with them. Like in Aparna Sen’s memorable film 36 Chowringhee Lane, those of us who grew up in Kolkata and studied in Christian missionary schools and convents have a strong association with Anglo-Indian teachers. Then there were Anglo-Indian classmates who played better football than the boys and were the best dancers among the girls. The old box-wallah companies had a retinue of Anglo-Indian secretarial staff. There were also the dreaded traffic police sergeants of the Calcutta Police, a specific cadre created for them by the British, moving around in motorcycles with sidecars pulling up errant drivers.
To understand the culinary traditions of any section of society, one must have an idea of their culture. Though the prefix Anglo would indicate Anglo-Saxon descent, a broader definition would include other lineages such as the Portuguese, French and Dutch with the arrival of successive European explorers in India. However, apart from the common link of Christianity, over time they all adopted English as their lingua franca and the British way of dressing. But their food habits were developed at the intersection of all those European dietary traditions with a strong dose of Indian spices. The latter was the influence of the Indian cooks -- khansamas and bawarchis -- they employed. When the colonial masters left with their lavish lifestyles, the Anglo-Indians who stayed behind assimilated the hybrid culinary inventions as their own. The changed economic fortunes in the post-independence era forced many innovations in recipes to conserve resources and use of leftover ingredients. In commercial establishments too -- such as in the railways and office canteens -- the cooks had to make do with minimal condiments, creating some trademark recipes like Dak Bangla Mutton or Railway Chicken Curry. Thus evolved a unique fusion cusine typical of the Indian subcontinent.
Much of what passes as classic Anglo-Indian food revolves around festivals and celebrations like Christmas, New Year, weddings and baptisms. But it would be a mistake to believe that on those occasions they eat only firangi fare. My friend and culture chronicler, Reshmi Dasgupta, wrote how after a 'Yule Tide repast' of ham, turkey and plum cake at a club in Kolkata, when they dropped in at an Anglo-Indian friend’s home, they found the family was feasting on biryani. However, what Reshmi did not write is whether the biryani was ordered from one of Kolkata’s finest Muslim caterers or cooked at home the Anglo-Indian style, which is somewhere halfway between Oudh and Goa. The Anglo-Indian version would contain cashews, resins, fried onions, coriander and even a pinch of turmeric.
Similarly, the Anglo-Indian vindaloo is quite different and uses a lot more spices -- mustard, cumin, turmeric, garlic paste, sometimes even curry leaves, and chopped tomato or puree, the latter a complete ‘no-no’ for the Goan vindaloo. The famous jalfrezi was actually invented for making use of leftover meat by spicing it up with chillies, onion and a medley of chopped vegetables but has now developed into a dish by itself.
A piece about Anglo-Indian food cannot be complete without the story of mulligatawny soup -- which every Tamilian will explain is a modified version of rasam, deriving its name from pepper water or milagu thani. Over time, more ingredients such as coconut milk, meat and other spices got added into it to change its character for good. The Chef at the Madras Club insists it was invented at the club and they hold the intellectual property for it -- everything else is fake or poor imitations. Not much is written about the wonderful range of Anglo-Indian pickles -- brinjal, beef, pork, salted fish and even bitter gourd. The Anglo-Indian Prawn Balchao can give its Goan cousin stiff competition. My fellow Coonoorian Finny’s makes some excellent stuff sold through the local store with her '100-year-old' family recipe.
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Not surprisingly, having adopted Indian food habits, Anglo-Indians have a wide range of rice preparations, which they call pilaf or palau. One Anglo-Indian specialty that fires up the imagination is meatball curry. This is the anglicised version of kofta, made usually with either mutton and beef. Try it with yellow coconut rice when you are looking for some vicarious excitement. For recipes, check out either Bridget White or Patricia Brown’s Anglo-Indian cookbooks.
(Sandip Ghose is an author and current affairs commentator. He tweets @SandipGhose.)