The Guardian Weekly (2022-01-14)

14 January 2022 The Guardian Weekly

61

This outrageously good supper

came about when I was craving the

anchovy and parmesan dressing

of a classic caesar salad. But it was

cold outside and I needed substance

so, instead of the crisp lettuce, in

came wedges of char grilled hispi

cabbage, all sweet and smoky, which

I laid on garlic-rubbed toasts. I have

made this dish several times since.

The sprightly, refreshing parsley

salad is inspired by the famously

good one at St John in London, and

balances the almost meaty-tasting

cabbage beautifully.

Method

Heat a griddle pan or heavy frying

pan. Rub the hispi wedges all over

with one or two tablespoons of oil ,

season lightly and grill for six to nine

minutes on one cut side. Repeat on

the other cut side of each wedge.

Meanwhile, put a garlic clove

and the anchovies in a mortar (or

small food processor) with a scrunch

of sea salt, and grind to a paste.

Whisk in the mustard, vinegar

and buttermilk, followed by the

remaining four tablespoons of oil

in a slow, steady stream, to make

an emulsion. Stir in the grated

parmesan and season to taste.

Put the shallot, parsley and capers

in a medium bowl, squeeze over the

lemon and season lightly.

When you are ready to eat, cut the

remaining garlic clove in half and

rub the cut sides over each piece of

hot toast. Put a piece of toast on each

of four plates, drizzle with olive oil ,

then lay the warm hispi wedges on

top. Spoon over the dressing, then

grate over a little extra parmesan.

Serve with a generous handful of the

parsley and shallot salad on the side.

You can leave out the anchovies

and create a delicious sauce with

the addition of a little garlic, a splash

of Henderson’s relish (the veggie

version of Worcestershire sauce) and,

if you like, a spoonful of white miso.

Prep 30 min

Cook 15 min

Serves 4

Ingredients

2 hispi cabbage, cut

through the stem into

4-6 wedges

5-6 tbsp olive oil,

plus extra to drizzle

Salt and black

pepper

2 garlic cloves,

peeled

6 anchovies

1 tsp dijon mustard

1 tbsp white-wine

vinegar

4 tbsp buttermilk

4 tbsp grated

parmesan, plus extra,

to serve

4 pieces sourdough

toast, to serve

For the salad

1 banana shallot,

peeled and finely

sliced

2 big handfuls

parsley leaves

2 tbsp capers

Juice of ½ lemon

No 151

Grilled hispi caesar

salad with parsley

a n d s h a l l o t s a l a d

THE WEEKLY RECIPE

By Thomasina Miers

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eously good supper

when I wascrai

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IPE

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

By Sejal Sukhadwala

F

ood writing by “minority

groups” – and here I’m

talking about Indians,

because that’s my

background – almost always gives

a central role to those “heirloom

family recipes” handed down

from mother or grandmother.

When I started writing about

food 20 years ago, an editor even

joked that I would have to “invent

a grandmother ”. It was already

a cliche a generation ago.

This is not, of course, to say

we shouldn’t write about our

family favourites. I’m keen to read

grandmothers’ recipes if what they

cooked was unique. But if these

canonised fi gures are only telling me

about bhindi masala or chapati that

millions of Indians eat every day,

they’re not saying anything new.

But the crux is this: who are

these mythical mothers and

grandmothers? They’re not all

sari-clad women grinding masalas

all day, magically producing aloo

paratha and a steaming cup of

masala chai out of thin air. The trope

becomes a straitjacket, restricting

our understanding of the rich and

varied lives they have led.

Mothers and grandmothers

in India were sometimes adding

rosemary and thyme to their curries

in the 1920s due to the British

infl uence ; dancing in jazz clubs in

the 1930s ; graduating as lawyers

and engineers or running bars in the

1940s ; hosting supper clubs in their

homes in the 1950s ; whipping up

cocktails and canapes in the 1960s ;

and may have off ered you a slice of

green -chilli-fl ecked pizza from their

new electric oven in the 1970s.

If you visit a grandmother in India

today, she may well prefer to order

a milkshake and a curry puff from

the local bakery on a delivery app

than spend hours making samosas.

India – and therefore its food

culture – has changed signifi cantly

in the past 50 years as a result of

globalisation and international

infl uences. I’m not saying all

traditional dishes have disappeared,

just pointing to the vast gulf

between the India as fantasised in

cookbooks and the reality. While the

disappear ance of a historical cuisine

makes me desperately sad, I also

know that recipes are kept alive

when a l ot of people cook them,

not when a few people record them.

Indians young and old are

looking up new dishes on blogs,

YouTube, TikTok and WhatsApp.

They didn’t all learn to cook at

their mothers’ knee ; perhaps she

was a terrible cook or perhaps they

were discouraged from entering the

kitchen and told to focus on getting

good grades instead.

So let’s liberate our mothers and

grandmothers from the burden

of “tradition”. Let’s change the

narrative on Indian food.

SEJAL SUKHADWALA ’S THE

PHILOSOPHY OF CURRY WILL BE

PUBLISHED IN MARCH

It’s time that we updated the tale

of granny churning out samosas

CREATIVE TOUCH IMAGING LTD/SHUTTERSTOCK

p a t o v i