Lamb rogan josh. My favourite curry and, once you’ve got the basic spices, one of the easiest to make. Brown off your lamb cubes and put to one side. Add a generous glug of oil to a wide pan, put the heat on medium high, and throw in some cardamom pods, bay leaves, cloves, peppercorns, cinnamon, onions, ginger, and garlic. Stir for thirty seconds. Add cumin, coriander, paprika, and salt. Stir for another thirty seconds. Add the lamb, some yogurt, and a cup of water. Simmer for as long as you can resist.
I thought I had the curry sussed, until that night in Baba’s Bites. Meat cooked until the strands barely hung together, yogurt and spices perfectly balanced, and some other ingredient that brought the dish springing to life. I thought of all the previous times I’d eaten it and knew I’d been stumbling around in the dark.
“Kaz,” I said, hunched over the shallow polystyrene tray, prodding towards the riot of flavours with a plastic fork, “this is delicious. New cook or something?”
Kaz’s brother usually prepared the curries, but I’d only had to smell this one to know it was in a different league. Kaz smiled as he sprinkled his homemade chili sauce over a doner kebab and held it out to the customer who stood swaying on my side of the little takeaway’s counter.
“No, no, mate. I mean loads of chili sauce,” the young bloke drunkenly said, trying to speak slowly and clearly for the benefit of what he thought were foreign ears. In a larger version of the action I’d just made with my fork, the customer jerked his hand up and down to demonstrate that he wanted the kebab to be drowned. The smile didn’t leave Kaz’s face as he soaked the open pita bread with gouts of fiery liquid.
“Cheers, mate,” said the customer, grabbing the paper-wrapped package and staggering out the door, leaving a trail of crimson drops behind him.
Kaz looked over at me and, with an accent that combined the nasal twang of Manchester with the thicker tones of the Middle East, said, “Yeah, mate. It’s good, then?”
My mouth was too full for any spoken reply. Holding up a thumb, I nodded vigorously. Kaz looked pleased as he turned back to the huge hunk of processed meat slowly revolving on the oil-soaked spike. Flourishing a long knife, he began carving away at its outer layer.
Once I’d swallowed my mouthful I said, “So what’s your brother doing, then?”
“Oh, he’s pursuing a new business interest. He won’t be around so much from now on.”
The curry was too good for me to continue talking, so before tucking into it once more, I quickly said, “Well, compliments to the chef.”
I’d dropped out of my chemical engineering degree halfway through my second year. There was no way I could imagine a career in it. Life, I decided, was too short to spend doing something you didn’t enjoy. I sat down and tried to imagine a job that I would enjoy. Twenty-one years old, with a series of mind-numbing McJobs behind me and I was struggling. But during my gap year I went to Thailand (original choice, I know). Though I was far too much of a traveller ever to step inside Koh Samui’s flashy tourist hotels full of mere holidaymakers, I watched the tour reps at work. I reckoned I could handle a life working in some of the most beautiful places on earth. Work it out for yourself: Manchester versus the Maldives. Britain versus Barbados. So a degree in Travel and Tourism it was.
Which left me with a new set of course fees rolled into almost two years of student debt. I got a night job in the baker’s just down the road from my digs. “Mr. Wing’s Chinese Bakers.” There can’t be many of those in Britain. But you wouldn’t believe the amount of stuff he churns out. During the day, it’s things like doughy rolls filled with sweet and sour pork, kung-po chicken, or special seafood mix; or batches of little buns sprinkled with sesame seeds and filled with chestnut purée or honey paste. At five o’clock, the day shift goes home, the front of the shop shuts, and the night shift appears round the back. While the rest of the country is slumped in front of the box, or enjoying themselves in pubs and restaurants, the output changes to speciality or “ethnic” breads as they’re classed on the supermarket shelves. Pitas, naans, chapatis, lavache, ciabatta — all that stuff. The monstrous silver ovens never get the chance to cool down. Staff scurry around them, transporting away the steady flow of produce like worker ants carrying off the stream of eggs laid by their queen.
My coworkers chat happily away in languages from India, Asia, or Africa, but hardly any speak English. It’s obvious most haven’t got to Britain by legal means, either. The cash changes hands just before dawn, and unlike my rate of pay, theirs reflects the twilight world they operate in. The minimum wage doesn’t even come into it. It’s probably because I’m an official British citizen with a clean driving licence that I got the job of doing drop-offs. And, seeing as working next to a furnace half the night wasn’t my idea of fun, that was fine by me. I deliver to city-centre takeaway joints that need more stock, or the Indian restaurants on Manchester’s curry mile that prefer to serve freshly baked produce. They all know Mr. Wing’s never shuts. The phone rings and I’m off in the little van with their order.
Baba’s Bites called on my very first night. As soon as I wandered in with the tray of naans and pitas, Kaz spotted me for someone who was prepared to do a deal. And this is how it works: Kaz rings with an order, I pick what he wants from the racks of stuff in the storage room and swipe an extra tray or two. In return he gives me a free curry.
Baba’s Bites — it’s your typical late-night, city-centre takeaway place. A few stools and a narrow counter running along the plate-glass window at the front. Overflowing bin by the door. Rear of the shop partitioned off by a counter with a glass case on top. Underneath the warm panels of glass are stainless-steel dishes full of curry, lumps of sheek kebab on skewers, mounds of onion bhajis, savaloy sausages, and pakoras. Above the counter is a huge back-lit menu. A panel of photos showing juicy morsels which generally bear no resemblance to what gets handed over. Along the back wall is the inevitable kebab turning in one corner, a couple of hot trays for the meat Kaz skims off, a chip fryer, a hot plate for flipping burgers, a microwave for pizzas, a glass-fronted fridge full of cans, and a small sink (never used). In the other corner is the tiny hatchway through to the kitchen. Although you can hear the clatter of pans in the kitchen, you can’t actually see into it — a hanging screen of multicoloured plastic strips ensures that. Kaz shouts through and a short while later whoever is doing the cooking presses a buzzer. Kaz then reaches in and picks up the next batch of burgers, sheek kebabs, or boiled rice. When I arrive, Kaz always scoops me a portion of lamb rogan josh, then passes it through the hatch for the extra coriander and sliced tomatoes that I like to be added.
Where Kaz was lucky — and why Baba’s Bites does so well while countless other similar places just scrape by — is that less than a year ago a massive late-night bar and club opened opposite. Now he’s assured of a steady flow of revellers being drawn across the road to the glow of his shop like moths to a flame. Unlike the melting pot of ethnic foods on sale, the clientele are mostly white, mostly male, usually in their twenties. Eyes bright, they burst raucously through the door, vying with each other at the counter, sometimes loudly critical of what’s on offer, sometimes reverently appreciative like kids in a sweet shop. Who knows which way alcohol will tip them. As they wait for their orders they discuss all manner of topics. The standard ones of women in the club they’ve just left, how United or City are doing, the lack of black cabs. Sometimes it’s stuff from the news — the state of the country’s immigration system, scrounging asylum seekers, the flood of immigrants ruining the country. Even when they start to bitterly discuss “Pakis” or “ragheads,” Kaz’s smile remains unchanged as he plays the dutiful proprietor, quietly carrying out their commands. Serving them food from the very countries they curse.