Mum’s staple Anglo-Indian dishes of dol and rice, ball curry, jalfrezi, turkey devil etc were perfect for her growing children who had more of an Anglo palate than an Indian one when we were very young. AI food made for children is comforting, soft and mild. Nursery food. Of course, AI cooking for grown-ups has plenty of kick with curd chillies and green chillies chucked in willy-nilly. But there was one dish that was so powerfully spicy, stringently peppery and yet tart and tangy that, to really enjoy it, you had to have been raised on it from birth. It is everything that is good about AI cooking, sweetness, sourness and spiciness, condensed into a few peppery cupfuls of watery soup, enigmatically titled ‘Pepper Water’.

I never really appreciated it at the time. Mum made it in small quantities for her own consumption mostly. I associate it more with my Gran who always seemed to have a small pot of this black water covered at the back of her hob or in a pyrex dish in the fridge. She never served it to us as children when we would spend the weekend with her (at that time in her flat by Ealing Common). She would take us to West Ealing (why, when we had to pass Ealing Broadway to get there?) and we would go to Sainsbury’s to choose our dinner (Findus crispy pancakes or Lean Cuisine prawn curry or beef Madras, an individual strawberry trifle, a can of cherry 7Up, and a sachet of mint hot chocolate). Then we would go to McDonald’s for lunch. She would have a plain hamburger and cup of tea. We would have the works: burgers, fries, nuggets, and milkshakes. When I was older, in my teens, we used to visit Granny at the weekend and she might have made some dol and rice and pepper water. At these times, I would enjoy a few spoonfuls over my rice and marvel at how simple yet satisfying it was. Umami before I knew what that meant. I never thought to ask how she made it…

My Granny (Esther) was one of 8 Martin children born to Walter Martin and Mary Elizabeth Milne in Kharagpur, India. Walter’s parents, Robert Martin and Caroline Rodrigues were married in 1880 in Palghaut, India and Robert’s parents, John Martin and Jessie Drane were married in 1855 in Coimbatore, India. My Grandfather, Leonard Upshon, Lennie, Papa, had the same Anglo-Indian background, both military and industrial, working in the steel and rail professions. Granny and Papa married in April 1948 in Jhargram and my Mum was born the following May in Burnpur. My Uncle Adrian was born 10 years later.

My Gran was the fifth born:

1. Rita (died in infancy)
2. Laddie
3. Ronald (known affectionately as Pixie)
4. Vida
5. Esther
6. Luna
7. Benjamin
8. Philomena

Uncle Laddie died before I was born but I grew up knowing Uncle Pixie, Aunty Luna, Uncle Benny and Aunty Philo very well. Uncle Pixie died in the 1990s and Uncle Benny died last year. My great-aunt Vida is going to be 100 this year and Pip and I are hoping to visit her in Canada. She moved to Canada from India so I have only seen her a few times but I know she is a wonderful woman.

My great-aunts Luna and Philo have been Londoners all my life and are fantastic matriarchs and role models. Both excellent cooks, Aunty Philo’s curries are out of this world and her biriani is second only to Uncle Benny’s who had a gift for its flavour and tenderness. Aunty Luna’s phone-calls are always about the old days and I love to hear her talk about the food and how Christmas and New Year were wonderful celebrations of shared cuisine in the neighbourhood. Aunty Luna says proudly about the Martins specifically and Anglo-Indians in general, ‘we are thrifty’, which chimes with Mum’s approach to making meals stretch but never letting anyone go hungry.

I’m lucky to have such long-lived relatives. My Mum adored her family, her aunts, uncles and cousins. The women are all feisty, beautiful and totally bonkers at parties! The men are talented, resourceful and proudly family orientated.

I remember the parties in the old days, everyone packed into the living rooms, music, food, and silly games. The pandemic has meant we only see each other via Whatsapp and Facebook but we’ve been planning our reunion party for two years now!

My Papa, Lennie, died on Boxing Day at our house in 1983. I was almost four and don’t remember but I will always remember Mum telling me about hearing Papa’s breath leaving his body. He was in the garden trying to get his moped to start and had a catastrophic heart attack. Granny was convalescing upstairs after one of the few bouts with mental illness she suffered throughout her life. She had manic depression and was medicated throughout the time I knew her. Granny died from polycystic kidney disease in 2007.

In the late 1990s, Granny moved to a bungalow in Suffolk in the same cul-de-sac as my Uncle Adrian and his wife and daughter. It was here that Gran cooked more frequently and where we would have bigger dinners when we visited. Pepper water is not really something made on a larger scale so it never appeared at these meals. But you could be certain that somewhere in her kitchen there would be at least a cupful of pepper water covered with clingfilm. Hers was more black, probably a simpler version, perhaps uncluttered by other spices, which is where I’ve been going wrong in trying to recreate it.

I never thought to ask either Granny or my Mum to write it down. It seemed so simple! How wrong could I be?

When Mum died and I found the recipe cards she had been writing for me, I didn’t notice that pepper water wasn’t down. I hadn’t mentioned it in the years after Gran died and I can’t remember having it again while Mum and Dad lived in Suffolk. Not even in the year I lived with them when I had Pip. This was a serious omission.

After Mum died, the conversations I had with my Aunty Luna were all about food and what marvellous cooks the Martins were and still are. It was in these conversations that I remembered how delicious and important pepper water was in the AI community. Aunty Luna gave me her version that includes Madras curry powder, which she uses as her masala in all her curries. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t like Granny’s.

Since then, I’ve trawled through Mum’s recipe books, particularly her Bridget White collection of ‘Anglo Indian Delicacies’ etc and her recipe is simple. But still not as I remember it.

Finally, on the Facebook AI Recipes group, I tried a few versions until I found one that is the closest.

It’s a really tangy and cold-busting liquor of tamarind, black pepper powder and spices, with curry leaves and a tomato to cheer it up. The best thing to do is to make this alongside dol and rice, and, as it’s still christmas, why not some turkey devil?

4 cups of water

1 lime sized ball of tamarind soaked in water

1 tsp cumin powder

1 tsp black pepper powder

Half tsp salt

Half tsp turmeric

2 dried red chillies

3 garlic cloves

Boil for 10 minutes then strain into a fresh pot and temper with:

2 tsp ghee

1 tsp mustard seeds

6 curry leaves

1 dried red chilli

(Chopped tomato is my addition)

It’s almost 3 years since Dad’s unexpected death. As we were having Lara this weekend and because Jeff and Monika would be staying to watch Wales v Denmark in the second round of the Euros and having, as it turned out, a short but powerful living room disco with Pip and Lara dancing to ‘I Like to Move it Move it’ and ‘Goosebumps’ and something else by David Guetta that made me feel out of touch with modern music, I felt in the mood to make some Anglo fayre including a) a beef curry, b) salt fish patties and c) karti kebabs. What with one thing and another (Lara and Pip and eating out a lot on Saturday) I didn’t soak the salt-fish or defrost the pastry for the kebabs in time, but the beef curry, inspired by the Sri Lankan ‘Beef Colombo’ that I’ve enjoyed at Papaya restaurant in Northfields over the years, went round enough for everyone, eked out by plenty of mango lassi and naan bread, and way too much rice.

Mum used to make beef curry in our caravan in Garessio when it rained. I’ve reminisced about this experience before: the first puffy clouds in the morning would tell us that we were in for heavy weather so Mum would cycle off to one (or all) of the macellerias (butchers) in town and ask for beautifully thick and succulent red steak to be diced into small chunks in her broken Italian; she would then locate garlic, chillies, red peppers, passata (pulped tinned tomatoes mixed with concentrated tomato puree), and lots and lots of sweet onions; she’d spend ages wandering around the aisles pretending to look for rice that wasn’t arborio for risotto but really just enjoying being in shops that smell of parmesan, cured meat, saw dust and dried broad beans. It was dark in these stores, and cosy, unlike the brash overhead lighting of our supermarkets. She would get American easy cook rice if she hadn’t brought her basmati from home. She wouldn’t forget the natural yoghurt, cucumber, fat tomatoes fresh from someone’s local kitchen garden, and all the other standard breakfast comestibles that we would be expecting: bum rolls, mortadella, salami Milano, prosciutto, more tomatoes, fresh peaches and apricots, and cheese – we liked Swiss emmenthal but they liked gorgonzola.

Back at the campsite at around around 11am, she would stoke (connect) the paraffin cooker (set in the awning, not in the caravan itself), marinate the beef in her Madras curry paste to save cooking time (she always took Pataks to Italy), fry the onions and garlic with a thumb of ginger she would also have brought with her knowing ginger was harder to come by in Garessio, and a handful of other spices that she brought in a jam jar from home. She would set her daitchkey over a low heat and let the curry bubble gently for a couple of hours. My job would be to slice the red peppers for the salad nearer lunch time (working on the one for me one for the plate principle) and I would help with fetching water for the rice and watching it doesn’t boil over. Shouts of “mind the cooker” rang out from dozing parents if we tore into the awning away from a double-doofer bee or a sibling who was on the rampage after his lego Millennium Falcon was broken.

We used to have a folding metal table as our dining table in the campsite. It looked like a suitcase when it was folded and inside were four small deck chairs sporting gaudy 70s canvas – orange, brown and yellow stripes. We would all have a small chair each and Dad sat on his bigger camping chair that had arms on which he would balance a plastic beaker of red wine, or sweet coffee in the morning. Because of the rain, we would eat our curry in the awning as the caravan’s folding table was not big enough for five, but brilliant for 3 children playing with lego. I don’t remember eating the curry as much as the memories of the cooking process. I imagine we ate from cereal bowls rather than the flat bakelite plates we had. What I do remember is that washing up after curry was a more arduous experience than empty pizza boxes. The torrential mountain rain would peter out by late afternoon so we would have Pollini’s pizza in the evening. We took our empty boxes back to the restaurant the next day. No washing up!

This weekend I used my slow cooker for the curry. I don’t know why but I never normally use it for curry. Dhal yes. Curry no. I prefer using Mum’s big metal saucepan on the hob that came to Italy with us every year, even though it catches slightly at the bottom. The benefit of the slow cooker is that you can (and should) sear the meat first in a frying pan, then fry the onions in the beef juices, then cook all your spices and tomatoes for the masala after that. Then everything can be transferred to the slow cooker and left all day on low. Sometimes I find if it’s left too long, the curry sauce splits into much more oil than you anticipated but if you stir in some yoghurt at the end, it all comes together again and is thick and dark, like an authentic lamb curry. The meat is super tender, and, because it’s beef, falls apart beautifully and adds to the meatiness of the sauce. The other thing I’ve learnt after years of thin or too tomatoey curry woes, is always, always cook plenty of onions very slowly until they they’ve softened and have taken on a deep brown colour before adding your spices and tomatoes. The addition of onions, I think, is essential to getting that dark curry sauce and flavour. I don’t add salt during the slow-cooking process either. As Mum would say, “you can add, but you can’t take away”.

At half time, I measured out (way too much) basmati rice (a cup per person but I calculated six people instead of four as the kids don’t eat much), rinsed it three times until the water runs clear, bring to the boil with about a tablespoon of salt (sounds a lot but there was a lot of rice!), a handful of cumin seeds, two bay leaves from the garden, and a spice ball filled with about 6 cloves and 5 cardamon pods. When boiling, I turn the heat right down and clamp a lid on. While this was cooking, I put two shop bought giant naans in the oven and then mixed together yoghurt, cucumber, mint from the garden, a splash of malt vinegar, and some chopped coriander. When everything was ready, I spooned some melted ghee over the naans, chopped them with a mezzaluna, and sprinkled over more coriander. Everyone helped themselves.

I’m not going to write out a recipe as it was basically a standard masala for 400g of meat – onions, tomatoes, chili powder, coriander, cumin, turmeric, curry leaves, mustard seeds, black pepper and garlic and ginger pastes. I add about a teaspoon of everything (half a teaspoon of chili powder) but I let the mustard seeds spit before adding the tomatoes. The curry leaves give it a tang along with the tablespoon of yoghurt at the end, which I think makes it taste more Anglo-Indian.

Wales lost the football but we sang ‘The Boy from Nowhere’ by Tom Jones to commiserate and to remember Dad. I’d had a couple of German beers by then and Jeff had a bottle of Sake. Tres international. As luck would have it, Italy played the second match of the evening and beat Austria, a victory I’m sure my parents would have enjoyed more than a Welsh victory.

I’ve called this post Ruby Curry because (as well as being a play on ‘Ruby Murray’) another thing on my mind is the fact that we’ll soon be moving out of Southall, near to where I lived in Hanwell. The owner of the house we’re buying is a nonagenarian called Ruby who has gone into a care home. I can’t help but wonder what Dad’s life would have been like if he’d stayed in his house until his nineties. After he died, we packed up his house much like Ruby’s friends are packing up hers – trying not to be sentimental about furniture cherished over the years now destined for charity shops, sorting through the holiday knick-knacks and photographs and wondering why we bother to plan for the future when so much is tied up with the past.

When we bought the house we’ll soon be leaving, I remember it was around lunch-time and the owner of the house was cooking a cauliflower curry. The smell was evocative of Mum’s kitchen and I instantly felt at home. Ruby’s house is different: it’s very much like our current house (which is very much like the house I grew up in on Woodstock Avenue), but there’s a different sort of familiarity. The cooking smells are long gone and the kitchen is basic and slightly dilapidated. It’s more like Uncle Mark’s house from across the road. I can’t imagine the first meals I’ll cook there but I will have Mum’s ‘campsite cooking can-do’ attitude: as long as I’ve got a saucepan or two, a jam-jar of spices, and really good meat, we’ll have a pretty decent curry. Sliced peppers and camping chairs essential.

Last weekend Kris turned 40. When he turned 30, we needed a minivan to get us from Southall to Central London and Mum and I got rather ‘merry’ on the way there drinking sips of vodka that was being passed round Jeff and Kris’ west-side mates. This time it was just me, Jeff and Kris and some close friends.

Whenever there’s a birthday or wedding, Mum would make kebabs. It’s been a while since I last made them but thought 40 would be a nice present for Kris. I’d forgotten how long they take! I was going to surprise the birthday boy with them but thought they might spoil, or get eaten, before he got to enjoy them so they are currently in the freezer until the remaining Southall Griffithses assemble later this month.

Remaining Griffithses. It’s been over two months since Dad died. He was never a party person unless it was at home or at a familiar local venue or with friends or family he’s known forever. Even though it was rare to see him at our birthday drinks, his absence was definitely felt. Kris gave a toast to him and there were some pictures on the wall of him in happier times.

I’ve not really fancied big meals or spice in recent months but weirdly I’ve taken to some old school comfort classics like cheese on toast or bowls of cereal for dinner. My favourite Dad meal was cheese on crumpets, cooked to perfection with slightly burnished edges and crunchiness. In the last year I introduced Dad to the delights of a scraping of marmite before adding the cheese and he, skeptical at first, thoroughly enjoyed it. He used to make cheese on toast for us when we were kids with a layer of Branston pickle or brown sauce. I can’t remember why he stopped making it.

Another Dad classic is perfectly soft boiled eggs. His trick was to bring the eggs to a boil and immediately take them off the heat and leave them for 3 minutes. Mum and I liked to smoosh the eggs up with ripped up toast in a bowl and gobble it up like infants. Dad would then quickly discard all the shells and start to wipe up all our mess, often before we were finished. He’d moan benevolently about the mess on the floor but we all knew he loved sweeping with his special brush and long-handled dustpan.

Probably my favourite memory of him serving me food is when Pip was two or three days old and I was glued to the sofa looking like a crash victim, Dad would appear with a tea towel over his arm, a small table in one hand and a quarter plate with chocolate biscuits cut up into bite sizes in the other. He didn’t say anything before coming back with a cup of strong tea and a coaster and then he would settle on his own sofa and we would watch hours of Judge Judy. He liked half a cup of black coffee with half a teaspoon of sugar about 10 times a day.

When Pip was older, from about 2 years old, she’d wake up early (about 7am!) and wander into the living room where Papa would be waiting with arms outstretched and breakfast served on the little coffee table in front of Cbeebies. Her little pink armchair was positioned at an angle so she could comfortably get behind the table. Breakfast was a fixed menu of a bowl of cereal, rice krispies, cornflakes or hoops, a glass filled with blueberries, raspberries and strawberries, a glass of milk or juice and three jellybeans. Sometimes smarties. I would wander in between 9 and 11am to find Mr Tumble blaring, Dad on his fifth cup of coffee, Mum on her computer and Pip redecorating the living room. When Lara came along, the two of them would launch themselves off the tops of the sofas onto a prepared springboard of cushions, bedding and teddies and Dad would sit tranquilly amid the chaos.

Over the past 8 years, visits to Stowmarket would always include a day trip to either the seaside or a quaint Suffolk village where we would have an extravagant lunch. Mersea Island for oysters, Felixstowe Regal for fish and chips or the Ferryboat Inn for trout, sea bass, seafood and pies. Bury St Edmunds for teashop jacket potatoes and cake, a range of gastropubs for steaks, fine wines and fancy puddings or the local Shepherd and Dog for German schnitzel and lately the Magpie for English pub grub and pints. On market days we’d get fresh bread, olives and pastries, cheeses and fudge. Mum loved savoury nibbles, Dad loved chocolate and sweets. When clearing out the house, I found jellybeans stuck to the inside of drawers and tupperware shoved to the back of cupboards still filled with hot gram and old crackers.

When Mum died, Dad courageously invested in a rice cooker and a halogen oven in order to keep the hot dinners rolling. He only used them once each. He did buy and use a big frying pan for the stir fries he got into and the freezer was stocked with dubious looking ready meals, choc ices and unopened bags of veg. Every day he’d tell me on the phone what he was having for dinner. Brussels sprouts and carrots always got a mention but judging from the size of his belly, I doubt many greens made it onto the menu. The carefully stacked Fray Bentos pies told a different story; blocks of cheese dwindled every day and slabs of chocolate wrapped with an elastic band was a feature of his snack drawer. When he died, I found receipts in his car of the daily trips to Tesco for milk, and impulse fruit pies or other sweetmeat in packages of two and, on his last trip, a tub of ice cream. He also loved a McDonald’s breakfast muffin and black coffee, receipts for which there were many. The last few months were definitely characterised by fast and delicious food and, judging from the ancient burnishings in the oven, not much was home cooked by himself. When I visited, I made old school Mum style lasagnes, shepherds pies and chops with mash and apple sauce. Dad loved his spuds with a sprinkle of salt in a sea of beef gravy which was mopped up with a slice of white bread.

When in Holland recently I was reminded of our holiday frites when we used to drive down to Italy. Dad used to stop once on the way down and once on the way back if we were lucky at a French frites wagon on the side of the road. We’d dunk the crisp salty chips in ketchup (never mayonnaise!) and sometimes we’d be allowed a fizzy drink – once Kris was relegated to the ‘punishment area’ at the back of our estate car for biting the glass and bloodying his lip. Ah the memories…

In Italy, market day in the town square in Garessio meant hot rotisserie chicken, salty olive oil fried French fries and cans or bottles of Chinotto. Dad would be in charge of holding the bag of food and you never saw chips disappear so quickly. Once a week we’d have a pizza. Dad always had ‘Quattro Stagioni’ with artichokes, mushrooms, prosciutto and olives, Mum had prosciutto e funghi and I would have something plain and not too cheesy. There was a sweet shop in town that made a range of local specialties including Garessini – a hazelnut chocolatey truffle piped squidge that tasted boozy and decadent. There were nutty biscuits with chocolate jam and viennese butter swirls with fruity gems. You’d ask for a pick and mix selection but the Garessinis always went first.

Going out for dinner in Italy was the best of times and sometimes the worst for us kids. Dad would be uptight that we would do something wrong but only we could see this – to anyone else he looked serene and jovial smoking his Benson and Hedges and drinking red wine or a cold bottle of beer. We’d eat lashings of tomatoey or pesto gnocchi, slivers of roasted meats in herby gravy, tiny roasted potatoes and green beans or calzones, spaghetti with langoustines and clams, stuffed peppers and aubergines or juicy Florentine steaks. On feast days there would be apple dumplings served hot from bubbling oil drums on the bridge and plastic compartmentalised plates loaded with unctious polenta mash and rabbit stew. Or you could have a platter of meats: local pork sausages with fennel and garlic, lamb arrosticini and different cuts of salami and cured meats.

Our longstanding friends in the campsite famously introduced themselves to Mum and Dad in the early 80s with a hollowed out watermelon filled with Sangria (or whatever it’s called in Italy) and they became firm friends. A group would assemble in the evenings around the barbecue where Dad would be cooking Mum’s tandoori chicken, skewered lamb kebabs and marinated beef steaks and she herself would draw a crowd when the curry smells would fill the campsite on rainy days. She was the only Mum I knew who would pack sunflower oil, Pataks curry pastes and tins of spices to go camping. The Italian nonnas on the other hand would make fresh pasta in their caravans and the table tops so recently strewn with lego would be replaced with pearls of gnocchi drying out before a quick boil in a salty pan. Dad brought along plastic disposable cups from his factory that made morning cups of tea and the ubiquitous Piemontese table wine taste even more delicious. He introduced us to breakfast beer (at that time not consumed in the morning) thanks to the French hypermarkets en route where we stocked up on those glorious cheap French stubbies, perfect for al fresco living.

In later years when Mum needed to dialyse three times a week on holiday, Dad, Pip and I would go sightseeing and find roadside eateries in the mountains and along the coast serving fixed daily menus of veal steaks, risottos, pasta with homemade ragus, seafood platters, antipasti with olives stuffed with meat, freshly baked focaccia and pickled vegetables and that sparkling red table wine you can only get in Piemonte. In their dotage, Mum and Dad liked staying in half-board villas where the evening meal would comprise various small courses of local cheeses, delicate soups, regional pasta such as trofie with genovese pesto, stews and meat, always too much for small appetites but never the same thing twice. Divine. Desserts would always be overkill but a strong espresso and mayhap some local grappa would finish things perfectly.

Mum and Dad gave us so many unforgettable culinary memories and yet the ones that stand out are the meals and experiences that were oft repeated – Mum’s biriani, Dad’s regular ‘snails and duck’ at Biggles and Paulo’s, cheese on crumpets, the Saturday morning fresh bread when bakeries still existed at our local shops, the Fray Bentos pies that Nana Griffiths would use to eke out a Sunday roast if we all descended unannounced and the glass of cointreu or amaretto at the end of a meal.

All of these memories flood back now that the summer is over and a new working year has begun. It’s the time when we normally start thinking about Christmas and booking holidays for next year. It’s sad to think that this year we are missing such lovers of food and family. I hope as we go on we will do them justice.