I remember my first curry -- as if it were yesterday.
I was living in England in the 1970s and had driven to Winchester to see the eponymous cathedral of song and the legendary round table of King Arthur. The latter a bit of medieval P.T. Barnum hucksterism.
After a full morning of naves and knaves, I looked around for a restaurant. There are plenty of tourist eateries in the high street. For some reason, my eye landed on a menu in the front window of an Indian restaurant.
To me, that sounded exotic. My experience with Indian food in Oregon was bison and fried bread. But this Indian food was a continent away. The cuisine of the Raj. And it was as foreign to me as -- well, Ethiopian food.
What fascinated me about the menu was that it divided its curries into nine separate divisions of spiciness using the subjective terms mild, medium, and hot. Mild-mild. Mild-medium. Mild-hot. Medium-mild.
You get the picture. Up to hot-hot. A veritable cuisine caste system.
I love spicy food. And this looked like an interesting challenge.
I sat down at a nicely-appointed table. The waiter brought out a pitcher of water and a glass, and asked what I would like to order. I think it was a chicken curry of some sort.
He then asked me how spicy I wanted it. I may have been young, but I knew the nine categories had a purpose. So, I proceeded with Jerry Ford caution.
"Medium-medium," said I.
He gave me a quick look over and asked how familiar I was with Indian spices.
Ah-ha. Another clue. "Not very."
In those plummy rounded tones that only Indian waiters and Midland earls use, he said: "Perhaps the gentleman would have a more enjoyable meal with mild-medium."
It sounded like a recommendation from a man who knew his stuff. I told him to bring it on. Or maybe something a tad more urbane.
I now know enough that what I was served was a dry curry. Large chunks of meat and vegetables in a sauce the color of hollandaise gone bad. But it smelled marvelous.
So, I grabbed my fork and dug in as if I had just spent a long day driving cattle on the Chisholm Trail rather than wandering among grave stones. It was a big bite.
What happened in my mouth was one of those amazing taste explosions that end up etched on the culinary hall of fame in the back of your head.
Chicken. Potatoes. Creamy textures. And just a hint of the exotic spices of an open-air Indian market.
Well, that is what I experienced for a nanosecond. The next wave was not quite in the hall of fame category. I felt as if my tongue was ground zero on Bikini Atoll.
I drank the water in my glass. I drank the water in my pitcher. I started chewing on ice cubes. To no avail.
If I had known that the spiciness in curry derives from the capsaicin in chili peppers, I would have known that attempting to drown the oils was futile. Water merely exacerbates the heat.
My waiter had been watching every movement. Behind his stoic exterior, a smile was romping through the fields of anti-imperialism. He brought another pitcher of water and retreated to the sidelines for the remainder of the performance.
I ate the rest of my meal a bit more delicately. And enjoyed it.
Since then, I have learned a lot about curries. How to recognize a bad one (the usual variety found in North America) and how to appreciate a good one.
On Wednesday night, I had a good one. My message board acquaintances Verne and Elke had informed me that Cafe de Flores in La Manzanilla was open summer hours. Monday to Wednesday. 6 pm to 9 pm. And the food was both creative and excellent.
Because I had not sat down and talked with them recently, we decided Cafe de Flores would be the place. And a good choice it was.
Alex, the chef, has made a wise decision by limiting the menu choices. A menu with few choices tells me that the food is going to be fresh -- and something special. And it was.
There was a beef salad, a coconut sole, and a red Thai chicken curry. Of course, the curry caught my eye. Especially with the Thai modifier.
Unlike my Winchester dry curry, this was a wet curry. A large bowl filled with chicken and potatoes and a red aromatic broth. With a light cured cucumber salad and a ramekin of rice on the side.
I tried the broth first. It was a bit spicier than my Winchester experience -- and much more pleasant. Experience has taught me to savor spicy. And the large pieces of chicken breast gave themselves up as if they were ethereal.
It was excellent curry. And more than enough to fill me for dinner. The remainder followed me home for Thursday's breakfast.
Our stretch of coast loses a lot of its better restaurants in the summer. But the better reason for eating at Cafe de Flores is that it offers a great meal.
Of course, I had two great dining partners, as well. And that is a perfect way to spend the evening.
I was living in England in the 1970s and had driven to Winchester to see the eponymous cathedral of song and the legendary round table of King Arthur. The latter a bit of medieval P.T. Barnum hucksterism.
After a full morning of naves and knaves, I looked around for a restaurant. There are plenty of tourist eateries in the high street. For some reason, my eye landed on a menu in the front window of an Indian restaurant.
To me, that sounded exotic. My experience with Indian food in Oregon was bison and fried bread. But this Indian food was a continent away. The cuisine of the Raj. And it was as foreign to me as -- well, Ethiopian food.
What fascinated me about the menu was that it divided its curries into nine separate divisions of spiciness using the subjective terms mild, medium, and hot. Mild-mild. Mild-medium. Mild-hot. Medium-mild.
You get the picture. Up to hot-hot. A veritable cuisine caste system.
I love spicy food. And this looked like an interesting challenge.
I sat down at a nicely-appointed table. The waiter brought out a pitcher of water and a glass, and asked what I would like to order. I think it was a chicken curry of some sort.
He then asked me how spicy I wanted it. I may have been young, but I knew the nine categories had a purpose. So, I proceeded with Jerry Ford caution.
"Medium-medium," said I.
He gave me a quick look over and asked how familiar I was with Indian spices.
Ah-ha. Another clue. "Not very."
In those plummy rounded tones that only Indian waiters and Midland earls use, he said: "Perhaps the gentleman would have a more enjoyable meal with mild-medium."
It sounded like a recommendation from a man who knew his stuff. I told him to bring it on. Or maybe something a tad more urbane.
I now know enough that what I was served was a dry curry. Large chunks of meat and vegetables in a sauce the color of hollandaise gone bad. But it smelled marvelous.
So, I grabbed my fork and dug in as if I had just spent a long day driving cattle on the Chisholm Trail rather than wandering among grave stones. It was a big bite.
What happened in my mouth was one of those amazing taste explosions that end up etched on the culinary hall of fame in the back of your head.
Chicken. Potatoes. Creamy textures. And just a hint of the exotic spices of an open-air Indian market.
Well, that is what I experienced for a nanosecond. The next wave was not quite in the hall of fame category. I felt as if my tongue was ground zero on Bikini Atoll.
I drank the water in my glass. I drank the water in my pitcher. I started chewing on ice cubes. To no avail.
If I had known that the spiciness in curry derives from the capsaicin in chili peppers, I would have known that attempting to drown the oils was futile. Water merely exacerbates the heat.
My waiter had been watching every movement. Behind his stoic exterior, a smile was romping through the fields of anti-imperialism. He brought another pitcher of water and retreated to the sidelines for the remainder of the performance.
I ate the rest of my meal a bit more delicately. And enjoyed it.
Since then, I have learned a lot about curries. How to recognize a bad one (the usual variety found in North America) and how to appreciate a good one.
On Wednesday night, I had a good one. My message board acquaintances Verne and Elke had informed me that Cafe de Flores in La Manzanilla was open summer hours. Monday to Wednesday. 6 pm to 9 pm. And the food was both creative and excellent.
Because I had not sat down and talked with them recently, we decided Cafe de Flores would be the place. And a good choice it was.
Alex, the chef, has made a wise decision by limiting the menu choices. A menu with few choices tells me that the food is going to be fresh -- and something special. And it was.
There was a beef salad, a coconut sole, and a red Thai chicken curry. Of course, the curry caught my eye. Especially with the Thai modifier.
Unlike my Winchester dry curry, this was a wet curry. A large bowl filled with chicken and potatoes and a red aromatic broth. With a light cured cucumber salad and a ramekin of rice on the side.
I tried the broth first. It was a bit spicier than my Winchester experience -- and much more pleasant. Experience has taught me to savor spicy. And the large pieces of chicken breast gave themselves up as if they were ethereal.
It was excellent curry. And more than enough to fill me for dinner. The remainder followed me home for Thursday's breakfast.
Our stretch of coast loses a lot of its better restaurants in the summer. But the better reason for eating at Cafe de Flores is that it offers a great meal.
Of course, I had two great dining partners, as well. And that is a perfect way to spend the evening.
