BUTTER CHICKEN WINDOWS

In went the paste and the fresh tomatoes. Butter would go into a hot kadai, a large steel wok-shaped pot, as he would regale me with stories of his college days or how he agreed to marry Mom without even seeing her first. Both went into the blender with fiery green chilies to make the paste. He made me smell the pungent ginger, and he laughed as I scrunched my long nose at the garlic. Then he would fish out his ancient grinder. He'd place the chicken pieces single file on a foil-lined sheet to roast in the oven as we began preparing the sauce. They should have.' I leaned over and pretended to smell the dried herb, which smells like maple syrup, all the while reveling in the precious time with my father. Moti Mahal did not add this to their chicken dish. 'When I was a kid, my mother would make it and it made the whole kitchen smell like paradise. 'Smell this methi, child, here, smell,' he said. His messy hands reached out to the spice cabinet for the treasures that made the dish sparkle. Who puts onions in butter chicken? I found out that it was originally created using a can of tomato soup? Soup in making butter chicken? Who does that?' The rant took several years to die down.

Once after returning from London, Dad did not stop talking about chicken tikka masala - a British version of butter chicken. 'You buy tomatoes now for use on Friday? They won't be fresh. Years later, when he visited me in the States, he was appalled I went to the grocery store once a week. The next morning, I would be up with him at 8, ready to go to the market to buy tomatoes for the curry.

BUTTER CHICKEN WINDOWS

After a day at school, I'd wait for his return, rather irrationally, by the large windows of our cozy family room each night. When we were kids and lived in Bahrain, he traveled constantly and was often gone for long periods of time. It tenderizes the chicken, it makes it soft,' he said. The frozen chicken on the market is no good.' Working closely with his butcher - my father still has a closer relationship with his meat vendors than most people have with their doctors - he would pick out the best chicken and have it chopped up his way.ĭad began the marinade in a bowl filled with homemade yogurt in which he swirled his long, slender fingers to gently whip it.

'If the chicken is not of good quality, you can forget the dish. 'The first thing is the chicken,' he would say.

I'd huddle with Dad in our small galley-style kitchen as he began making butter chicken: a glorious dish of chicken pieces marinated in yogurt, cumin, fenugreek, ginger and garlic, oven-roasted and cooked in a sinful, creamy butter and tomato sauce. In 1980 when I was 10, we lived in the Middle East, and Thursday was the start of the weekend. The prep work always began on Thursday night.

Butter chicken