There’s a saying among Bengalis that we only truly care about three things: politics, educating our children and, most of all, food. This was certainly true of my grandfather, Habib Ullah, or as I used to call him: Nana Bhai. Nana Bhai arrived in Manchester as a young man in 1956 and was one of the first from his village to make the journey from northern Bengal to northern Britain. Like most migrants, his original intention was to graft for several years to save up enough money before returning home – and, like most migrants, his plan never quite came to fruition.
The three passions of Nana Bhai’s life – politics, education and food – were obvious to all who knew him. My mother recounts how she used to accompany him to the polling booth for every election. He would lift her up so she could see the ballot paper on the little ledge and her job was to point at the box which said “Labour” as Nana Bhai was unable to read or write English. Then Nana Bhai, a lifelong socialist, would mark that box with a confident “X”. Perhaps because of his own lack of opportunity, Nana Bhai fiercely encouraged the academic success of his six children, taking great pride in their achievements. Despite being incredibly bright, he had been unable to complete his own education, having to leave school in order to support his younger siblings and mother after his father died. But Nana Bhai’s priority in life was to ensure that his loved ones ate well. While my grandmother bought us gifts for birthdays and Eid, Nana Bhai showed his affection through stocking the pantry with all the things he knew we loved to eat before we came to visit: boxes of mangoes or an entire jackfruit would welcome us at the start of each school holiday.
In the early 1970s, Nana Bhai opened a restaurant in Eccles, Greater Manchester. The Selina Indian Restaurant – named after my mother, his first-born – was founded on the former premises of the Canadian Steak House on Church Street. Like most Indian restaurants of the time, which were predominantly owned by Bangladeshis, the menu catered to those who wanted to try Indian cuisine as well as the more cautious customers who preferred “English options” such as scampi, steak or even omelette. The Indian house specialities were lamb bhuna, tandoori chicken and pilau rice. Even after Nana Bhai sold the restaurant, he would continue to make his lamb bhuna at home for us and so I remember the taste: rich with onions, studded with whole spices, and meltingly tender. The menu also offered vindaloos, dhansaks and kormas, as well as the ubiquitous onion bhaji. Nana Bhai never rated the bhaji, seeing it as a waste of an option – in his mind, fried battered onions could never match the delicacy of a seekh kebab.
My mother, aunts and uncles recount the adventures they had on the occasions they were allowed to visit the restaurant – which was, of course, decked out in flocked wallpaper and red velvet cushioned seats. Visits were a rare treat, the restaurant being a reasonable distance from their home in Ardwick, central Manchester, especially as the family did not have a car. To them the steaks seemed exotic but they were denied a taste because the meat was not halal. After a change in supplier, the children were finally granted their wish of tucking into a (halal) T-bone steak which came smothered with fried onions and thick-cut chips; the realisation of a lifelong fantasy.
For them it was also an insight into a world they would not have ordinarily been exposed to. Restaurants were special places, reserved for an occasion and, in some cases, for celebrities: the cast of Coronation Street – including Violet Carson (Ena Sharples) and Liz Dawn (Vera Duckworth) – were known to frequent Nana Bhai’s restaurant. My uncle often talks about the allure of After Eights which would be presented alongside the bill, and how he would raid the secret supplies, gorging on the clandestine taste of mint chocolate. Even now when I visit my uncle, I sometimes take along a box of After Eights knowing what the memory holds.
The restaurant was sold before I was born: Nana Bhai’s generosity, socialist leanings and lack of business acumen – my grandmother has said that he spent more money on feeding his staff and friends than he earned – meant that it was hard to turn a substantial profit from hospitality. But my memories of him revolve around food. He would take me to the market in Longsight. Hand in hand, we would choose juicy red tomatoes and bunches of bright leafy coriander. Then we would go to the fishmongers. He loved herring, silvery black and shiny with pointy faces, so I loved herring too.
Nana Bhai took food shopping seriously. It was an art. He never bought minced meat from the counter. Instead he would instruct the butcher to cut the pieces of lamb straight from either the leg or the shoulder and ask that it be minced right in front of him so that he could see exactly what he was getting.
When we went to buy specially imported Bangladeshi fish the same care was applied, even though it was difficult to ascertain the freshness as they were sold in huge frozen blocks. These trips yielded a range of exotic fish whose names I still only know in Bangla. He knew to buy koi for my aunt who loved the challenge of picking out the many bones in order to enjoy the tender white flesh. My mother’s favourite was ilish which would be cooked in a thin curry with fresh coriander and tomatoes. Rui and ire were favourites for all ages with firm white flesh and few bones. I still love these fish the way my aunt prepared them, lightly spiced and fried with crispy onions and lots of sliced green chilli, served with hot white rice and a wedge of lime.
After the shopping Nana Bhai would hand over to my grandmother or my aunts. Nanu would wash and clean the vegetables and fish using her trusted da rather than a knife and chopping board. The da was a curved knife, a bit like a machete, that stood on its own two legs on the floor. Nanu would sit on a stool behind it. I was instructed to crouch a safe distance away from where I watched as she expertly sliced the heads off small fish, squeezing out their purple innards and dropping the cleaned fish into a bowl of cold water beside her. For larger fish, she would first scale them on the da before slicing them into evenly sized pieces.
I would beg for jobs and was sometimes allowed to peel the thick grey shells off prawns, my hands turning numb in bowls of icy water. Usually I was given the grunt work of peeling cloves of garlic and chunks of ginger. Sometimes I was allowed to pop peas from pods or pick out grit from a tray spread with dried red lentils. I would listen to the conversation, joining in to ask questions. I learned that all fish curries need is chilli, turmeric and salt, but that lamb or beef requires whole gorom moshla including sticks of cinnamon, green and black cardamom pods and bay leaves, as well as the ground spices. I learned that you could tell when a curry was cooked because the oil would rise to the surface of the pan. I learned that potatoes should be cut lengthwise for a fish curry but cut into crosswise chunks for meat. I learned how to properly clean chicken and how to gut a fish. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I was learning how to cook.
Years later, I moved to London after graduating from university. Whenever I got homesick, I would make that simple family favourite maach bhorta – sardines, fried until crisp with finely sliced onions, green chillies, plenty of fresh coriander, and mashed with salt, turmeric and a generous squeeze of lime juice. I’d have it with rice and dal – red lentils cooked until soft and tempered with garlic, green chilli, and mustard and cumin seeds. I would invite friends over for dinner and make family specialities – spicy yogurt-coated tandoori chicken, fragrant pilau with chickpeas, fish cutlets served with mint chutney, koftas made with mince that Nana Bhai would approve of.
Around this time supper club fever was gripping London and I began to toy with the idea of sharing some of my own cooking. I started giving Bengali cookery lessons in Hackney under the name of Tiger Kitchen before expanding to run supper clubs where I cooked a three-course Bangladeshi menu for up to 30 guests. I had a stall at food markets in east London, selling the food I grew up eating. This modern way of sharing home-cooking felt like it democratised the hospitality industry: I was able to dabble without needing huge amounts of investment. Working in the restaurant industry was, for Nana Bhai’s generation, a means to an end; a way to support their family. The ultimate goal was always to educate the next generation to become professionals – doctors, lawyers, teachers, engineers – who would have the comfort of working in an institution or an office. By the time I had grown up, the grandchild of a restaurateur, the stigma of the industry was beginning to wane for south Asians. Instead, the rise of modern, fashionable restaurants and new ways of sharing traditional food had made the industry ever more appealing.
I continued running supper clubs for a couple of years while I completed my first novel, Hashim & Family, which is inspired by the experiences of my grandparents’ generation as they worked to make a new home in Britain. It does not escape me that both my passions – cooking and writing – have been directly influenced by Nana Bhai and Nanu. I have taken a temporary hiatus from the supper clubs for now, choosing instead to focus on writing professionally, but I am my Nana Bhai’s granddaughter.
Shahnaz Ahsan’s Hashim and Family is out now (John Murray, £14.99). To order a copy, go to guardianbookshop.com; @shahnazahsan
