My last bite wouldn’t be a meal, it would be a full day. And although I’m a glutton, it wouldn’t really be about the meal, it’d be about the people.
My wife Archana would start it all off, by making a big pot of poha, which we would then dip into while we get on with the prep. Lots of friends and my children Eshaan and Maya would be there.
The whole thing would be a magical recreation of a picnic I went on with my father and his friends and colleagues as a child in India. We’d walk across a railway line, through a knot of trees to a very shallow clear pool. We’d wade through, all the ladies dressed in colourful saris with fancy shoes in their hands, past low hedges into an open field, with rugs spread out under the trees. There, we’d eat the really rustic meal of dough balls stuffed with spiced lentils with an aubergine relish that my father used to make for his picnics.
My father only ever cooked twice a year. My mother cooked 363 days of the year, and yet it’s those two meals of my father’s that I remember. Recreating this picnic meal has been the ultimate challenge all my professional life.
At sunset, we’d head back to a farmer’s house, with a makeshift outdoor kitchen and an open fire to cook on, all lit by candlelight.
We’d have a deep, rich, spicy Bengali-style lamb curry and the best butter chicken with freshly made garlic naan. Three chef friends – Hari Nagaraj, Abdul Yaseen and Jitin Joshi – who have been with me for many years, would cook it – they know how difficult it is to please me with this dish that I love so, and they know what to do!
But that wouldn’t be enough – it’s never enough; we hate ending anything. There would be my favourite toffee bananas with ice-cream. My wine friend Laurent Chaniac would choose the wine, as he always does.
We would sit outdoors under the stars, listening to ghazals by Jagjit Singh, and drink through the night, until – true revellers to the last – we were ready for a spicy omelette and bread breakfast.
