Kedgeree (or Empire, Nabobs & Nursery Food)
The origins of our modern British kedgeree lie in the ancient Indian dish of rice and lentils (or sometimes beans), known variously as khichdi, khichri, khichuri or khichadi, depending on region, language and dialect. Indeed, kedgeree is quite clearly an anglicisation (or perhaps I mean bastardisation?) of these Indian names, particularly khichuri, the most common form used in Bengal. Still a staple of modern Indian cuisine, the variations of khichdi are as numerous as the regions of the country itself, regardless of religious affiliation.
So the question is how did kedgeree, an Anglo-Indian rice based dish of humble yet ancient origins, become a staple of the British aristocracy and upper classes, gracing the breakfast sideboards of many a Victorian country pile and town house?
Unsurprisingly, our story begins with Britain's colonial occupation of India, initially in the guise of the East India Company (EIC) and later, under the direct rule of the imperial British Raj. Formed in 1600 under royal charter, the EIC traded in exotic Eastern goods including spices, tea, cotton textiles and jewelry. Setting up substantial trading posts, initially on the west coast of India in places such as Bombay, the EIC was ruthless in pursuit of its trading aims, maintaining its own substantial private army to protect its interests. Following Clive's victory over the Mughal Empire at the battle of Plassey in 1757, the EIC went from merely administering is own coastal trading outposts to governing large swathes of the Indian subcontinent, for and on behalf of the British Crown. In order to govern effectively, it quickly became apparent that a degree of assimilation was necessary and, consequently, company nabobs (Nabob: A conspicuously wealthy man deriving his fortune in the East. Pejorative term.) began to learn Indian languages, adopt local customs and even develop a taste for Indian cuisine . . . including khichdi.
This acceptance, or adoption of spice laden native dishes may not have been the tremendous cultural leap it appears today. Let's not forget, the EIC and its forebears had spent many centuries shipping large quantities of extremely valuable spices to Britain, for use in the kitchens of its aristocracy and moneyed classes (incidentally, those same moneyed classes whence the EIC generally recruited its officials!). The British landed gentry and upper classes of the 18th century were quite used to a rich array of savory and spicy dishes gracing their dining tables. A quick browse through any contemporary cookery book will confirm the prodigious use of spices in Georgian kitchens, particularly peppercorns (black and white), nutmeg, blade mace, cloves and cayenne. Not to mention the use of various pickles and ketchups (including the virtually ubiquitous mushroom ketchup) to give added piquancy.
I've read a number articles suggesting khichdi, in particular, was adopted by British colonials as it reminded the nabobs of the nursery foods of their childhoods and was, therefore, consumed effectively as a comfort food. Whilst I accept the texture of khichdi may not have been dissimilar to any number of British nursery dishes, the flavours would have been robust and even spicy. We shouldn't forget that EIC officials were men of the world (and, until the 19th Century, we are talking almost exclusively men, with wives left at home in Britain), quite used to danger, adventurous in their outlook and, clearly, willing to take considerable risks. I'm sure this sense of adventure would have extended to the consumption native cuisines, particularly after months at sea, surviving on ships rations, even if those were officers' rations.
Which brings me to another commonly proffered hypothesis; that the process by which khichdi gradually became anglicised began in India, long before the dish reached British shores. In my opinion, this theory is not credible. With access to readily available, relatively inexpensive local spices, coupled with the widespread use of indigenous cooks within colonial kitchens, it makes no sense to me that adopted native dishes, such as khichdi, would have become effectively 'watered down' over time just to suit a supposedly mild British palate. Personally, I think nothing could be further from the truth. Indeed it is my conjecture that the recipe was exported to Britain, in the mid 18th century, virtually intact, with the substitution of ingredients only then taking place, through necessity, once it had reached home shores.
I believe my theory is borne out by one of the earliest known written recipes for kedgeree, which was recorded by Stephana Malcolm in around 1790. Although Stephana, herself, spent most of her life in the Scottish borders, her brothers were widely travelled. While two brothers became admirals in the Royal Navy, a third, John, won fame and fortune as a member of the EIC. Rising to become both a major-general and the governor of Bombay, he opened his family's eyes to both the culture and cuisine of the Indian subcontinent. Alongside her hand written recipe for kedgeree were others for Indian pickle, "mulgatawy" soup and "currie" powder. Incidentally, in the absence of curry leaves, cumin and the like, the spice element of Stephana's original kedgeree recipe was provided by cayenne, ironically a spice of South American origin. Curiously, her accompanying recipe for "currie" powder does include the full gamut of curry spices; cloves, garlic, cardamom, cumin seed, coriander seed, turmeric ginger, mace and cinnamon!
At around the the same time as Stephana Malcolm was setting down her recipe for kedgeree, proprietary (commercial) curry powders were first introduced into Britain. Conceived as a ready-made ingredient intended to replicate the flavour of an Indian sauce, they were blends of spices produced by Indian merchants specifically for sale to British traders. Although essentially not authentic, it allowed British chefs and cooks to produce Indian inspired dishes without the need to keep the wide array of expensive spices required to make a true garam masala. Though still relatively expensive when first introduced, commercial curry powders quickly became popular, not only with returning colonials, but with the more adventurous of the upper-middle and moneyed classes eager to try the flavours of the East including, of course, kedgeree. In the early 19th Century, strong, spicy flavours where definitely the order of the day and particularly at breakfast, it would seem! We shouldn't forget that kedgerees of this era would have graced the breakfast sideboards of Britain alongside other such piquant dishes as devilled bones and devilled kidneys (the devilled element of these dishes usually consisting of a mix of mustard powder, cayenne, peppercorns and mushroom ketchup, later replaced by Worcestershire sauce). It's my assertion that, until at least the mid 19th century, British kedgeree was anything but the rather bland dish it was to become by the early twentieth century (by which time, of course, it consisted of little more than buttered rice with fish and parsley). I suspect that as the dish was effectively democratised during the latter half of the 19th century, it's flavours were tamed to suit the less adventurous, more pedestrian tastes of the cautious British middle classes.
Again, this is conjecture on my part, but one explanation for the inclusion (or perhaps substitution) of smoked haddock in the modern dish of kedgeree may lie with India's Parsi community. The Parsis were Zoroastrian refugees from Persia (modern day Iran) who arrived in India in the 8th Century, but it was under British colonial rule in Bombay (Mumbai) during the 18th and 19th Centuries that the community truly began to flourish. The importance of the Parsis to the EIC (and later the British Raj), in terms of both local administration and commerce in general, cannot be overstated. With an aptitude for western style education, and a willingness to adopt western styles and customs, the Parsis were highly regarded and valued by their colonial overlords. It may not, therefore, have been unusual for there to be a degree of social mixing, allowing British colonials, in and around Bombay, to become familiar with Parsi cuisine.
Interestingly, Parsi khichdi dishes tend to be relatively dry, not unlike a British kedgeree, and are usually only lightly flecked with lentils. One Parsi dish, in particular, bhanuchi veghareli khichdi, is made with Bombay duck - curiously not duck at all, but a local fish preserved by salting and air drying in the sun. Though rather pungent in its dry form, once reconstituted and cooked, Bombay duck can be used to add deeply savoury notes to a recipe. To make this particular Parsi khichdi dish, the dried fish is first soaked, then marinated and dry fried, before being added to the spicy muddle of rice and lentils (in addition, it's common to toast dried bombay duck over charcoal to give it a smoky flavour - this can then be crumbled onto a variety of dishes, effectively as a condiment). Could it be that this, or a similar Parsi khichdi recipe, inspired the inclusion of smoked haddock in kedgeree once the dish had reached British shores, by simply replacing the Bombay duck element with a locally available smoked fish alternative?
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The presence of eggs in the anglicised recipe is, perhaps, less of a mystery. Dimer (egg) khichuri is, to this day, a common dish in the state of Bengal (where, during the years of the Raj, the British presence was most keenly felt). Eggs are either added to the khichuri raw and stirred through the mix of rice and lentils until set, cooked separately as a scrambled omelette and added towards the end of cooking, or hard boiled and added as a garnish, along with coriander, at the end of cooking (or any combination of the above, it would appear!). Interestingly, many early British kedgeree recipes specify that the raw eggs should be stirred through the rice as it's reheated, whereas the more usual approach today is to serve the eggs on top of the dish, hard boiled and quartered, effectively as a garnish.
The simple substitution of parsley for coriander, and butter & cream for ghee, due to the scarcity of the original raw ingredients in Britain at that time, I think, needs no explanation!
Which brings us up to date, leaving us to consider the modern British kedgeree! I think we can safely say kedgeree is no longer relegated to the breakfast table and, personally, I always thought that this was rather a waste of a good dish. My preference is to serve kedgeree as a supper dish, or even as a starter, in the same way Italians serve risotto as a primo. There has certainly been a move in recent years towards so called 'authentic' spicing, with freshly ground spices forming a masala used to flavour the dish. The mind boggles! Honestly, if it's authenticity you're seeking (and with all the necessary ingredients now readily available in your local supermarket), you may as well go the whole hog and simply make an authentic Indian khichdi. I think I'll stick to cooking my 'traditional' British kedgeree!
And so, finally, to the recipe. Now, my method deviates from the more traditional approach of cooking the rice separately first, before assembling the kedgeree. I prefer to cook the rice as part of the dish, in the manner of a pilaf, adding the rice grains to the frying onions, before pouring over a measured amount of the water in which the smoked haddock was cooked (effectively stock). As for the spicing of the dish; to reiterate, this is kedgeree, not khichdi, so I feel the use of a proprietary curry powder is entirely appropriate, albeit with a touch more ground cumin added, plus a little turmeric to enhance the colour.
For that finishing touch, I would thoroughly recommend you anoint the dish with some hard fried crispy onions, or a dollop of the Whitstable Pickle Company's mango chutney (or possibly both!).
Heat the oil in a sauté pan, add the onion and garlic and fry gently until it is transparent and just becoming golden. Add the curry powder, turmeric and cumin, stir and allow to cook out a little. Stir in the rice and fry a little more, then add around 350ml of the reserved cooking stock. Bring everything to the boil, cover the pan, turn down the heat and simmer for 10 to 12 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Once the rice is tender, stir in the double cream and butter and season generously with black pepper. Gently fold in the flaked fish and all but a spoonful of the chopped parsley and allow to heat through for a minute or two. Remove from the heat and allow to rest for a few minutes with the lid on. Check the consistency, adding a little more hot stock to loosen the rice, if you feel this is necessary.
Serve the kedgeree on very hot plates, topped with the egg quarters, the remaining chopped parsley and a spoonful of mango chutney,
