For a photograph of Judy Cardoza and details of the cookery classes see: http://www.indiaonthemenu.com/
Judy also owns a boutique store called Heirlooms on Panaji's 18th June Road]
Headline: Sun, sea, sand and Spices. By: Rodney Bolt Source: The Daily Express, 12 February 2005
Rodney Bolt learns from the locals how to make a mean masala while soaking up the beauty and tranquillity of Goa
At a certain age, says Judy Cardoza, all Indian girls come into the kitchen and learn how to cook by watching their mothers. Her cookery classes in Anjuna, Goa, mirror this tradition as she passes on culinary secrets to visitors from the West. And you don't just get to watch. Within no time, you're grinding your own masalas, cooking up biryanis and pressing out paratha bread.
It was hard on the first day to tear myself away from the view from my room's verandah - a picture-postcard scene of white sands, coconut palms and lazy sunbathers.
But driver Nixon was waiting to whisk me on the 10-minute drive to Panaji, Goa's dinky capital city. From here it was a quick ferry ride across the Mandovi River to Judy's cookery school. In a press of Vespas, schoolchildren and women in shimmering saris I chugged to the village of Betim, walking past samosa sellers, sandal makers and a hole-in-the-wall bar to my first lesson.
Judy's school occupies one wing of her son-in-law's family home which has a breezy riverside terrace - an ideal spot for the lunches at which we devour each morning's work. Family members come and go in the colonnaded courtyard, and the domestic atmosphere spills over into the classes. The mood is informal, as if we were preparing lunch for a family get-together.
It's a five-day course with two lessons, a mid-week break for a market trip, then two more lessons. Each day focuses on a different region. There's dahl and biryani from the north on day one, lighter dishes from the south on day two, then Goan cuisine and finally a free-for-all in which we prepare personal requests. I have just one fellow student, Jan from Liverpool (classes are normally four to six people, with a maximum of eight). She proves a whizz at breads and biryani.
"Curry, " I learn, doesn't exist - it's an umbrella word invented by the Brits, perhaps derived from the kari leaves that are a favourite flavouring. And "vindaloo" is not what we think at all. The original vindaloo is a bittersweet Goan dish, its name coming from the Portuguese for wine (vinho) and garlic (alho).
Goa was a Portuguese colony until the Sixties. The odd Mediterranean touch to some local dishes, some family names (such as Judy's), and splendid colonial architecture are an inheritance of those times.
In the afternoons after class, I head off with Nixon to view local sights - the Baroque churches of Old Goa emerging pristine white from the jungle creepers; bungalows and palacios with Portuguese stucco work and wrought iron. Along the way are temples resplendent with carvings, and entire shops covered in the brilliant red, yellow or blue paint of a single advert. Roadside stalls sell tea and quick-fried snacks. Men at ancient Singer sewing machines turn out "suitings" and "shirtings' for just a few pounds.
Some afternoons I abandon all this and simply laze on the beach.
But mornings are spent in the kitchen. The goodie bag that comes with the course includes an excellent cookbook that claims: "Indian cooking is like herding a cat. It will not bend to absolute rules." The delight of Judy's approach is the way she shows how the slightest changes can completely transform flavours. Jan and I are both making the same dish. She chops her tomatoes finely and adds a little tamarind; I'm instructed to chop mine coarsely and add just a pinch of asafoetida (dried gum-tree resin). The results are astoundingly different.
We both try our hand at the famous Goan fish curry. Again, tiny variations turn Jan's sauce sweet while mine is tangy.
After two mornings of cooking and eight different dishes, the market visit makes a fun break. Judy points out exotic fruit and vegetables, and explains the use of spices. We stock up on superb Kashmiri dried chillies. Then I succumb to the temptation of three copper-bottomed cooking pots, sold by weight and astonishingly cheap (though they wreak havoc with the baggage allowance). In the fish section women sit on stools with just a tiny spread in front of them - a few silver fish, eight or nine crabs or a bucket of mussels.
And there's more - piles of glittering bangles, traditional earthenware water pots, live chickens, garlands of flowers or shiny new shoes (with a 50 per cent trade-in on your old ones).
Back in the kitchen, Judy keeps a watchful eye - and ear - on our progress. "Those are burnt, " she says, without even looking, on hearing my mustard seeds sizzle as I drop them in oil. She's right.
It's the basic tips that are the most useful: how much to heat the oil; how to toast the spices for masalas (that's proper talk for "curry powders"). Proudly, on the last day, we prepare our own garam masala to take home.
Judy also provided excellent restaurant tips, the best being Zeebop, an upmarket beach hut on a long, almost deserted beach in South Goa where I tucked into succulent tiger prawns and a lobster the size of Arnie's forearm.
After each day's class I brought a little more expertise to my restaurant visits, comparing the dishes to my own efforts. I didn't always come off second.
Now I can't wait to impress friends back home. One thing is for sure: never again will a commercial "curry powder" cross my kitchen threshold.
End +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++== Forwarded by Eddie Fernandes London
