Connecting With My Late Father Through His Favorite Meal
I miss my dad, but eating spicy Indian curry helps me feel his presence
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It’s been several years since my dad passed away, and I often find myself reminiscing about our last trip together to India. Dad left the country as a young man in his early twenties. It took him almost 60 years to return with his two grown sons, both eager to learn more about his past.
Dad finished chemo that spring and was in fighting spirits. I couldn’t wait to go back to India—I’d backpacked through the country many years before. The opportunity to visit all his old haunts was too good to pass up.
Dad rarely spoke of his time growing up on the subcontinent or what life was like for him as a Jew in 1950s Mumbai. Occasionally, he’d mention the Catholic school he attended, or he’d talk about winning all the awards in various sports. My brother and I giggled and pretended we didn’t believe him. Now I regret not asking him more about his life. It’s an opportunity I’ll never get back.
Since his time away from India, my dad had developed a singular vision—a borderline obsession with one type of curry. Whatever restaurant or country he was in, the chana masala was his only dish of choice. Perhaps it reminded him of his mother’s cooking or some forgotten haunt in Mumbai’s suburbs. I like to think that this dish reminded him of his childhood. The simple flavors likely evoked deep memories as each spoonful nestled on his tongue.
Chana masala — or “mix-spiced small chickpeas” — originates from India. It’s also known as channay, chole masala, chole, or chholay. The spice array of turmeric, cumin, coriander, and ginger all feature in this. The chana has a more robust flavor and firmer texture than the typical chickpea, even after being cooked. But it was the amount of heat required in this Indian staple that captivated my dad.
His doctors used to joke that they’d never witnessed a man with such a high threshold for pain. No morphine shots or antibiotics for my dad, even during the worst of his cancer treatment. Instead, he took great pride in being able to absorb anything that nature or his body could throw at him. The heat from his chana masala probably had a bit to do with that.
If the chana masala wasn’t cooked with enough chilies — providing enough heat to stun a small elephant — he’d send it back to the kitchen. I would often hear my mum complain about how ridiculously hot he had to have everything. Her tastes were more subtle, bordering on bland. Exotic flavors attracted my mum, even though she hated eating curries.
The waiter didn’t understand, so Dad improvised with the power of mime: cheeks puffed, eyes wide open, and fingers simulating an explosion.
During our trip to India, my dad wasted no time ordering his favorite meal from a nearby diner. He gestured to the waiter, who leaned in close so he could hear every word over the din. Dad had but one instruction. “Make it hot,” he said.
“How hot, sir?” asked the waiter.
“Fiery,” my dad replied.
The waiter didn’t understand, so Dad improvised with the power of mime: cheeks puffed, eyes wide open, and fingers simulating an explosion. Finally, the waiter smiled and nodded.
Around us, the small shack was packed with men. All appeared to be working class, their clothes dirt-stained from finishing a shift on a rickshaw. The tables were all close to each other; food was shared among equals. Our guide had chosen the right spot.
Ten minutes into the meal, it was clear my dad was unhappy. He made dissatisfied grunts and began tutting. Every mouthful brought a heavy sigh. Usually, my dad had few words and often hung back, observing, not wanting to make a scene. He had my mum, who would do enough complaining for the two of them. My brother signaled for the waiter, who looked alarmed.
Dad waved his hand over the plate and then waved it over his face. It’s how he showed that he wasn’t enjoying the meal. He started to point at his face mysteriously. With that final flourish, my dad relaxed and turned to my brother to translate. It was hot inside the diner. Everybody was sweating. Drips dangled from the ceiling, condensation etched on every wall. A few men were visibly wilting in the oppressive atmosphere. But there sat my dad, wrapped up warm like it was a winter’s day. His two layers of clothing looked immaculate. He even had a scarf. It was the residue from his treatment that had left his frame fragile and prone to the cold. Not a single bead of sweat appeared on his head.
My brother was more in tune with his idiosyncrasies and dutifully translated what my dad needed. “He’s not sweating,” my brother declared. “He needs it hotter. Hotter! More sweat. More fire.”
My brother made more hand gestures as he tugged on his shirt collar, his tongue protruding. I smiled.
The bemused waiter looked confident he understood the message and took the dish away. He returned within 10 minutes and stood expectantly by my dad’s side as he chowed down on the fresh meal. Sure enough, the first beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. Five spoonfuls later and my dad had removed a layer of clothing. He was now in his element, content that the meal met his standards.
It became one of my favorite memories of my dad.
On every anniversary of his passing, I eat chana masala in his honor. The hotter, the better.
