Chicken Tikka Masala

Britain's curry-house standard: yoghurt-marinated chicken charred hard, then folded into a tomato and cream gravy

Origin: Glasgow & Britain

From the journey of Tomato.

The dish is a gravy with something in it, and the gravy is tomato. Tinned tomatoes and tomato purée cooked down with onion until the oil separates, softened with cream and butter, coloured with Kashmiri chilli, and finished with crushed dried fenugreek leaf: that base is what a British curry house means by masala, and the chicken is a separate operation folded in at the end. Cooking the two apart is the point rather than a shortcut, since the chicken is marinated in spiced yoghurt and charred hard first, and it is the burnt edges that keep it from disappearing into the sauce. Who made it first is genuinely contested, and the atlas does not award it. The best-known claim belongs to Ali Ahmed Aslam of the Shish Mahal in Glasgow, who said that in the early 1970s a customer sent back a dry chicken tikka and that he improvised a sauce from a tin of condensed tomato soup, cream, and spices; the restaurant has made the claim consistently for decades, and in 2009 Mohammad Sarwar, then the Member of Parliament for Glasgow Central, tabled a Commons motion seeking European protected origin status for the city's version. The bid went nowhere. Against it, several food writers point out that the dish is in substance a lightly altered murgh makhani, the Delhi butter chicken developed at the Moti Mahal in the 1940s and 1950s, and that curry-house kitchens across Britain arrived at very similar sauces independently because they were working from the same ingredients and the same customers. Both accounts describe something real. Neither can be proved. What is not in dispute is who was cooking. The overwhelming majority of Britain's Bangladeshi restaurateurs trace to Sylhet, in the north-east of the country, whose men had worked as lascars in British merchant shipping since the eighteenth century; many left their ships in London and the northern ports, and the post-war catering trade grew out of those networks. By the 1970s the standard British curry house was Sylheti-run and worked on a system: one large pot of onion, tomato, and spice reduced in the morning, then split and finished to order in a few minutes with whatever the customer had asked for. That is why so many dishes on a British curry-house menu taste like cousins. Chicken tikka masala is the mildest, richest, and most popular of them. On 19 April 2001 Robin Cook, then Foreign Secretary, told the Social Market Foundation that chicken tikka masala was a true British national dish, not merely because it was the most popular but because it was a perfect illustration of the way Britain absorbs and adapts outside influences. The line was repeated everywhere and is still repeated, and the dish it describes is one almost nobody in South Asia has ever ordered.

Ingredients

Tikka

  • 800 g boneless chicken thigh, in large pieces
  • 150 g thick natural yoghurt
  • 2 tbsp ginger and garlic paste
  • 1 tbsp Kashmiri chilli powder
  • 1 tsp ground turmeric
  • 2 tsp garam masala
  • 1 tbsp lemon juice
  • 1 tbsp neutral oil
  • 1.5 tsp salt

Masala

  • 50 g butter
  • 2 tbsp neutral oil
  • 2 onions, finely chopped
  • 2 tbsp ginger and garlic paste
  • 3 tbsp tomato purée
  • 400 g tinned chopped tomatoes
  • 2 tsp Kashmiri chilli powder
  • 1 tsp ground cumin
  • 1 tsp ground coriander
  • 1.5 tsp garam masala
  • 1 tsp caster sugar
  • 1.5 tsp salt, or to taste
  • 150 ml double cream
  • 1 tbsp dried fenugreek leaf (kasuri methi), crushed between the palms

To serve

  • 3 tbsp coriander leaf, chopped

Method

  1. Mix all the tikka ingredients except the chicken into a smooth marinade, then turn the chicken through it until every piece is coated. Cover and refrigerate for at least four hours, and overnight if you can.
  2. Heat the grill as high as it will go, or the oven to 240°C, and thread the chicken onto skewers set over a foil-lined tray so the air moves round it.
  3. Grill for twelve to fifteen minutes, turning once, until the edges are properly blackened in patches. Do not stop at golden. The char is a flavour in the finished sauce, not a cosmetic fault.
  4. Rest the chicken on the tray whilst the sauce is made and keep any juices that run out.
  5. Melt the butter with the oil in a wide pan and cook the onions over a medium heat for twelve to fifteen minutes until deep gold. This is the longest step and the one most often cut short.
  6. Add the ginger and garlic paste and fry for two minutes until the raw smell has gone.
  7. Stir in the tomato purée and cook it out for three minutes, until it darkens and smells sweet rather than metallic.
  8. Add the ground spices and stir for thirty seconds, then the tinned tomatoes, the sugar, and the salt.
  9. Simmer for twenty minutes, stirring now and then, until the sauce has reduced and the oil rises and separates at the edges. That separation is the signal that the tomato is cooked; the sauce will taste raw and sharp until it happens.
  10. Blend the sauce smooth with a stick blender if you want the restaurant texture, then return it to the pan. Leave it as it is for a more domestic one.
  11. Stir in the cream and let it come back to a bare simmer, then add the chicken with its resting juices and warm it through for five minutes.
  12. Crush the dried fenugreek leaf between your palms directly over the pan, stir it in, and take the pan off the heat. Rest for five minutes, scatter with coriander, and serve with rice or naan.

Notes

Use thigh rather than breast: the grill needed to char the outside will dry breast meat before the sauce ever reaches it. Kashmiri chilli powder is what gives the sauce its colour without much heat, and ordinary chilli powder substituted at the same quantity will make the dish far hotter than it should be; use half as much and accept a paler sauce. Cook the tomato until the oil separates, since this is the difference between a curry-house sauce and a sharp one. The dried fenugreek leaf goes in at the very end and off the heat, because it is an aroma rather than a flavour and boiling it away wastes it.

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