Currystruck!
It can happen anytime, anywhere!
I’ve been cycling through Central Park, face squished up against the doors of the A train, mid-Zoom meeting, swimming laps, or even stirring from deep slumber when I’m…CURRYSTRUCK! A huge smile spreads across my face because I know exactly what’s for dinner, or lunch—or, if I’ve had a few too many the night before, even breakfast.
For Guyanese people, this phenomenon is as true and serious as cricket. I’ve even met a few English lads who’ve experienced it and term it "a calling for curry." My dad would come back from vacation and declare, “Me want to eat chicken curry!”—as if a week of “foreign food” had adulterated his taste buds.
Growing up in a Guyanese household meant curry was a constant, a weekly staple from Mum, who made a no-nonsense chicken curry, and a special treat from Dad, whose mutton curry was reserved for occasions like weddings (and with three sisters, there were plenty of those) or whenever he was CURRYSTRUCK.
Mum’s Curry Skills
As a kid, I’d come home from school to the unmistakable aroma of garlic, onions, and scotch bonnet peppers. I’d hear mum sing out, “Hello, babe,” and slide open the kitchen door to find her expertly breaking down a plump chicken at the counter.
A veteran butcher, she would feel for the bird’s joints, then hack away clean portions of thigh, leg, or breast. With practiced ease, she stretched the translucent skin to slice it cleanly, coaxed out the white globules of fat, and tossed the chicken into her scalding weathered karahi.
The pungent scent of her masala would fill the air, sending tantalizing wafts of smoke crawling along the ceiling—a sign for me (and any smart Guyanese child) to run upstairs and lock my door to avoid curry clothes for the rest of the week.
Mum finished by pouring a little boiling water from the kettle, adding a tablespoon of tomato purée, and grabbing the enormous pot spoon—occasionally used for giving us licks when we were younger. With steady vigorous movements, she stirred the chicken and spices together until everything transformed into the deep, caramel hue of Demerara sugar.
Dad’s Best Curry
One grey Sunday afternoon in Muswell Hill, Dad was in the middle of giving me a driving lesson when he decided we’d drop by his friend Joe’s house for a social call. I frowned because I knew Joe as a rum bugger and feared a lost afternoon. My fears were not only justified, but compounded by hunger, because while they chatted away over copious glasses of Bell’s whisky, my teenage stomach growled in protest. Needing something to cut their liquor, Joe suggested running out for a Chinese takeaway. Dad frowned:
“What the rass you want to eat Chinese food for, eh? You have chicken?”
Joe’s whisky soaked brain hit pause. He opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed, then squinted at the shag pile carpet by Dad’s feet. Dad blinked, waiting. Joe hiccuped, held up a finger then nodded:
“Yes, me have chicken!”
Before I could roll my eyes, the clatter of pots and unmistakable aroma of garam masala spilled from his tiny bachelor kitchen as Dad went to work. Half an hour later while feigning interest in BBC’s Ski Sunday to quell my hunger, Dad called me to the kitchen.
“You hungry, na?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
Seconds later, he handed me a plate. A plump, curried chicken thigh rested atop a steaming mound of basmati rice, bathed in a golden river of dal flecked with fresh coriander and dotted with roasted garlic, cumin, and shallots. On the side, perfectly cooked King Edward potatoes stood like spicy sentinels. I crushed one with my spoon, scooped up some rice and a tender piece of chicken, and savored the most flavorful curry I’d ever tasted. It was fiery, rich, and deeply satisfying, instantly warming my belly—a masterpiece whipped up on a whim. At that moment, I realized my deep love for curry, and that Dad was, without question, the king of curry in our family!
Joe licked his plate clean, poured an obscene amount of whisky and looked at Dad:
“That curry was extraordinary, extra ordinary man! You mus mus mus gimme dat rass recipe!”
I confirmed that Joe was the most amusing of my dad’s pals later after he turned to me from the John Wayne movie and said with utter sincerity:
“You must never play with gunpowder. Ever!”
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Once I become CURRYSTRUCK, the planning begins. My pantry is well-stocked, so the list is usually just one thing: chicken. And when I say chicken, I mean dark meat—chicken thighs with bones. You need dem bones for flavor and to gnaw on at the end of the meal.
Those of you thinking—I can just get a delivery from my local curry house - NO!
It will never give you the same satisfaction! You can’t just order a chicken tikka masala or goat curry and think that it's going to satisfy your craving, even if it's from your favorite place. I’ve received lukewarm, bland, ropey chicken curry, where the ratio is 70/30 in favor of rice over curry too many times—from places with 5 star ratings!
To me there’s almost nothing as disappointing as paying for a bad meal that you could have made better yourself.
Making curry isn’t just about food—it’s therapy. When my wife’s away and the apartment feels too quiet, I don’t hit the bar to fend off loneliness—I hit the kitchen. Music on, spices out, and soon I’m lost in the rich aromas and promise of a delicious meal.
Chopping, sautéing, and stirring is moving meditation. By the time I sit down to eat, the isolation has disappeared, replaced by the warm embrace of comfort food with leftover joy through the week.
To this day, no restaurant curry has ever come close to Dad’s best. And that’s why, whenever I’m CURRYSTRUCK, I make it myself. It’s more than a meal; it’s a connection to family, culture, and the simple joy of creating something delicious. So here’s my recipe—your curry destiny awaits!
Ingredients:
1 medium onion
½ head of garlic, peeled
A few sprigs of fresh thyme
1-2 wiri wiri peppers or 1 small scotch bonnet pepper
1 inch thumb of ginger
Chicken
1 packet of family thighs or 6 medium sized thighs, cut into large chunks - 3 inch pieces. You can use boneless but I like bones and chop the thighs in half. Score the meat almost to the bone so the spices penetrate the chicken.
Curry Mix
1 teaspoon salt - to your taste
½ tablespoon garam masala
1 tablespoon madras hot curry powder
½ teaspoon ground geera (cumin)
⅓ cup water
Dry roast spices (optional as these can be added ground, without being roasted but I prefer roasted)
1 teaspoon whole black pepper
1 teaspoon whole coriander
½ teaspoon fennel
½ teaspoon cumin seed
Remaining ingredients for curry
1 tablespoon cooking oil
1 cinnamon stick
1 teaspoon salt (or salt to taste)
Boiling water
Tomato paste
1 medium potato, peeled and chopped into med pieces
Few pinches ground geera
1 cup of chicken broth
Fresh coriander (optional)
Half a cup of coconut milk
Method
Roast your dry spices until they begin to pop, blister and smoke. Put into a mortar and pestle, let cool then grind and set aside.
Finely chop onion, garlic and ginger or blend until smooth with 2 teaspoons of water.
Heat a heavy bottomed pot on medium, add 4 tablespoon oil. Add the onion, garlic, ginger paste and fry for 2-3 minutes.
Add ground roasted spices and curry mix stirring constantly until mixture is golden. Add a little water if the paste begins to stick.
Add chicken and stir to coat with mixture. Add salt, cinnamon, thyme, wiri wiri pepper here. Cover pot and let chicken cook for 10 minutes on medium heat, stirring every once in a while. The chicken will give out its own water.
After 10 mins, add chicken broth, coconut milk and potatoes and stir. Taste to see if more salt or seasoning is needed. If not let cook for another 15 minutes until the potatoes are soft.
Open the pot and add tomato paste to thicken or water if needed. Let curry boil on medium heat until gravy has reduced to your liking.
When the curry is done—when the potatoes are nice and soft—sprinkle a little ground cumin on top and garnish with fresh coriander to serve with my basmati rice.
My Fragrant Basmati Rice
Ingredients
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup basmati rice
5 cardamom pods
3 cloves
1 cinnamon stick
½ teaspoon lemon juice
1½ cup chicken broth
½ cup coconut milk
1 teaspoon of butter
¼ teaspoon turmeric
Method
Add rice to a mixing bowl and rinse repeatedly until all starch is gone and water is clear.
Heat rice pot on medium and add butter and lemon juice until it melts.
Add rice and stir in chicken broth, turmeric and coconut milk.
Crush cardamom pods and add to rice with salt, cinnamon stick and cloves and bring to a boil, stir and then reduce heat to low and simmer for 15 minutes with lid on.
Open lid and fluff rice with fork then serve.
Dad’s Dal (Split Pea Soup)
Dal is a staple in Guyanese households—a rich, fragrant soup made with yellow split peas, garlic, and geera (cumin). Just the smell takes me back to Saturday mornings, when Dad would make his dal to give Mum a break while she was out shopping. Whether served with rice, roti, or simply sipped from a bowl, this dish is pure comfort food.
Ingredients
1 cup yellow split peas (red/green, any color works but yellow is my go to)
7/8 cups water (adjust for desired thickness)
4 cloves garlic, smashed
½ tsp turmeric
1 tsp salt (or to taste)
½ tsp ground cumin (geera)
½ tsp curry powder
½ tsp garam masala
½ tsp chicken powder
1 wiri wiri pepper (or ½ scotch bonnet) optional, for heat
1 small onion, finely chopped
Chunkay
1 large garlic clove, sliced
½ teaspoon whole geera (cumin seeds
2 tablespoon oil
Method
Boil the Split Peas
Rinse the split peas under cold water until the water runs clear.
In a large pot, add split peas and salt and bring to a light boil for 15 minutes scoop out any of the scummy froth.
After 15 minutes add garlic, onion turmeric, ground geera, curry powder, garam masala and wiri wiri pepper (if using).
Lower heat and simmer for about 30–40 minutes, stirring occasionally until the peas are soft and falling apart.
Use a swizzle stick (dal ghotni) or an immersion blender to reach a velvet smooth consistency.
Chunkay the Dal (Infuse with Flavor)
In a small pan, heat oil over medium heat.
Add cumin seeds and sliced garlic and fry until golden brown, let them sizzle for about 30 seconds until fragrant.
Carefully pour the hot oil mixture into the dal—watch for the sizzle! Stir well.
Final Touches
Add more water if needed to reach your preferred consistency.
Simmer for another 5 minutes, taste, and adjust seasoning.
Serve hot with rice, roti, or enjoy on its own!
