Chef O Tama Carey was serving dishes in her Sydney restaurant recently when a customer asked her a simple question: “What’s in the cashew curry?”
“And I said, ‘Cashews. It’s a cashew curry.’ And they were like, ‘But what else?’ And I said, ‘Cashews. Because it’s a cashew curry.’”
Carey was talking to me on a Zoom call on a night off from that acclaimed restaurant, Lankan Filling Station, and was explaining to me some of the differences between Sri Lankan food and other cuisines. “In other curries, especially in Thai food, if you have a cashew curry, you might also get a lot of other stuff. But in a lot of Sri Lankan dishes, the main ingredient is just what it is.”
As someone who adores cashews but has grown accustomed to seeing them used in plant-based cooking as the makings of a dairy-free puree to add richness, I could imagine myself being that very diner asking those very questions. And I also know that once that dish made its way to my table, I’d be as giddy with excitement as I was when I made it at home.
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In Carey’s lovely new book, “Lanka Food,” she explains and demystifies the cooking she learned from her Sri Lankan mother’s side of her family, and includes a fascinating rundown on the island’s influences, including Dutch, Portuguese and English colonizers and Arab, Malay and Chinese traders. (Coincidentally, her book is hitting shelves right as a civilian uprising in the wake of an economic collapse is roiling her mother’s homeland.)
As a predominantly Buddhist nation, Sri Lanka boasts a wonderful variety of vegetarian cooking, so of course that was my own path into the beginnings of understanding the cuisine. This cashew curry recipe, which she calls “distinctly Sri Lankan,” is almost a lesson unto itself.
First, there are those cashews, which are not nuts at all but technically fruit; they’re the drupe seeds that extend under the apple of the cashew tree. In Sri Lankan markets, she says, it’s common to see not only the apple, which she compares in texture to an Asian pear, but the fresh cashews, which are juicier and plumper than anything we can get in the States. (In processing, cashews are typically steamed to assist in the cracking of their shell, and must be handled carefully to avoid a toxic substance that can burn harvesters’ and processors’ hands. For this and other reasons, advocates for farmers and workers suggest that consumers of imported cashews look for fair-trade companies.)
Carey’s recipe calls for soaking the cashews first, which helps return some of that plumpness and softer texture to the dish, which also depends heavily on another crucial Sri Lankan ingredient: coconut cream. On the island, coconuts are typically pressed several times, with each pressing resulting in a less-rich product, and this is one of those dishes that would be made with the first pressing. Off the island, Carey compensates for the lack of ubiquitous coconut trees by starting with a canned coconut cream and adding different amounts of water for different uses.
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The third element to this dish that exemplifies Sri Lankan cooking is its use of herbs and spices: Fresh curry leaves, cumin seeds and ground turmeric, along with a curry powder that includes those plus a few more spices. In many ways, particularly the complex layering of spices and aromatics, it reminded me of an Indian paneer curry I made a few months ago. But it also tastes distinct: lighter, with a welcome tang from lime juice.
That brings me to Carey’s larger point about the cuisine of her heritage. When I asked her at the beginning of our conversation what she thinks is the most common misconception about it, she didn’t miss a beat: That it’s Indian food.
“There’s just so much more,” she said. And after making this dish, I can see — and taste — just what she means.
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