I learned to make this dish from a man who smelled like lemongrass and Marlboro Lights.
He ran a takeaway joint that sat wedged between a dry cleaner and a tattoo parlor, and he could dice an onion faster than most men draw a pistol. I watched him once, mesmerized, as his cleaver danced across the cutting board—thwack-thwack-thwack—until the onion looked more like confetti than vegetable. He didn’t smile much, didn’t talk much either, unless he was talking to his wok, which he treated more like an ex-lover than a cooking pan. He cursed at it. He coaxed it. And he made food in it that shut up even the noisiest drunks at 3am.
One night I asked him how he made his chicken curry, and without looking up, he muttered, “You cook the onions ‘til they cry. You throw in garlic like you mean it. You let the curry powder smoke a little. And don’t be shy with the chicken stock—sauce should cling to the spoon, not run from it.”
That was it. No measurements. No steps. Just a few loose commandments and a hard stare that told me if I got it wrong, it was on me.
So this isn’t his exact recipe. I’m not that lucky. But it’s close. Close enough that every time I make it, the kitchen smells a little like lemongrass and cigarettes. And that’s good enough for me.
Here’s how you make it.
Chinese-Style Chicken Curry
Serves 4 | Takes about 45 minutes
Ingredients
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1 tbsp vegetable oil
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1 large onion, chopped (don’t go gentle on it)
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2 garlic cloves, crushed
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1 tbsp plain flour
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1 tbsp curry powder (pick one that smells like your childhood)
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300ml chicken stock (the real kind, if you’ve got it. The cube kind, if you don’t.)
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100ml milk
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450g skinless chicken breast, cut into bite-sized chunks
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100g frozen peas (or fresh, if you’re feeling fancy)
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Salt and pepper, to taste
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Steamed rice, to serve
Method
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Start with the onions.
Heat the oil in a large frying pan over medium heat. Toss in the onions. You’re not just softening them—you’re trying to coax out their soul. Give it 10 minutes. Stir often. They should look golden and smell like comfort. -
Bring in the garlic.
Add the crushed garlic and let it mingle with the onion for a minute. Don’t burn it. Burned garlic is bitterness in culinary form. -
Spice things up.
Sprinkle in the flour and curry powder. Stir like you’re painting a canvas. Cook it for a minute or two until the air smells warm and spiced, like someone lit incense in your kitchen. -
Liquid courage.
Slowly pour in the chicken stock and milk, stirring as you go. You’re building a sauce now. Let it simmer until it thickens slightly. Think velvet, not sludge. -
Time for chicken.
Add the chicken pieces and stir to coat them in the sauce. Let them cook gently for 10–12 minutes. No need to rush them—undercooked chicken is the villain in every food horror story. -
Final touch.
Throw in the peas. Let them cook for 2–3 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Taste it. Adjust it. Make it yours. -
Serve hot over steamed rice, preferably while talking about something that matters or listening to someone who does.
A Few Notes From a Guy Who’s Burned More Meals Than He’s Finished
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This isn’t a fancy curry. It’s the kind of thing you make when you’re craving takeaway but don’t want to leave the house.
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The sauce should be just thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. If it’s too runny, simmer it longer. If it’s too thick, add a splash more stock.
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Want it hotter? Add chili flakes or fresh chili when the garlic goes in. Want it richer? Stir in a spoon of cream at the end.
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Don’t skip the onion step. It sets the tone for everything that follows.
If you make this, don’t be the kind of person who takes a photo and forgets to taste it. Eat it hot. Eat it messy. And think about someone who once taught you something in silence.
