My first food memory was the street food in India. I grew up there [her father had his own theatrical repertory company that toured India] and consumed it ravenously, with a stomach of iron. I still love it, eating from random vendors. I also loved the food that was sold in railway stations. It’s seasonal, so when it’s hot, there is cucumber with salt. Then water chestnuts in the monsoon, black in their shell. And bhel puri, crunchy bits and pieces with chutney, sold on the beaches. All my early memories of food are Indian.
I went to school in India, in different places, and several convents. Lunch was a light, thin dal with beautiful rice, followed by fruit. It was unbelievably good. I had an Indian ayah [nanny] who stayed with me until I was far too old, and she, along with the other ayahs, would bring a tiffin carrier for lunch and set out its contents on the school veranda. There would be different little dishes, laid out on a cloth.
On the one hand, we’d eat simple food, like proper homemade biryanis. On the other, we’d go to extraordinarily posh places, performing for royalty. There would be lavish banquets, where the biryanis and rice were covered in actual gold dust. Like Roman and Egyptian banquets rolled into one.
My first taste of English food was a bad version in Indian hotels. Much later on, my sister, who lived in Bombay [now Mumbai], had a wonderful cook who was trained by a German. So excellent Germanic food, but rather strange in the tropical heat.
Indian street food and spicy dishes are still favourites for Felicity
When I was 12, we went to Singapore and Hong Kong, and again the food was extraordinary. Especially the street food in Singapore, the vendors with their steaming bowls of heaven: chicken broth, noodles, greens, all cooked in seconds, boom, boom, boom.
Coming to England when I was 17 was strange. The food was incredibly bland, and I was horrified by the lack of spice and flavour and salt. Having not been brought up in one place, I didn’t have my mother’s cooking. She was an exceedingly bad cook and burned things. I’m sure she did it on purpose because she didn’t want to do any cooking.
I was saved by my aunt’s cooking. She was a traditional cook, but an excellent one. She made amazing roasts and apple pies. I got dangerously fat in six months because it was all so good.
The BBC had a canteen, which was like an upmarket school canteen, all ladles and potatoes, and meat and three veg. It was invariably not very good. On tour as a penniless actress, the food was dire. I lived on over-sweetened yogurt and unripe bananas.
I love chilli. I brought up my family disgracefully, because most of them chop chillies on to everything.
Her aunt’s apple pie was one of the few British dishes she enjoyed
I’m not a fan of fatty things and I like to understand what I’m eating, that it’s recognisable from how it started. My idea of hell would be those terrible trifles with tinned pineapple, the kind served when I arrived in England. If I had to eat that, I’d be very unhappy.
My comfort food, if I’m by myself, is a quick vegetable curry with yogurt and chutneys. I’m not a sweet person, so anything that’s cheesy or nutty or potatoey – preferably cheesy and potatoey – is my idea of heaven.
I always have wine in my fridge, along with tonic water, yogurt, salads and cheeses. But I’m more of a larder person. The best olive oil I can find, as well as proper pepper, sea salt and chilli flakes.
I think a last meal is a waste, and you should be allowed at least 48 hours to enjoy it. But mine would be a curry, made by the son of our wonderful cook in the family home in Bombay. He does amazing dal, biryani and a bittersweet khatta curry made with bamboo shoots. That would be my last happy meal.
Felicity will star in the play Filumena from 4 October. For tickets, go to kenwright.com
getty images, StockFood/Nitin Kapoor
