Indian Butter Chicken

Election week. I'm not going to talk about politics, because politics in south Louisiana is a contact sport and I've already got enough contact sports in my life (see: Luc's football in the yard, Rémy's full-body approach to everything, Danielle's opinions about my cooking). What I will say is that on election night, regardless of how you voted, I made a pot of étouffée, because étouffée doesn't have a political party. Étouffée is bipartisan. Étouffée is the thing we can all agree on, and in a week where it felt like we couldn't agree on anything, étouffée held the line.

Shrimp étouffée this time, not crawfish — season's wrong for crawfish, but Gulf shrimp are available year-round and they take to the étouffée treatment beautifully. Blonde roux, butter (so much butter — a stick and a half for the roux alone), trinity, shrimp stock made from the shells. The shrimp go in at the end, just like always: barely cooked, pink and curled, swimming in that golden, buttery sauce that clings to the rice like it was born there. I ate two bowls. Danielle ate one. The kids split the rest. Nobody talked about the election. Everyone talked about the étouffée. That's the power of food, cher. It gives you something better to talk about.

Work continues on the Korean BBQ restaurant. We're in the final stretch — fixtures going in, final connections being made. Mr. Kim brought me lunch on Wednesday: Korean short ribs (galbi), rice, kimchi, and a soup I didn't catch the name of but which was spicy and warming and made me think about what Korean food and Cajun food have in common, which is: heat, fermentation, nose-to-tail cooking, and the unshakeable belief that your grandmother's version is the best and everyone else's is wrong. I told Mr. Kim this, and he laughed, and said, "My grandmother would agree with yours," and I said, "Then they'd either be best friends or worst enemies," and he said, "Probably both."

Took Luc to his first LSU game on Saturday. A real game. In Death Valley. If you've never been to Tiger Stadium on a Saturday night, I need you to understand: it is the loudest, most alive, most overwhelming sensory experience you can have while technically sitting in a chair. The noise. The lights. The crowd — 102,000 people, united in purple and gold, making a sound that registers on seismographs. Luc's face when we walked through the tunnel and saw the field was worth every dollar I spent on the tickets, which was more than I should have spent and less than the memory is worth.

LSU won. Luc and I high-fived so hard my hand stung for an hour. We drove home in the dark, eating gas station boudin (the only acceptable gas station food in Louisiana), and Luc said, "That was the best night of my life," and I said, "So far, cher. So far." Because it was. And because the best nights are always so far, and the next one is always coming, and that's the whole point.

The étouffée held the line that night, and if I’m being honest with you, what it really was — underneath the roux and the trinity and the Gulf shrimp — was just a rich, buttery sauce over rice doing what rich, buttery sauces over rice have always done: making people feel like things are going to be okay. Indian Butter Chicken does the exact same thing from a different hemisphere. Same logic: butter, aromatics, a protein that soaks up every bit of that glossy, clinging sauce, spooned over a bowl of white rice until the whole thing becomes greater than the sum of its parts. Mr. Kim brought me galbi on Wednesday and got me thinking about how cuisines that look nothing alike are really just solving the same human problem — and this recipe is proof of that.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 35 min | Total Time: 55 min | Servings: 4–6

Ingredients

2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut into 1 1/2-inch pieces
1 cup plain whole-milk yogurt
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2 teaspoons garam masala, divided
1 teaspoon ground turmeric
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper, plus more to taste
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided
1 tablespoon neutral oil (such as canola or grapeseed)
1 medium yellow onion, finely diced
5 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, grated
1 can (28 oz) crushed tomatoes
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon sugar
Cooked basmati rice, for serving
Fresh cilantro and warm naan, for serving (optional)

Instructions

Marinate the chicken. In a large bowl, combine the yogurt, lemon juice, 1 teaspoon garam masala, turmeric, cumin, salt, and cayenne. Add the chicken pieces and toss to coat thoroughly. Cover and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes, or up to 8 hours.
Sear the chicken. In a large, heavy-bottomed skillet or Dutch oven, melt 2 tablespoons of the butter with the oil over medium-high heat. Working in batches to avoid crowding, sear the marinated chicken pieces until golden brown on both sides, about 3–4 minutes per side. Transfer to a plate — the chicken does not need to be fully cooked through at this stage.
Build the sauce base. Reduce heat to medium and add the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter to the same pan. Add the diced onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened and translucent, about 6–8 minutes. Add the garlic and ginger and cook, stirring constantly, for another 1–2 minutes until fragrant.
Simmer the tomatoes. Pour in the crushed tomatoes along with the remaining 1 teaspoon garam masala and the sugar. Stir to combine, scraping up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook uncovered for 10–12 minutes, until the sauce has thickened slightly and deepened in color.
Finish with cream. Reduce heat to low and stir in the heavy cream. Return the seared chicken and any accumulated juices to the pan. Simmer gently for 8–10 minutes, until the chicken is cooked through and the sauce is rich and clinging. Taste and adjust salt and cayenne as needed.
Serve. Spoon generously over basmati rice. Garnish with fresh cilantro and serve alongside warm naan if you have it. Eat two bowls. You’ve earned it.

Nutrition (per serving)

Indian Butter Chicken — The Comfort Food That Holds the Line When Everything Else Falls Apart