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IN THE ERA of colonialism, where life in foreign lands was fraught with uncertainty, one's well-being rested heavily on the choices made at the dining table. Through colonial writings, medical journals, and pamphlets of the time, a fascinating array of sick food options emerged, captivating the palates of both the British colonisers and the indigenous inhabitants. As a result, solutions needed to be excavated from items of daily intake. Food and drink became the medical medium, with doctors trying to prescribe easily available items that had naturally occurring health benefits. These culinary offerings ranged from comforting gruels made with rice or barley, to rice delicacies infused with nourishing chicken broth or sweetened milk, and even boldly spiced quail stuffed with chillies.
Amidst these challenges, the colonisers sought solace in the realm of sustenance and libations. The correlation between nourishment and safeguarding health remained a paramount concern for Anglo-Indian doctors, dieticians, and British authorities throughout the colonial era. An abundance of information and resources illuminating the interplay between food, drink, and well-being were readily available during the 19th century, as meticulously chronicled by Sam Goodman in his captivating work, Unpalatable Truths: Food and Drink as Medicine in Colonial British India.
In the 19th century, British colonisers faced a multitude of challenges in India, but malaria was a ubiquitous health concern. The relentless fever struck down countless civilians and soldiers each year, becoming a formidable enemy. However, salvation came in the form of a bitter remedy — quinine. Derived from the bark of the cinchona tree, this powerful substance had long been employed by indigenous communities in South America to combat fevers. In their quest to conquer malaria, the British wholeheartedly embraced quinine, ingesting copious amounts of it by the mid-1800s. Yet, there was one clincher — the unpalatable flavour.
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Desperate to mask the bitterness, resourceful soldiers and officials stumbled upon an accidental elixir: they mixed the quinine powder with soda and sugar, unknowingly birthing the "tonic water." Not only did this concoction prove to be an excellent anodyne against malaria, but it also became a popular companion to gin. The delightful combination had captivated the masses to such an extent that Winston Churchill (the then-Prime Minister of Britain) famously declared, "The gin and tonic has saved more Englishmen's lives, and minds, than all the doctors in the Empire."
Nonetheless, the perils faced by the British in India extended far beyond malaria. Death and disease lurked around every corner. Even if one was fortunate enough to evade malaria's clutches, other diseases like enteric fever, hepatitis, plague, cholera, dysentery, and the relentless scorching sun would completely break them. Protecting their bodies and preserving their well-being became an ongoing battle, intricately woven into the fabric of the colonial program. As EM Collingham, an astute historian, summarised in her comprehensive study, "The British experience of India was profoundly physical."
For example, health experts of the time, like those from The Medical Gazette, advocated for specific diets to combat ailments such as dysentery. Their remedies included a "low diet" comprising delicate chicken soup, soothing barley water, and protein-rich egg albumen. Recognising the benefits of varied grains, it was suggested that rice eaters could opt for tapioca, arrowroot, sago, plantain flour, and milk. Esteemed botanist-physician George Watt further extolled the virtues of sago in his renowned work, A Dictionary of the Economic Products of India (1893), emphasising its digestibility and lack of irritants. Sago was highly sought-after for its effectiveness in treating febrile disorders, bowel complaints, and aiding recovery from acute illnesses. On the other hand, during cholera outbreaks, The Seamen's New Medical Guide (1842) prescribed brandy during the height of sickness, followed by half a tumbler of mulled wine with toasted bread and castor oil once symptoms subsided, offering relief and recovery.
For European imperialists residing in the scorching Indian climate, maintaining gastric well-being necessitated a reduction in meat consumption. Beef tea, a nourishing beverage made from the stewed extract of beef, emerged as a recommended remedy for fever, weakness, and various ailments.
To combat the perils of long sea voyages, shipmasters and pantrymen stocked vessels with foods known for their medicinal benefits. Ingredients like condensed milk (such as the iconic Anglo-Swiss Condensed Milk tins, later known as Milkmaid), arrowroot, lime juice, sago, and desiccated milk held permanent spots aboard British ships.
Recognising the precariousness of life abroad, astute businessmen seized the opportunity to meet the demand for reliable provisions. By the 19th century, numerous European companies emerged, selling foods in hermetically sealed tin containers. One such company, Messrs Brand & Co., garnered high praise in Culinary Jottings for Madras by Colonel Robert Kenney-Herbert. Their offerings catered specifically to the needs of what they termed as the "invalids," featuring products like “essence of beef”, "invalid soups”, beef tea jelly, concentrated beef tea, potted meat, York and game pie. Another company, John Moir & Sons, specialised in canned soups for the infirm, offering varieties such as turtle, hare, oxtail, and giblet.
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By the late 19th century, canned foods had gained such popularity that colonial households considered them essential pantry staples alongside medical provisions like opium, quinine, chlorodyne, and Fowler's solution (an arsenic compound). To assist British homemakers in fulfilling this vital duty, a wealth of cookbooks and housekeeping manuals emerged, often penned by women who had experienced life in India firsthand. These resources featured dedicated sections with recipes for the sick. The Englishwoman in India (1864), written under the pseudonym A Lady Resident, presented a comprehensive collection of recipes for "infants and invalids." Offerings included carrot pap cooked into a congee with arrowroot, fortifying barley broth with mutton, nutmeg-scented chicken panada, and toast water (bread soaked in water). Authors Flora Steele and Grace Gardiner, in The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook, recommended champagne jelly for excessive vomiting and the intriguingly named “Cannibal Broth” (beef essence), to be consumed with cream or burnt sugar water to address extreme debility and typhoid.
While the preparation of these recipes likely fell into the hands of Indian servants, the culinary exchange between the colonisers and the colonised resulted in the creation of unique dishes like the pish pash. The pish pash exemplifies the symbiotic fusion of colonial and indigenous cuisine. Adapted from the colonial cousin of khichdi, the kedgeree, the pish pash emerged as a light and nurturing nursery food. Described by the famous Hobson-Jobson as a "slop of rice soup with small pieces of meat," this dish found favour not only among children but also as a popular choice for the sick. Even Warren Hastings, the first governor-general of Bengal, attested to its efficacy when he wrote to his wife from his sickbed in 1784, expressing his willingness to sustain himself on pish pash, bread, and water in his pursuit of good health.
