I once met a photographer who’d had the job of taking glamour shots of Joan Collins,when she was in her forties. Being a solid professional he’d got the job done but it had been hard work. ‘Blimey,’ he said, ‘it was like photographing naan.’ (He meant the bread rather than his grandmother)
Even at the time this seemed thoroughly and needlessly insulting (and I wasn't even sure it was really true) and it hasn’t got any less so over the years, but as a result I can rarely, if ever, think of naan without thinking of Joan Collins. For the record, I’m still rather fond of Joan Collins. She even had a cocktail named after her.
If Wikipedia and the OED are to be believed, until 1979, which was about the time my man was taking his pictures, the usual spelling was nan rather than naan. Who knew? A good pub quiz question there.
I’ve been thinking a lot about naan since the weekend when I walked past this wonderful establishment in Finsbury Park; Baban’s Naan. I take it that the name Electrofix on the awning comes from a previous occupier of the shop, but what a great name for your next retro-electronica band!
Naan is what they make and naan is what they sell. This is part of their menu:
I was amazed at just how cheap everything was, and I was tempted to buy a few things, but I’d just had lunch and wasn’t hungry. Call me a fool.
But next day, at home, the urge hadn’t gone away, so I had to make my own version, using supermarket naan, which cost as much on its own as the finished articles cost at Baban’s, and then I put some curried mince on top.
It wasn’t bad, and it was made with a certain amount of care and love, but I admit it lacked authenticity.
You won’t be surprised to learn that I haven’t been able to find a picture of Joan Collins eating naan, but here she is with a banana.
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