So, Europe’s famous Michelin Guide critics have now arrived in Asia.

But you know, the key event in the globalization of food occurred a long time ago—in 1966, in fact. I know. I was there.

Yes, your humble narrator was present at the precise moment Asian food arrived in the West.

Now I’m not talking about the first individual spring roll or poppadum which travelled out of the East in some journeyman’s pocket. That momentous event goes tragically unrecorded.

No, I am referring to the moment when the world’s most popular food, curry, first nosed its way into MAINSTREAM Western society.

The time: Early summer, 1966. The place: North London. A few miles down the street, the Beatles were recording Sgt Pepper on a four-track tape machine. I had been assigned to attend a local school, wearing shorts and a green cap.

That summer, London officials decided that the primitive, scattered tribes of Britain had developed enough to cope with curry—a strange and exotic dish from Asia—on the School Dinners List.

That morning, teacher had an announcement to make. "You will be having a new item for lunch today—curry. I hope you will all be very adventurous." (I noticed she had brought a packed lunch that day.)

The children turned to stare at me. "Curry," a girl called Abigail said. "That’s YOUR type of food. Disgusting."

"Have you tried it?" I asked.

"Eww, of course not!" she said, outraged at the suggestion.

"Then how do you know it’s disgusting?"

"Because EVERYONE knows it’s disgusting," she said. The rest of the class nodded fiercely at this indisputable logic.

I was gripped by foreboding. "You may not like it," I conceded. "It’s not like English food. It has a taste."

"It’s a hider," concluded Abigail.

School lunch items were divided into hiders and others. The non-hiders list was very short, and for many children consisted of only one item: fried potatoes.

Everything else was a hider. There were no meal choices and we were forbidden to leave anything on our plates, so we had no choice but to hide unwanted food items in our clothing, desks or satchels.

By experimentation, my classmates had discovered that the relatively thick material of our green felt jackets was a more watertight container than our thin trouser pockets.

Being a typically obedient Asian child, I ate pretty much anything I was ordered to eat. I would have eaten bones, bugs, gristle or stones, and indeed, frequently did.

Anyway, when lunchtime of that historic day finally arrived, most of the class members were busy lining their jacket pockets with scrap paper.

And then the curry was wheeled in. I stared at it.

It was a sort of thick yellow-green sauce. It smelled of sugar. The main ingredients were sultanas and gristle.

"What’s that?" I asked.

"Curry," the dinner lady said.

"No, it’s not," I said.

"Yes it is," she said, pointing to the label on the serving tray. "That’s wot it says ‘ere."

I ate it. There was no chili in it, but I told the other children that they would not be able to eat it, as it was much too spicy for them.

Stung into action by this comment, several of the boys tried it.

And the takeover of Western tastebuds by Asian foods began.

*