New Year’s Eve has always struck me as the most treacherous of nights. Not because of the drink, or the fireworks, or the pressure of staying awake past midnight (although that alone should qualify as an endurance sport). Like Valentine’s Day and your birthday, what makes New Year’s Eve perilous is the collective insistence that this night has to deliver: the best meal, the best party, the best version of ourselves. High expectations that will inevitably lead to disappointment, and haven’t we had our fair share of that already?

There was one year in the restaurant when we convinced ourselves that the only way to rise to the occasion was a set menu of showstoppers. We thought we had predicted everything, and we assumed (boldly, wrongly) that everyone would choose the chocolate dessert. It made sense: who wouldn’t want chocolate on the most celebratory night of the year? So the tarte tatin went on the menu as a polite alternative, a back-up singer, not the star. Except, of course, everyone wanted the tarte tatin.

What followed was a caramel-slicked nightmare. We were making individual tarte tatins to order; the kitchen turned into a quagmire of apple peel and sugar, with bubbling pans of molten sugar, apples wedges threatening to leap out, and warm, buttery pastry sliding around like a mischievous toddler on an ice rink. Caramel burns, panicking chefs, hot trays hitting the pass with a slap. Happy customers, though.

Another year, we convinced ourselves to go “high concept” with a surprise menu: mysterious, ambitious, theatrical. We loved the idea so much that we forgot to do the sensible thing: plan, prep and test it properly. The kitchen degenerated so quickly that it felt as if we were trapped inside a live-action cautionary tale, except this time the customers were not happy at all. I was working the floor that night, and even though I knew what things were like in the kitchen, I’d have given anything to have a door between me and the angry mob in the dining room. That was more than a decade ago, but the experience is still too raw and the details too embarrassing to share, even in therapy. Let’s just say that one table was so upset that I offered to order them a pizza. Or sushi. Or whatever they wanted. Anything to make them happy, and anything that did not involve us.

After that, we swore (loudly, dramatically) that we were done with New Year’s Eve – and, for a while, we were. One of those quiet years coincided with the first NYE in our current flat. We managed to forget all about it and went to bed early, only to be woken by loud explosions and a glow flashing through the curtains. We sat up and realised we could see fireworks from our bed – proper London fireworks, the big ones, with the city lit up like a giant glitter bomb. It turned out that you can see the fireworks from almost every window in our flat. From the front you get Battersea, Clapham and Brockwell Park – multiple displays at slightly different rhythms, like a pyrotechnic conversation. From the back you get Waterloo and London Bridge, and those enormous coordinated shows that shake the sky. For those, though, you have to stand in the bathtub, which feels ridiculous until the first golden chrysanthemum explodes over the river and suddenly it feels like the most magical place in the world. It’s probably the reason we’ll never move.

Such a treasure must be shared, so now we do – when we can bear it. And because we always invite too many people, and because the flat is small and the bathtub not big enough to hold everyone, we stick to the only NYE strategy that actually works: something simple, abundant and forgiving. A buffet-style situation with one big, generous dish and plenty of bits to pile on top and around it.

Our favourite is a chicken-and-rice number with amba, an Iraqi condiment that should win some kind of global diplomacy award for making everything taste better. Made from fermented sour mangoes and spices, amba is tangy, funky and bright, a bit like a firework for your palate. If you know it, you know how good it is; if you don’t, treat yourself to something that will make the coming year that much more delicious. If you can’t find it or can’t be bothered to look, use piccalilli instead: same spices, different fermented biomass.

We lay out pickles, chilli sauce, a fresh chopped salad and a bowl of tahini sauce (our never-fail default). People scoop rice into their bowls, pile some chicken on top with zigzags of amba and tahini, plus pickles for crunch, freshness and heat. It’s perfect when you have more bodies than chairs and no chance of sitting down, and it’s the right pitch for our kind of NYE: festive without fuss, domestic comfort – but with fireworks.

Chicken with amba or piccalilli one-pot wonder

Serves 4, or 8 as part of a larger spread

For seasoning the chicken
1kg boneless chicken thighs (about 8 pieces), ideally with the skin on
1 tbsp ground cumin
1 tsp paprika
1 tsp turmeric
2 tbsp flaky sea salt
2 tbsp olive oil (if using skinless chicken)
3-4 shallots, peeled and thinly sliced (250g)
3 carrots, peeled and thinly sliced (250g)
2 fennel bulbs, trimmed, halved and thinly sliced (250g)
4 garlic cloves, peeled and lightly crushed

For the amba rice
1 tbsp olive oil
2 shallots, peeled and finely diced (120g)
3 carrots, peeled and grated on a corse grater (250g)
500g jasmine rice
400ml boiling water
100g amba or 100g chunky piccalilli

To serve
Chopped flat-leaf parsley
Lemon wedges

Mix the chicken pieces with the spices and salt to coat, then place skin-side down in a large ovenproof saute pan with a lid. If you are using skinless chicken, add two tablespoons of olive oil to the pan before adding the chicken. Place on a medium-low heat and fry for eight to 10 minutes, until the skin is golden all over; remove the chicken with a pair of tongs to a bowl.

Add all the sliced vegetables and crushed garlic to the pan, mix well and saute over a low heat for six minutes. Empty into the bowl with the chicken.

Heat the oven to 200C (180C fan)/390F/gas 6. Return the pan to the heat, add the tablespoon of olive oil and the diced shallot and grated carrots. Mix well and cook over a medium-high heat for about five minutes, until the carrots start to collapse. Add the rice and mix well to coat, then return the content of the chicken bowl to the pan, with all the juices – this is very important because this is the only salt and flavouring you are adding to the dish. Mix a little to bury the vegetables and chicken in among the rice kernels.

Mix the boiling water with the amba or piccalilli, and pour over the rice. Bring to a boil, then remove from the heat, cover first with a sheet of baking paper, then a lid (or silver foil), and transfer to the oven for 25 minutes.

Remove from the oven and leave to rest for 10 minutes, before uncovering and serving with plenty of freshly chopped parsley, plus a few lemon wedges.