Now, those that know me well, know the ‘bit of a foodie’ thing is quite the understatement – I live and breathe the stuff! There isn’t much to learn about food that I don’t know already. Here is the fifth in a series of restaurant reviews, written by me. Tuck in!
“..the next stop is Osborn Street. Alight here for Brick Lane…” announced the recorded, female voice. I jumped up and rang the bell.
“Thank-you, driver!” I called out as I stepped off the bus, giving a stoic salute that I hoped he’d see in his mirror. “Cheers!”
Brick Lane, with a name that suggests a history in masonry, is now, in the present, a rich tapestry of a place that has a cast-iron future in spice. Delicious, spicy curry to be more specific – the perfect location for my next review.
It’s a thrilling, vibrant street that’s stuffed to the absolute gunnels with curry houses. I counted twenty-seven on my last visit, and there are new ones arising on a seemingly weekly basis. They are all locked in friendly competition with each other and, because of this rivalry, the standards are kept sky-high. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything less than delicious in any of them.
Quite understandably, people pilgrimage here from the furthest reaches of the country to feast. I see the place as being a bit of a Mecca in that regard – a comparison made all the more apt with the shadow of the East London Mosque’s minaret looming over the lower part of the street. A curry lover’s Mecca.
I always get to Brick Lane about an hour before I intend to dine. I factor-in this time to traverse the street two or three lengths, ‘casing the joint’ as I call it, sussing out the best deals of the day and speaking to the dedicated staff who stand at the doors of their respective establishments – all of them loudly extolling their restaurants’ unique virtues and negotiating prices with us prospective customers.
“I’ll give you two poppadoms and the first beer is on the house.” one of the proprietors might perhaps yell, for example.
“You’ll have to do better than that! Three poppadoms!”
I’m aware that this practice is frowned upon by some, but I find Brick Lane’s bartering process most exhilarating. It feels authentic – exotic even. I imagine it’s what it would be like at a bazaar in Marrakech (somewhere I’d love to go in real-life). Or like being in Mecca. As a rule, I never prebook when visiting Brick Lane: I like to keep my options open – I enjoy the spontaneity.
It had turned out to be a bitter, icy January night I’d chosen to do my review, and after twenty-five minutes pacing the lane, the cold was getting to me. I gave in and hungrily decided on an offer from a place called Curry World. They’d earlier presented me with a deal that included two free bottles of cobra and twenty percent off the total of the bill. It was their neon sign that had first caught my eye – a pink, green and blue affair, flashing cheerfully and standing out from some of the other more modest frontages.
Curry World: it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? It conjures up an image of Phileus Fogg, shears in hand, snipping-loose ballast bags on his air-balloon and waving goodbye to the people of India below as he rises upwards and onwards – his world equipped with a brace of new flavour experiences.
“Guys, I’m back! I’ll accept your offer.” I announced to the men outside Curry World, heralding my own return and feeling a bit like Phileus Fogg myself.
“Good choice, you won’t be disappointed. Come in!” one of them said, greeting me kindly, almost like a brother, and putting his arm on my shoulder as he ushered me quickly to a table. I basked in the warmth of their welcome.
“I’ll have my two free Cobras now to start with, please.”
He went to fetch my beers whilst I picked up the menu.
Last year sometime, I’d visited Brick Lane with an old school friend. Because he doesn’t eat curry, he’d requested a fillet steak. I bet you can imagine how much I, a well-travelled reviewer, cringed when they brought that thing out on a plate with chips. It looked delicious but that is not the point. When in Rome!
Very quickly the waiter returned with my drinks. “Can I take your order now please, sir? We are very busy tonight and this table is needed for another booking soon.”
“Of course! Not a problem. I think I know what I want… For starter can I please have some Bombay mix?”
“One Bombay aloo…” he said, writing quickly on a scrap of paper.
“No, I mean Bombay mix.”
“We don’t serve that here…”
I was taken aback. (What kind of Indian restaurant doesn’t serve Bombay mix?!)
“Ok, I’ll just go straight for main.” I said, trying to stay professional – not showing my disappointment. I ordered my favourite: tandoori chicken on the bone, mushroom rice, and a naan. I also ordered, as a side-dish, something called the sharing platter and a bottle of Merlot to drink.
Off he dashed to fulfil my order. I took a look around the room. The small, dimly-lit restaurant with its dark green wallpaper and a thick burgundy carpet was getting cosier by the minute – a queue huddle was forming just inside the door. On the wall to the left of me I could see a few framed newspaper cuttings. One of them – a Sun article from nineteen ninety-five – was about the group Blur making a visit to Curry World. I was in good company! Also contributing to my night’s glorious ambience was the sound of lovely Indian music – a recording of the sitar, reminiscent of Ravi Shankar.
On the table almost touching mine sat a reasonably young American couple. Two females. Tourists I’d guessed. They looked cool, like artists – fellow sophisticates. I think they might have been atheists because I heard one of them say god was dead and that she’d hated Catholic school.
My wine arrived straight away. Merlot [pronounced merlaux] is a French type of red. It’s very popular and goes brilliantly with spicy food.
“Perfect!” I said, as he poured me a glass-full. I took a big gulp.
“That’s better.” I said to the American couple next to me, as I put my glass down.
“What?” one of them said: both of them looking over.
“Did you know, all of Britain’s swans belong to the Queen? Killing one of them is, along with treason, still technically punishable by death in this country. A swan is also capable of breaking a man’s arm with its wing. The last person to be executed in Britain was Peter Anthony Allen in nineteen sixty-four. That was for murder though, except they say now he was wrongfully accused.”
“Oh really?” the red-haired one said. “And why are you telling us this?”
“You’re both tourists, right?”
“No, we’ve lived in East London for six years.” the other, brown-haired lady said.
“Oh right, I thought you were tourists. Maybe it was the camera.”
“She’s a photographer.” she said, pointing to the redhead girl.
“Ah, my mistake. Do you like the group Blur? They eat here!”
“Do they?”
“They love it! What are you thoughts on Brit-pop..?”
It was at this moment my food arrived and the couple carried on talking amongst themselves.
“Thank-you, waiter. I’ve been looking forward to this!”
“We are very busy this evening, sir. Please let me know when you have finished up.” he said, gesturing to queue of tourists at the door – it was getting even bigger.
“Of course, my good man.”
Now for the main event: the purpose of my review! The tandoori chicken sat before me, still smoking from its rigorous stint in the tandoor (a special clay oven, similar to a Moroccan tagine as far as I recall.). It was dyed a vivid red, likely from a whole manner of mysterious spices and looked most inviting. I instinctively picked up the bone and bit in. The verdict: very lovely!
I took a forkful of my mushroom rice next. I savoured it in my mouth, swilling it around almost as a sommelier might when discovering a new wine – a plain taste but, nonetheless, very delicious. Because of the dim lighting, it wasn’t until after my first forkful that I realised they had served me pilau rice in error. Pilau is my second choice, after mushroom and ahead of plain boiled, so I was happy to forgive them for the mix-up. Top marks so far…
Next I tore at the naan (an Indian flatbread – think thick, soft pitta), folding it over and filling it with some of the rice – it was also very delicious and authentic tasting. Finally, onto the piece de resistance as they say in France. Last but obviously not least – the sharing platter: six onion bhajis, six samosas, six vegetable pakoras and six more pieces of the red tandoori chicken – wings this time. So much lovely food!
“Excuse me, ladies. I have this enormous sharing platter here that I’ll be in no way able to finish by myself. Care to join me?” I said, to the American couple. “There’s enough for us all to have two bits of each thing.”
They declined my offer and called for the waiter to bring their bill. More for me! As they paid and left I poured another glass of the wine and got started on the delicious platter alone.
About five minutes of culinary heaven passed before the waiter returned.
“Is this finished now, sir?” he said, putting my bill on the table and picking up the sharing platter.
“Yes, sorry. I can see you’re busy.” I said, putting my fork down, “Thank-you. This is honestly one of the best curries I’ve ever had, and I’m a restaurant critic.”
The bill came to a reasonably reasonable sixty-five pound. I paid up and, as what might come as bit of a surprise to you regular readers, even left a five pound tip in way of a thank-you for the beer and twenty percent discount.
And with that I found myself back out on the freezing cold street. Another lovely curry, done and dusted!
Billy Brown 