A bell rings loudly and persistently and, suddenly, almost half the diners in the packed restaurant advance at high speed towards the exit. The place looks like the Mary Celeste, food left half-eaten, wine still chilled in the glass. Few people even bother to look up at the abrupt and noisy exodus of smartly suited men and women speaking animatedly to each other or into their mobile telephones. My guests wondered if it was something they had said that had prompted the stampede for the door. Or was it more likely that those departing had simply spotted the prices on the menu and fled in terror or to secure a short-term bank loan?
Welcome to The Cinnamon Club in Westminster, a curry house to me and you, where dinner for two will cost around £120. The prices ensure that The Cinnamon Club is not the sort of curry house frequented by groups of lads, beer bellies to the fore, who want a vindaloo and five more pints of lager after closing time at their local pub.
Instead, it is one of the most popular restaurants within walking distance of the Houses of Parliament. The ringing noise was the sound of a division bell operated from the House of Commons, summoning MPs back from the restaurant to vote. The bell gives them a 15-minute warning, which is just about sufficient time for them to discover exactly what they are voting for, and which division lobby to enter.
Since The Cinnamon Club opened in 2001, a steady procession of politicians, lobbyists, deal-makers and celebrities have made it one of the most fashionable of Westminster’s eateries. It was founded by Iqbal Wahhab, the food writer and founding editor of Tandoori magazine. For years, the Bangladesh-born Wahhab had been railing in his magazine about the tyranny of curry house food, with its assorted orange and red-coloured dishes which all appeared to have the same flavour: hot. He was even less polite about the decor. But, as no one was listening, he decided to open his own.
Wahhab has transformed the Victorian Gothic-style former Westminster library into an elegant Indian dining establishment, which seats 220. It has high ceilings, wooden floors and wood panelling. In the upstairs gallery, he has attempted, with limited success, to replicate the atmosphere of the library, with row after row of old books. Closer inspection of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase in the smart bar, however, reveals what looks suspiciously like the contents of a car-boot sale; there are far too many Bibles for any real book lover.
Red flock wallpaper, as much a staple of traditional curry houses as a chicken korma and a pint of lager, is nowhere to be seen. Reservations are essential even if you are Sir Mick Jagger, who wandered in, claimed that he had a booking, but was still politely shown the door.
The Palace of Westminster has much to commend it, not least the Sir Charles Barry and Pugin-influenced architecture, but the heavily subsidised dining rooms are unlikely to feature in any good restaurant guide. Decent eateries within the division-bell radius are rare, hence the success of The Cinnamon Club.
Once it was Shepherd’s in Marsham Street, by the Home Office, that ruled the roost. It was always the favourite haunt of Jeffrey Archer when he played a role at the House of Lords – that is, before he was dispatched to spend time in another, less inviting institution. The restaurant, part of the Langan’s chain, joint-owned by Sir Michael Caine, specialises in the sort of comfort food that Tory boys, and, these days, New Labour ones, remember with affection from boarding school. But it is now being increasingly overshadowed by The Cinnamon Club, a few minutes nearer the Houses of Parliament, which can make all the difference when the division bell rings.
Wahhab, who launched Tandoori magazine in 1994, clearly learnt nothing from the diplomats from the nearby Foreign Office, whom he numbers among his regular customers. “Walk into an Indian restaurant,” he wrote, “no matter how posh, and more likely than not you will be greeted by a miserable git... Nothing typifies the Indian restaurant experience as much as the surly, miserable waiter.”
Well, they were not exactly miserable at The Cinnamon Club, just a little hard of hearing, utterly confusing the first of my guests, who was politely informed that she was 45 minutes late, when, in fact, she had arrived 30 minutes early, as agreed, to meet in the bar for pre-dinner drinks... which took an age to arrive. We’re still waiting for our peanuts.
The restaurant, a favourite of Charles Clarke, the Home Secretary, and Gus O’Donnell, the new Cabinet Secretary and Britain’s most powerful civil servant, was packed. All curry clichés are banned from the menu, so don’t even bother if you want chicken tikka masala, beloved by the late Robin Cook, onion bhaji or poppadoms. There is tandoori on the menu, but it is pigeon with black lentil sauce, or swordfish with Rajastan sauce.
There was a tasty house amuse-bouche of white lentil potato fritter. We then chose a selection of plantain and beetroot chaat in tamarind and yoghurt, Pahadi kebab (chicken kebab) – which was obviously a Saharan variety it was so dry – the curiously named Barnsley lamb chop, and the aforementioned tandoori swordfish. The beetroot dish was a revelation. The average starter price was £7 to £8.
Our monosyllabic waiter briefly sprung into life when it came to choosing from the wine list. A modest bottle is going to be at least £30 to £40. We chose a red Barossa from the St Hallett family, an extravagance at £60, and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
Our main courses included unmemorable noisettes of chicken breast cooked in pomegranate and spices, and freshwater king prawns simmered in saffron and almond sauce. It was as well that they were king prawns. They were not exactly majestic in size. More Prince Edward prawns than King Charles. There were only three, and the sauce was bland, unlike the £23 asking price. The Alaskan cod in dry lime and green mango salsa was a triumph. The food was also beautifully presented, to the extent that we joked whether we should eat it, photograph it, or frame it.
Including the drinks beforehand, the bill for four was a little over £340 without coffee and one shared dessert of impossibly sweet strawberries and cream. We asked our Eastern European waitress – the waiter had long since departed to ply more tables with expensive wine – which part of India the strawberries hailed from. “The south,” she sweetly replied.
But a cautionary note. The food is rich. Very rich. So a romantic dinner à deux may not be advisable, which probably explained why there was a concentration of middle-aged men in business suits talking earnestly about the Government’s difficulties over the proposed restrictions on smoking – of which none were discernible in the restaurant – and the Tory leadership
contest. There were few couples.
The bell rang again. The suits, including two earnestly discussing the merits of Dave versus David in the Tory leadership contest, took to the street. An army of silent waiters moved in to clear away the food that would be brought back when the MPs returned. The division bell in restaurants is now a status symbol rather than a necessity, as these days no MP is allowed to go anywhere without their pager. But it remains a talking point and a useful distraction, not least from the bill.
Cost: As above
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Giles Coren is away
