It is a recurring complaint among my less satisfied correspondents that I do not adequately cover Indian restaurants in areas of concentrated Indian population in Britain. You tell me I should come to Bradford to write about “the balti scene”. You scream for my attendance in Leicester, where, I gather, there are more Indian restaurants than in the whole of Liechtenstein. “It is all very well going to Le Gavroche,” you cry, “but what about Hackney’s Curry Mile?”
And my answer to all of you is this: if you are an Indian or a Pakistani or a Bangladeshi living in Bradford or Leicester or Hackney then you already know that you are surrounded by good, cheap Asian restaurants, and you do not need a patronising whitey git like me coming down there to judge the “scene” on the basis of a single fleeting visit to a random restaurant. And if you are a patronising whitey git yourself then you are probably happy with the poisonous curry house at the end of your road.
I hate food writers who witter on about how different Indian food is from what we think it is, and make a huge thing out of eating with their fingers to show what folksy bloody flatulent world music fans they are. I don’t have any colonial guilt. I am a Hungaro-Pole. The Raj was not the fault of any Coren. The Polish empire I feel terrible about. India, no. So I am not going to turn vegetarian and pretend I like Bollywood movies just because you lot wanted a continent to shoot tigers in.
But then I happened to open an e-mail from Manpreet Bhullar which began: “I don't suppose you have ever thought about venturing towards Hounslow [correct, Manpreet] but if you fancy coming into our neck of the woods we can show you the delights of Southall - a little piece of England that is forever Punjab: you can sample jalebis on the Broadway, go to the zillion pound new gurdwara, etc.” How could I resist?
At 4pm I pulled into one of the long, straight rows of two-storey Twenties houses that spray off Southall Broadway and rang Manpreet’s doorbell. I was shown briefly into a front room with lots of gurus on the wall and a shy grandmother who retreated wordlessly to the kitchen.
As we left the house, cowering under brollies, Manpreet whispered: “Look at the twitching curtains - it’s because I’m leaving the house with a man who is not only not my husband but is not a Sikh. Although your beard helps. It’s like living in a soap opera round here.”
Our first stop was the newly built Sri Guru Singh Sabha Gurdwara on Havelock Road, the largest Sikh temple in Europe. Entering the vast gurdwara, we took off our shoes and covered our heads and then traversed a hall as big as a country on a narrow strip of red carpet to bow before the Sri Guru Granth Sahib, a holy text. Except my bow was rubbish. I did not put my hands together. I just sort of nodded like it was a bloke I vaguely recognised across a crowded pub. My bow was so poor it made Manpreet laugh. But not the fancily dressed guy sitting with the book. He eyeballed me and tightened his grip on his ceremonial sword. At least, I hoped it was ceremonial.
Outside the hall an old man with a long beard was sitting in front of a football-sized chunk of orange dough and kneading a smaller lump of it in his hands. “Now you can have kara prashad,” said Manpreet. The old man raised his hand and from it
I took the orange lump. It was exactly 98.4 degrees Fahrenheit. It tasted of flour and sugar and old Punjabi hand. Chestnutty, if you want to know. Not unpleasant. But requiring for its proper description adjectives as yet uncoined.
Thence to the kitchen (“langar”) where we approached a canteen down long strips of carpet again (me still shoeless and mock-turbaned) to have our compartmented trays filled with a dhal, a vegetable curry, two rotis, yoghurt with long pieces of something purple in, and sweetened yellow rice tasting of cloves. We squatted on the floor and scoffed and then washed it down with sweet milky tea. It was pretty good, and it was free. It is a sacrament of Sikhism (laid down by the third Guru of the Sikhs, Sri Guru Amar Das Ji) that in every gurdwara a langar should be open and providing food for anyone at any time. You hear that? Anyone, at any time. And you Christians think you’re civilised because 15p from your text-message votes to I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here! gets passed on to some unspecified charity.
As we ate, Manpreet told me that she had been married to Aran for two years - the marriage was arranged by their parents and they are very happy. Marriage meant that she had to move to Southall from her beloved Hounslow, but they are doing up a place in Norwood Green and hope to move in soon. Aran, who picked us up later, drives a brown Vauxhall Astra and reckons he is two cars away from a Mercedes.
We went to get jalebis from Jalebi Junction which Aran had to order because Manpreet is shy about speaking Punjabi with her strong English accent. A jalebi, by the way, is molten sugar charmed by a fakir into the shape of a Curly Wurly and served in a paper bag. Again, extant coinage is inadequate.
From there we strolled through prefabricated mazes of sari shops run by Afghan Sikhs who fled the Taliban and freak Aran and Manpreet out because they speak Pashtun and not Punjabi. Then we looked at gold shops. The gold is very yellow and there is lots of it. “Basically, you buy loads of it for the wedding, your wife wears it once and then it goes in a safe-deposit box until you die,” Aran explains. Manpreet objects that they visited their gold as recently as last year. Aran says he’d rather have a Porsche Boxster.
We went to Memories of India in Osterley: newish refurb, antique carved wood from India, lots of linen and etched glass. Nice. Among the diners were a
couple of turbaned boys with jewellery and trendy beards who gave each other a ragamuffin hand punch and were described by Aran as “not the ideal Sikhs to introduce to your sister”. He does not know my sister.
We ate good papri chaat and excellent little black hara kebabs made of spinach and green bananas and split peas and a good big tandoori pomfret, but Manpreet was unimpressed by the lifeless paneer pakora and found the chicken drab, too.
Then Aran and I went to Glassy Junction, formerly the Railway Tavern, now a Punjabi pub named after a slang word for “a glass of something - usually whisky”. Inside, it’s 1964 with Sikhs. You expect to see the Likely Lads grumbling in a corner in grubby turbans. Alas, we had to leave Manpreet at the gurdwara as women do not go into the Glassy. So we had a swift half of Lal Toofan, picked her up again, and headed to Madhu’s for the best meal of the night.
Madhu’s provided the catering for Manpreet and Aran’s wedding at the Radisson Edwardian at Heathrow to which 380 guests were invited, some of whom M&A even knew. It is a lovely split-level restaurant with glamorous, immaculate service and brilliant food. I cannot adequately praise the Masai-style spare ribs (nyamah choma) or the deep-fried tiny vegetables with garlic and ginger (pilli pilli boga) or mahkni (butter) chicken or the exquisite keema-stuffed green peppers. I may know nothing about Indian cooking, but this is the very best example of it that I have eaten anywhere (and costs only what high-street curries cost everywhere). And if it is good enough for Manpreet and Aran then, by whichever god you pray to, it is good enough for you.
Sri Guru Singh Sabha Gurdwara
Havelock Road, Southall,
Middlesex
Jalebi Junction
93 The Broadway,
Southall, Middlesex (020-8571 6782)
Memories of India
160-162 Thornbury Road,
Osterley, Middlesex (020-8847 1548)
Madhu’s
39 South Road, Southall,
Middlesex (020-8574 1897)
E-mail feedme@thetimes.co.uk if you want me to take you to a decent restaurant where we won’t have to pay.
