Ruined by years of substandard curries, Duncan Forgan goes in search of the meal that will restore his faith
My mate Martin is notoriously effusive when it come to offering a critique on Indian cuisine. Curries have to be of the ultra-rank, inedible slurry variety for him to offer the mildest of rebukes and even the most bog-standard offerings will see him grasping for superlatives.
Post curry, when other diners are slumped back into the upholstery, bloated and nonplussed by yet another average meal, Martin can normally be relied upon to belch contentedly and proclaim: “That was the best damn Indian I’ve ever tasted.”
Although I admire his commendably blinkered worship of sub-Himalayan manna, my own attitude towards Indian restaurants tends to be slightly more circumspect.
I was once a zealot on a similar scale. For years I eagerly wolfed down all manner of spicy gloop, knowing that every once in a while I would hit on the perfect alchemy of fragrant pastes, exotic herbs and tender succulent meat. However, years of exposure to far too many pre-cooked travesties has seen my ardour dissipate into mournful longing rather than gleeful anticipation.
So for me, going for a curry is similar to the crushed anticipation every time Elvis Costellow releases a new record these days – you know there is a possibility of untouchable genius but it turns out to be mere retreads of a familiar theme. More of the same old same old basically.
Therefore, I approached Britannia Spice with more than a hint of trepidation.
The portents were good. A previous recce at the menu had revealed a breathtaking array of imaginative dishes, not just from India but also Nepal, Bangladesh, and Thailand.
Also, my discerning associates in Leith had assured me that previous visits had convinced them this portal to curry heaven was not illusory.
However, as my partner and I were guided across the expansive nautically themed restaurant to our table, the ghost of spicy horrors past continued to nag away as insistently as a Bombay rickshaw wallah. Swiftly ordering a couple of calming Cobra beers, it was time to peruse the menu and take the plunge into the unknown.
In the face of the extensive smorgasbord of regional dishes on offer from three of the richest culinary hotspots in the world – anyone who has ever been to Nepal will testify to the limited nature of the spectacular mountain kingdom’s cuisine – our decisively indecisive dish elimination process was both stressful and heartbreaking.
After much deliberation, my partner eventually plumped for Thai, choosing tom kha gai – an exotic coconut milk-based variation on chicken soup – as a starter and gaeng kiew waan (green curry) for her main.
Not wishing to break with the habit of a lifetime, I opted for a Bangladeshi fish starter masquerading under the name maccher bhorta followed by the famous Rajhastani lamb dish, Jaipuri ghost.
Sweat-inducing decisions over with, all that was left for us to do was to enjoy our surprisingly decent house white and wait for the fun and games to begin.
Unfortunately, in my case, that would be a while. For a relatively quiet Wednesday night the smart white-suited waiters were noticeably numerous – at least four tended to our table over the course of the evening.
Consequently, a communication breakdown meant that my partner already devoured her exquisite lemon-grass and kaffir lime leaf scented Tom Kha Gai – which, I hungrily agreed was as lively as a Bangkok street market – by the time my maccher bhorta arrived.
Any lingering sullenness at the delay was soon vanquished by the taste sensation of my first forkful.
For someone whose pakora and bhaiji starter habits have become something of a compulsion, I was slightly wary of preceding my main course with anything non garam flour clad and deep fired.
I needn’t have worried. Flavoured with mustard seeds, green chillies and fresh coriander, the minced baked fish was deliciously tangy without being overpowered by its constituent ingredients.
After experiencing the quality of the starters, it was slowly dawning on me that the multi-award winning chefs at Britannia Spice had the cooking chops to steer me the from the path of the non-believer.
This revelation was confirmed on arrival of the main attractions.
The mind-boggling diversity of Indian cookery’s rich pageant of flavours are all too often lost in the bland generic gravies which form the basis of most curries in this country.
Not so at Britannia Spice. My Jaipuri gosht was obviously prepared from scratch, and was bursting with fresh green peppers, onions, herbs and mushrooms.
Special mention must also go to the tender and tasty quality of the lamb – a meat which is often rendered grey, stringy and unrecognisable by substandard Indian cooks.
My partner’s foray into the subtle world of Thai cuisine was also paying dividends. Her chicken green curry was better than any I tasted as a dilettante backpacker, and packed a lethal kick beneath its innocent coconut-milk based facade.
Our shared side dish of jerra aloo- potatoes cooked with cumin seeds and selected spices – was another hit and the final few morsels were devoured through manic want rather than any reasoned consideration for our distended bellies.
The only disappointment was the Peshwari naan, which was okay but not quite up to the exceptional standard already set.
Anyway, by that stage an average naan was hardly going to shake me out of my reverie.
Despite the early confusion over my started, the service in the restaurant was as exemplary as the food – attentive without being too in your face.
Meal over, it was time to relax with a cigarette and a smug look of contentment all over my stuffed face.
My partner – who can bear witness to my crestfallen demeanour post curry letdown – leaned over, looked me in the eye, and nervously asked me what the verdict was.
“That was the best damn Indian I have ever tasted” was the reply.
Reproduced from the Evening News (2003)
Tags: cobra beer, curry, jaipuri gosht, peshwari nan