Indian

Zindiya, via Deliveroo

December, a food lovers nightmare. Reservations are impossible to come by, and when they do happen, you’ll mostly find yourself dining from an overpriced set menu, surrounded by those who only get out once a year. The types who get pissed on two drinks and cop off with Martin from accounts in the toilet cubicle whilst you really need the loo, and clog the bar with orders for the entire department. I can’t take those pricks. Had I never had friendships that only survive on that one annual piss-up, I’d stay in all month, eating, watching Masterchef and pulling apart the plot holes in a two-thousand-year-old story about the alleged son of God and an intact hymen. I’m not buying it. I fail to accept that booking.com was down on the very day that they landed in Jerusalem, or that three men that rocked up with such useless presents could ever be called wise. At this time of year the only wise man I’m opening my door to is a Deliveroo driver bearing the gift of Zindiya.

Zindiya being on Deliveroo is a BIG thing. They’ve previously had no takeaway option and the increasing success means it’s harder than ever to get a table. What opened as a Moseley favourite is now a Birmingham hero, beloved of the lowlifes like me to Michelin starred chefs.

That delivery process hasn’t affected the quality. The chicken tikka is still in Birminghams top five dishes and tastes better than ever. The aloo tikki chaat still zings with heat and deft spicing. That bhel puri is still a textural delight.

We tried a couple of dishes that have incredibly still eluded us. There was a toastie of sorts that has the crunch of raw onion hidden under melted cheese and chillies that at £3.50 for two pieces doesn’t feel like value for the first time. It’s the Chole Bature that steals the show. The bread is delicate and airy, the perfect vehicle for the chickpea curry. Top it with a bit of the sev and nuts from the bhel puri and thank me afterwards.

The above, including the delivery charge, comes in at £27.00. That chicken tikka is £7, the aloo tikki chaat £4, the Chole Bature a couple of quid more. It’s astonishing value, some of the best food in the city for really very little. Deliveroo have landed big with this and I for one will be making the most of it. In our household, Christmas really has come early.

Deliveroo supplied the credit for this meal.

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Lasan, St Pauls Square, Birmingham

It is impossible to mention the new Lasan without referring to the old. It is a restaurant that I am very familiar with, one widely regarded as the best of it’s kind in this city, thanks in part to it’s association with TV food mahatma, Aktar Islam. Aktar has now parted with the group and the restaurant has had a well needed spruce. Gone are the hard wooden lines and non-existent lighting, in comes a softer, more approachable look of pastels and patterns. It’s almost colonial in feel, like they play fine jazz to those awaiting food on the curved bar that sits adjacent to the dining room. And they do play jazz. I’m a massive fan of the refit.



Without wishing to play down the offering, you get the feel that the chase of a Michelin star has gone, replaced with a desire to feed with more traditional methods whilst still keeping to the refined style that has made it so popular. This is reflected with an ease to the service; staff are happy to chat, some dishes are rustic in their presentation. It’s less stuffy and more congenial – a place to return to time over rather than just special occasions. Accolades are excellent, but it’s paying customers that pay the bills.


It starts as it always has, with umami bombs of pani puri, filled to the brim with a pungent tamarind water and as good as they ever get. These come with greaseless poppadoms and dips to range from a familiar made from mango to a pineapple one that’s new to me. We try samosas made with the lightest of filo pastry, the filling of minced venison more than capable of standing up to the spicing.



Another starter of chicken is a solid piece of  workmanship. From the kebab made with coarsely ground mince, to the paté patty with the background funk of offal, and precisely trimmed drumstick, it sings with deft spices and well judged heat. Soft shell crab has the lightest of chilli batter that packs the biggest of flavour, with a crab cake packed with brown meat that reinforces the crustacean flavour. It’s hard to pick fault with any of the starters. Looking back, I can think of no fault at all. 


The biriyani that follows has cubes of goat at the base, braised so that they collapse under the interagation of the fork, with a dry curry that packs real power and crowned with a flurry of rice, crisp shallots, and herbs. I wish that the dish arrived wearing a pastry cap so that the aromas are released tableside, but this is a small detail given the quality of it all. We scoop on to excellent garlic naan, and, even better, roomali roti that is so thin it could be parchment paper. It’s great to see this bread, the most tricky to make, being properly showcased.



A steel tray comes bearing a shank of lamb, coated in marinade and slowly cooked. It’s an accurate bit of cooking; the meat coming away from the bone with ease. Pickled onions have enough astringency to cut through the chilli heat, with pots of raita and dhal for light and shade. That dhal returns in a larger pot – it has to, it’s glorious. As good as any dhal I’ve eaten anywhere. The lentils slow cooked and as smokey as a jazz club. 


Dessert course defeats us, and I sense a dissapointment from the waitress that we are really missing out on something. It’s okay, we’ll be back. Soon. This was my most consistent meal here to date, wholesome and confident in it’s new identity on the plate and in it’s space. I have no doubt at all that Lasan is currently the best Indian we have in Birmingham. 

9/10

I was invited to dine at Lasan

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Tamatanga, Birmingham

Another week, another opening of somewhere hyperactive on colour offering Indian street food. We’ve a lot of these in Birmingham now, with even more to come. Latest addition to the chaat show is Tamatanga, a bright and loud space that has blasted down the M42 from Nottingham. It’s a try hard kind of place, where lights dangle from the ceilings and illuminated slogans fight for space on walls. They have cocktails with chillies in and things they call ‘Eating Kits’ – cutlery to you and I – a phrase that makes me want to remove the pointy one of the three and stab myself repeatedly in the eye. I personally don’t like the room, it’s too busy and my mind cannot settle. But what for me is a migraine in waiting will be to others their ideal dining room, even if that audience is half my age and twice as optimistic.



Before I go on the type of bashing spree not seen since Negan started waving Lucile around on Walking Dead, let me tell you about the positives. The staff are brilliant; warm and well trained, they are a credit to the business. And the paneer was as good as any I have ever eaten anywhere. Large cubes of the bland cheese marinated and blasted with heat, these are well balanced in flavour and texture thanks to petals of pepper that still have bite and substance. I would say that I would order these again and again, but that would be a lie as I have no intention of ever going back.


The rest of it can be imagined in your heads if you take a Turtle Bay and replace their mediocre take on Caribbean food with equally mediocre Indian. It’s food without complexity, all one-level blasts of flavour. A garlic and chilli curry has plenty of moist pieces of chicken thigh but the sauce is nothing but tomato and chilli flakes. It feels half-arsed. It is served with two peshwari naans which is two too many, being heavy and sickly sweet. The menu tells me that the Tamatanga fries are ‘legendary’.  This is a lie. They are about as legendary as I am marriage material.



When done properly, I love thali. Meaning that on this occasion I have fallen out of love with thali. It’s a fifteen pound tray of pots with very little to admire. Once again we’re back on the familiar ground a chicken curry with good meat and an unremarkable sauce, only this time its joined by a lamb curry with not very good meat and an unremarkable sauce. Throw in to this tragically overcooked green beans, a tasteless vegetable curry and a dhal even thinner than my hair. It’s a post-Brexit dinner; deflated, with an air of disappointment. Lovely poppadums, though.

We finish with a sugar concoction that shut down my pancreatic gland which you may know as a cheesecake. It’s a dessert that will appeal to their target market; sweet base, sweet cheese mixture, sweet topping.  I am twenty years too old to be put through this. We take one between the two of us and manage a spoonful each. Stick to the chai which is a milky kiss of warming spices.

I hate comparisons but there is a direct one that I feel is necessary to mention here. For me, Zindiya is the present leader of this type of restaurant in our city. I understand that they are looking to expand and roll-out to other cities, which was never in their initial plans, but one that has happened organically based on the success of the business. Tamatanga gave the impression that has been designed to be rolled-out from the start. It’s brash and heavily marketed – the Indian Turtle Bay that I mentioned earlier on. It’s just not very good, and I hate to break this to them, but that should be the starting block for anything. Others will no doubt lap it up, but it is never going to be for me.

5/10

I was the guest of someone invited and therefore did not see a bill.

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Indian Streatery, Birmingham

I hadn’t been in the building that now homes The Indian Streatery since Adam’s first launched in Birmingham. I remember that building well. Back before Michelin bestowed them with a star and they had their shiny home on Waterloo Street, it was here that Adam Stokes initially set-up; a small rectangular room on Bennetts Hill with a black and white screen acting as the gap between dining room and galley kitchen. I like that the building is now in the hands of this family, the transition feels appropriate. When Adam’s came the city was still getting used to fine dining, whereas we have now become accustomed to our many Michelin stars. Five or so years on we look to a new breed in the city, one that looks for it’s own home after owning and honing street food.  Indian Streatery makes more sense as a name when you understand that they used to be a regular at Digbeth Dining Club as Indian Rasoi.  When others have made the jump in far quieter spots with far cheaper rent, these lot have jumped into a central Brum location that used to house a Michelin star.  And that takes balls.  Massive balls.


The dining room is well lit and has attention to detail at every glance.  The wooden street cart that forms the bar area at the back of the room will take the plaudits, but for me the ceiling mural of India is what takes the eye.  Plush seating in gold makes up the soft furnishings, dark wood fills the rest of the space.  Credit must go to whoever managed to make somewhere so small seem so inviting.



The ambition of the location and makeover is matched by the menu.  They are going all out here; a section purely for chaat, another of more traditional dishes from the Punjab, and a section of less than conventional dishes such as Indian Hot Dog and Pakora Fried Chicken (they missed a trick there not calling it PFC).  Dishes arrive as and when they are ready because this is 2017 and we have been taught to do as we are told.  Bhartha is the first to arrive, ordered on the basis that it is new to me.  It is a dish that could easily be middle eastern in design, a base of smoked aubergine weaved with garlic, ginger and tomatoes, that we lap up in seconds.


We try two types of chaat when perhaps just the one would of been fine.  Of the two it is the samosa chaat that stands out, the torn bits of samosa are perky in spice and have enough to stand out from the chaat chickpea curry.  A chicken chaat is interesting for the chicken that has a nice savoury funk from a tamarind coating.  A word on the chaat itself and I know I’m in danger of slipping into twat territory here:  I’ve eaten a lot of chaat recently – I’m the king of chaat.  Michael Parkinson with additional drunks and weirdos on my sofa.  This chaat is slightly different to the others you’ll find dotted around the city; the chickpeas are cooked less and have more texture than usual, the curry itself is more perfumed and not as aggressive in heat.  It is topped with less of that crunchy sev.  This is a more sophisticated chaat that speaks in quieter tones rather than shouting.



My India obsessed other half insists on palak paneer, a glorious blend of spinach and paneer with strands of ginger and garlic that is too refined to ever consider came from a street food begining.  Likewise a methi chicken deep with fenugreek flavour that we take basmati rice to in order to work the last of the sauce out of the silver bowl.  They both show a gentle touch of taking robust flavours and making them harmonious.


I really like Indian Streetery, more so for the less than conventional dishes on the menu.  I often bemoan the identikit menus that haunt the city, so credit must be due for putting stuff out there that you cant get elsewhere, and doing at a price too fair for the location.  All of the above, with rice and a couple of soft drinks, fails to touch £40 between the two us.  It’s this price point that will allow us to return frequently and try more of that menu.  Which we will.  Indian Streatery is not perfect but it is ambitious, characteristics I can relate to all too well.  It looks like that little room on Bennetts Hill will continue to shape the dining scene in this mighty fine city.  

8/10

And now the plug.  I’m up for Best Blogger in the Birmingham Awards.  Please vote for me in category 16 on the below link

http://www.birminghamawards.co.uk/voting/

Gateway to India, Birmingham


I remember the days when I used to come to Regency Wharf for drinks at Living Room and Zinc.  When the anticipation of the area was high and the proximity to Brindley Place offered a new oasis of class to an end of Birmingham desperately needing it.  It was a short lived love affair.  Unfortunatley, the bustle of Broad Street is the dominant gene here, with those units now home to the tacky bluster of Rub’s Smokehouse and, even worse, Jimmy Spices buffet.  No one dares come Broad Street for class.  They come on the promise of bad booze, bad music, and, dependent on how successful the evening has been, a shag, a brawl, or a chicken Balti to finish.  The Holy Trinity is all three of those in the same night.


So please forgive my disdain for all that’s on this kebab stained hell hole on earth, because there is some good stuff happening if you scratch deep enough.  I’d mentally tarnished Gateway to India before I’d arrived as just another curry house fulfilling the needs of drunks.  The reality is that it could end up shovelling out an endless stream of Balti dishes to pissed-up idiots at 11pm to make a living, if we don’t make the most of what they do well.  And the bits they do well are as good an example as any I’ve tried.  My preconceptions were miles off and I have no problem admitting that.


We ate most of the street food dishes and almost all were excellent.  Samosa chaat have a heat that builds gradually from the curry outside the samosa, with the potato and pea filling aromatic with masala and cumin.  Pani puri are properly delicate, the choice of two spiced waters unique (he says) to this city.  Have the tamarind one.  Bhel puri is light with plenty of spiced sev on top of what can only be described as Bombay mix.  It’s a dish of textures first, flavours second.




It’s hard to eat aloo tikki chaat and not compare it to the majestic version at Zindiya.  This not quite as good, though still holds up on its own thanks to a thick green mint sauce that makes the potato patty and chickpea curry bounce off one another.  If we’re staying with that same comparasion against that place in the Moseley, the dosa here wipes the floor with it.  It’s as good an example as I’ve eaten – India included.  The thin pancake-like casing is the size of my forearm, a carrier for a rich potato filling that pops with mustard seed and cumin.  It’s served with a tomato chutney, coconut chutney and a thin vegetable curry.  It is outstanding and will cost you just a fiver.  If you work close by and choose a generic sandwich shop over this for lunch, you and I will never be friends.



The chickpea curry makes a return with Chloe Bature, a deceptively simple dish that requires tearing up a whoopi cushion of  fried bread and filling with carbydates.  It is my kind of dish.  Likewise a Pav Bhaji that that is a buttered bun to be dunked into a thick vegetable curry that has a healthy kick of chilli.  I used to get called weird for a dinner of buttered white bread and a madras curry sauce, now it turns it that it’s ‘a thing’.  Who’s weird now.



Let’s pause for one second.  Stop the writing here and you have a solid 8, maybe 9 out of ten.  It is that good. These dishes are what they do best, and glance your eyes back and you’ll notice no meat.  Vegetarian food is rarely seen as sexy, especially so close to the bravado of Broad St, yet this is knockout flavours delivered for a pittance: The most expensive of the above dishes is £6.50, the majority sit at a fiver.  Come here and eat from the street food menu; I will bet my house that you wont regret it.

But plough on we must, there is food to eat. A Viceroy mixed grill is generous in size for fifteen pound and would comfortably feed three.  We like the fat cubes of chicken tikka that are pale from hung yogurt, not red from dye, less so the chicken wings and sheekh kebab that could both be ramped up a notch on the flavour level.  Best are the lamb chops that have been packed with marinade and left until the meat begs to be cooked.  These are as tender as you get, a prime example of how best to treat this cut of lamb.


Full to the point of bursting, curries arrive.  A lamb saag is all metallic notes of spinach and not much else, even if the meat is cooked to point that knives become redundant.  Chicken Jalfrezi lacks heat but makes up for it with some deft spicing.  Best is the dhal that is smokey and rich with butter that I take home and finish off the following day.



There is a final swansong in a lobster, meat removed and mixed with garlic, tamarind, and clarified butter, before going back into the crustacean.  The meat is delicate, the tamarind match a new one for me that works in a sweet and sour sauce kind of way.  At £22.00 it’s not cheap but shows better value to me than the twelve pound curry offerings.


So, what we have is a meal where the street dishes were excellent and everything afterwards merely good in comparasion.  Which, in a self righteous kind of way takes me back to the start of the post.  This restaurant does something as good as anywhere in the city, and that is vegetarian street food dishes.  That dosa, that samosa chaat, that bhel phoori, they need people to eat them.  Failure to do so will result in the pissed brigade taking over and this place just turning into yet another generic curry house in order to stay alive.  It’s better than that.  Regency Wharf once again has a restaurant worthy of our attention, I can only hope that diners reward this with a visit.

7/10  

I dined in the company of Delicious PR and did not see a bill for the meal 

Zindiya, Moseley

I started my last piece on Zindiya with the words ‘Chicken Tikka’. Well I would, wouldn’t I? I’m so bloody predictable at times. A fully committed carnivore whose eyes wonder to the grill section of the menu, even when, as the case is at Zindiya, the majority of the menu is vegetables and other lovely stuff that leave a far smaller, morally larger, footprint on the planet.  Despite that bolshie, macho attitude I like to display I actually really love vegetarian food – about half the meals I cook at home are – and none appeals to this side of me more than Indian vegetarian cooking.  I hardly touched meat in India because I never needed to.  The ability to turn vegetables into a meal of their own is something that the Indians specialise in – they have the lowest rate of meat consumption in the world.

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I’m in Zindiya with someone who has never been here before, and when it comes to India, well, she’s been there, done that, bought the tea set.  We never meant to order a (mostly) vegetarian meal, it just kind of happened.  A lot like our relationship.  I insist on some dishes because I know they will be good, she insists on okra because she is a sadist.  The lady fingers are the first to arrive.  They have crunch and are a million miles from the gloop that I associate them with.  She did okay with this choice.  She can stay another week.

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What follows is a masterclass in vibrant and light Indian street food dishes.  No one, and I mean no one, does this as well in Birmingham as the team here.  The Aloo Tikki Chaat is a prime example of this, the potato cakes being delicately spiced, the surrounding chickpeas more aggressive in heat.  It’s topped with soothing yogurt and the most vibrant of mint sauce.  It sings.  The green pucks that are the Hara Bhara Kebabs are new to me.  The potato and spinach patties are denser than Aloo Tikki and need the mint sauce to revive them.  No such problem with the kati roll filled with cubes of paneer and coarsely chopped raw vegetables.  I’ve eaten this dish a lot because it’s wholesome and complete.  It’s a meal in itself and a bargain to boot at £6.50.

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Papri Chaat is my highlight of the night. Pops of crispy dough wafers nestle amongst chickpeas, potatoes, yoghurt and tamarind chutney, giving a perfect contrast of texture. The spicing is beautiful – all depth rather than heat – giving the dish a complex flavour that demands another mouthful. It’s absolute heaven in a dish, and a bargain at only £4.  If you thought that paragraph was too good to be mine, it’s because it is – I’ve nicked it from my girlfriend’s blog because she says it better than I ever could.  Take a look at http://www.noshandbreks.com and see how much better her pictures are of the meal.  It’s not even funny how superior she is.  Anyway, back on my (award winning, had you not heard) blog,  I’m not crazy about the taco-like presentation of the dosa, but the flavour is there in spades.  The potato filling is spiked with mustard seed and turmeric, all neatly folded into the rice batter pancake that probably doesn’t need to be so neat.  The sambhar and coconut chutney it comes with could make anything taste better.  Maybe even tofu.  Those two dishes showcase what Zindiya does at it’s best; deft spicing and vibrant cooking that wont leave you sagging with a heavy tummy for the rest of your evening.  The lightness of touch here is astounding considering the bold flavourings.  We get Chicken Tikka because Claire has never tried it.  It is still the best version of it’s kind I have ever tried.

IMG_9745IMG_9746IMG_9748There was a dessert, but I was too busy working through the cocktail list to tell you what it’s like.  What I can say is that everything has improved since it opened.  The service is sharper, the food on a constant incline.  It is ready to be rolled out across the country and embraced by those far and wide.  Tonight they served up the best vegetarian meal I’ve eaten in the city, despite not being a vegetarian restaurant.  Just don’t forget the chicken tikka.  See, I’ve gone there again.  I’m so bloody predictable.  

Indioz, Moseley

I clearly remember the time when Indioz opened; the grumblings of middle class Boho’s too polite to raise their voice from condescending to snooty.  Moseley does not need another curry house, they would say, it needs more places where Columbian coffee workers are paid a fair wage to hand harvest the beans in my mug, because this economic tilt towards the lowest paid in South America will help keep the cost of cocaine down.  And that’s the thing about us Moseleyites; we’re as socially reckless as we are conscious.

The reality is that Moseley probably doesn’t need another curry house.  We have several on St Mary’s row not fit to grace the B13 postcode, another on the Alcester Rd, the one where the Jug of Ale used to be that may or may not have given me food poisoning, and Kabbabish, the stalwart of Woodbridge Rd.  The truth is that another is fine if it raises the bar.  Keep the better stuff coming I say, it makes the bad ones dissapear and the good ones try harder.  And in that respect, Indioz works because they do the humble curry better than anyone else close by, all from a plush dining room of softened blues and creams.  Of arched ornate mirrors and thick carpeting.

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I’m not mad on the poppadum’s arriving smashed up in a bowl, but I quickly forget this given the quality of everything else.  A tandoori mixed grill is absurd value at £4.45 given that this buys you a sheekh kebab, lamb chop, chicken drumstick and tandoori chicken breast.  The tandoori chicken is a revelation; as accurately cooked as anywhere else in the city, the meat of a higher quality than expected given the cost.  The rest settles for just merely very good, the pick being the lamb chop that disappeared quickly due to charred outer and tender pink centre.  Our other starter was a greaseless fried bread filled with a heavily spiced mixture of potato and chickpea.  I love veggie food as relentless as this, it takes me back to India where I never cared for meat at all.  Here, in suburban Moseley, this will cost you less than four quid.

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The curries we tried set them apart from the local competition by some way.  A Gosth Banjar was tender pieces of mutton in a dark gravy littered with chilli.  It’s dark and deep with an underlying note of star anise.  A Chicken Mirchi has the faint acidity of pickling liquor running through its veins that control the frequent blasts of garlic cloves and chilli.  It’s this sauce that makes the dish, though that shouldn’t detract from the large lumps of chicken breast that are evenly cooked and absorbed the best of the bowl.  With these we pile in aromatic basmati rice and scoop back out with lightest of naans that shit all over the competition of any within at least four miles.

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They are unlicensed, and are happy for folk to bring in their own booze without corkage, so we make light work with a dinner that fails to hit thirty quid for the two of us.  It’s almost laughably cheap given just how good it is.  I love the food of the sub continent, anyone that reads this regularly will know that, and when its as bold and big on flavour as Indioz I would gladly eat it everyday.  Indioz have stolen the march on the local competition for the humble curry and at a price so cheap its nigh on impossible to not try.

8/10

Indioz Menu, Reviews, Photos, Location and Info - Zomato

Rajdoot, Birmingham

We live in a society that isn’t kind to restaurants.  One that eats them up and spits them out.  One that is so fickle it could be a contestant on Love Island.  A staggering 90% of restaurants in this country fail within the first twelve months. Why? I don’t bloody know, I’m not a restauranteur; I’m an over opinionated twerp with a keyboard. But the ones that I have seen demise with my own eyes have been poorly judged concepts (lobsters), rotten locations (sea food restaurants above Café bloody Rouge) and just bad luck (Comida, you were brilliant and you’ll be back). It almost puts me off my dream of a little Italian restaurant of my own. Almost. The restaurant business is not a lottery, it’s a cleverly thought out line of ticked boxes and processes, as my good friend Barry Sherwin has pointed out to me on many an occasion. And he knows a thing or two about opening these places. So there.

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Once past that opening year it’s no guarantee that it’s an easy ride. Profitability and longevity are the two things that the industry craves, and to achieve this takes hard work and constant reflection. The machine chugs along, driven by trends and an ever changing customer focus. React or die, it’s as simple as that. Take a chameleon approach and you might see two, maybe five, even ten or twenty years if you’re really lucky. But fifty? There can’t be too many successful businesses that even dream of reaching half a century. Rajdoot have, which is a crazy number given that I would have been but a twinkle in the eye of the raging hormonal body of my fifteen year old pubescent father when they first opened in 1967. I struggle to comprehend pieces of furniture that are fifty years old, never mind places to dine at. How they have achieved this is too much for this pea brain to take in.

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Maybe a good starting place for an explanation would be the service. It’s old school slick, customer orientated and polished to a high sheen. We are seated in a plush waiting area and watered, given menus and then taken to a sultry dining room way bigger than it first appears, which is a talent they share with me.  Our corner table is adorned with thick white linen, preloaded with crisp poppadum’s and a spritely chopped onion salad.  A singular candle sits on one corner, more a romantic gesture than a lighting requirement.  At first I assumed they were going all out because they knew I was coming, though it would later transpire they had no clue at all about me.  I like that.  They go to this effort for everyone.  Which probably goes someway to explaining the buzzy dining room on a midweek night.

What also explains the mostly full room is the food, which, on our meal here puts it in the upper echelons of its type in the city.  Its wonderfully traditional, rich and decadent.  We share a platter to start that is probably too much food to successfully proportion our meal.  Like we care.  We each devour the mini fillet of chicken shaslik we have each been portioned to, and make light work of crisp samosa with the most fragrant of potato and pea filling.  We cloak batons of shish kebab with onion kulcha which, with the ingenious addition of mint yogurt, turns it into the most delicious lamb sandwich you could wish for.  Only the tandoori chicken lets the team down for being on the dry side.  It still gets eaten.

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We go for two of the chefs recommendations for main.  He clearly knows what he is talking about.  On paper the Murgh Kebab Masala looks like a tarted-up description of a chicken tikka masala.  Thankfully, it is nothing of the sort.  The kebab is a tightly packed mixture of minced chicken and herbs that have been skewered and blasted through the tandoor until the outside is charred and the centre is just cooked through.  The sauce is nutty and complex, heavy on the spices that trouble the nasal passages, not the other ones.  I just wish there was a little more of it.  I want to glaze the supple garlic naan with sauces this good, and whizz it the individual grains of pilau rice.  The other main was a lamb chilli bhuna that doesn’t disappoint.  It’s heady and spicy, littered with chilli and chunks of pepper.  The tender lamb is a testament to the virtues of patience.  We wipe the bowl clean with the last shreds of the naan.

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They make both gulab jamun and kulfi in-house here, so we request a smaller portion of each to try both.  Indian desserts are often a massive disappoint, but these were lovely.  The gulab jamun was not over soaked in syrup, the kulfi delicate and sprinkled with crushed pistachios.  They work surprisingly well in the company of each other.  If you can find room for dessert, I suggest you harass them into doing the same for you.

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I’d not eaten at the Rajdoot before this.  I guess that I’d been scared that a business open for that length must be old fashioned and reliant on the aging regulars for custom.  I couldn’t be any more wrong.  It’s done fifty years because they serve precise and comforting Indian food with the sort of service that shames many a Michelin starred restaurant.  It is rightly a stalwart of its kind in the city.  I already cannot wait to go back for more.

8/10

I was invited to dine at Rajdoot by Delicious PR

Rajdoot Tandoori Menu, Reviews, Photos, Location and Info - Zomato

Adil’s Balti, via Deliveroo

The Deliveroo menu for Adil’s is littered with warnings, instructions, and goading’s for us feeble Westerners. Are you the kind of fool that orders mango and lime at Nando’s? I pity you if so, but you can order the Maliah which is ‘suitable for Kurma eaters’ whilst hanging your head in shame. Those ‘feeling brave’ are instructed to order a Vindaloo, a statement that usually makes me as brave as I am stupid. And then there is the curries described as ‘not for the faint hearted’, a clever turn of words that appeals to idiots like me. I can’t turn that stuff down; it’s a red rag to a bull, a picture of Princess Diana to The Daily Mail. It’s the stuff I live for, the fuzzy wave of pure heat that pulsates through my veins and escapes via sweat on my brow. By telling me I that it is not for the faint hearted I have to order it, despite knowing all too well that my body will hate me for it. Which, 16 hours on, I can confirm that it does.

So, yeah, Adil’s Balti. Those not familiar should know that it is the original home of the Balti in Birmingham, maybe even the UK. It resides in the Balti Triangle, where nostalgic fiftysomethings go for a ‘real Balti’, armed with a six pack of Carling. All of this is fine. I go there, quite a bit actually. It’s dependable and consistent and they do chilli bhaji’s that might even trump the naan as the greatest thing to dunk into a curry.  I’ve written at length about it back in the early days of this blog.  If you were one of the two people that read it back then congratulations, if not, please let me tell you about the recent meal I had courtesy of those dandy people at Deliveroo.

Pani Puri is the first thing to enter our gigantic gobs.  The puffed up shells arrive intact as we crack open the top and pour in the spiced water to neck in one go.  They are delicious, all umami and spice.  Paneer tikka is charred on the heavy side and is all the better for it.  The bland cheese has taken on all the marinade, transforming it from a nothing to something extraordinary.  We fight over the last piece.

 

The Balti’s do not disappoint. A lamb Balti Jalfrazzi is the ideal bastardization of complex masala and spice. The bite of pepper is welcome with the softly braised meat and heat that grows on the palate. And then there is my curry, the Balti Chicken Chilli Masala that I have been teased in to ordering with the provocative wording. It as subtle as The Suns disdain for Corbyn, a punch in the mouth of chilli; as fiery as a hungry Jeromy Clarkson. It is relentless in the best possible sense, a full out attack on the body. I love it, even if the look on my face says otherwise. The meat is tender, the sauce pungent and vibrant. I use the pilau rice to coax the last of the sauce on to the fork because a yellow garlic naan, the colour of a radioactive warning sign, goes untouched.

I’ll end with the gushing bit, so if me sucking on the proverbial nipple of Deliveroo isn’t your bag, please close down the window now and resume your normal duties. It’s meals like this that make me love Deliveroo in the way that I do – restaurant quality food delivered to my front door in under half an hour. It allows me to be lazy, to watch TV and eat dinner in my pants without compromise. To treat myself to one of the better curries in this part of the city without leaving the door. It’s the most convenient of treats. When you can get somewhere the calibre of Adil’s I fail to see why you would ever consider another option.

Deliveroo supplied the credit for this meal.  For money off your first order, please see the following link roo.it/simonc3898

Canal Square, Birmingham

The term ‘Indian food’ is one generalised and frequently shy of the mark, often taking in the cooking of Bangladesh and Pakistan, sometimes Nepal, less often Sri Lankan.  India itself is a vast country of 29 states, 7 union territories, and 1.2 billion people (thank you, Google).  Add the sub continent and you can make that almost 2 billion people – more than double of all of Europe.  Yet we have come to accept a sweeping generalisation; a world where the only separation of madras and vindaloo is a tablespoon of chilli powder, the mark of a Balti is a unique serving wok, and where chicken tikka masala actually existsI could go on, but I won’t, because I’ll combust and ruin my day.  Needless to say I find the ignorance of it all baffling.

So, in many respects, Canal Square is doing the right thing in sticking to just one of those states.  The food of the Punjab is driven by its position at the north of the country;  protein and pulses from the farms, very little fish due to the distance from the coast.  Spicing is bold, and dishes are often rich with ghee or butter.  As it happens, it is one of my favourite regions of India.  Fat and spice speak to me in a language that I understand.

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The reason that I am here is for the launch of the new Maharajas tasting menu, seven courses dictated by the seasons.  We start with fragrant onion bhaji’s, crisp and light, before moving on to aloo tikka.  The potato cake is soft and boldly spiced with cumin and chilli, the whole thing draped in a chickpea masala sauce and the cool murmur of mint yogurt (we’ll gloss over the random addition of  blueberries).  What impresses me most is the depth of flavour in the sauce – they know how to make a masala here. We move on to chicken tikka, one marinated in mixed pickle so that there is heat and tang on the surface, the other a far more gentle offering that was fresh with herbs.  I happen to prefer the more spicy of the two, though both are well executed, the meat timed so that it is only just cooked through.

Battered morsels of cod are a cheeky wink back at the UK.  The batter is crisp and greaseless, the fish correctly flaking apart inside.  Best on the plate  glass is the homemade chilli sauce that teases, rather than threatens the taste buds.  Back to meat, we take a pork samosa with a tart apple chutney and a solitary lamb chop blasted in the tandoor – a cooking process that we have the Punjab to thank for.  The chop would be one of the stars of the evening, a good piece of meat from a properly reared animal.  The thick ribbon of fat is crisp, the marinade full of fiery funk.  It is a delight.

Six courses in and we get curry.  I bloody love curry.  The lamb in this curry was good, the tomato sauce a lovely buttery thing thicker than Joey Essex.  It made for enjoyable eating; uncomplicated and homely.  A lot like Joey Essex, I suppose.  The naan on the side was a fabulous thing of buttery niceness, which I dredge through the last of the sauce and stain my fingers with pride.  I apologise for the photo’s – my camera was struggled with the glare from the glass it was served on.

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I was pushed for time and missed out on the dessert, so I cannot comment on the final course.  What I can say for sure is that the service was attentive and the drinks well sourced; the wine was carefully matched to each course and the beer I tried fresh and crisp.  The competition for the higher-end of Indian restaurants in Birmingham is fierce, though the best dishes here stand up to anything in the city; so much so that I am going to stick my neck on line and say that when word gets about, Canal Square will competing with the big boys for your cash.  And for anyone with an interest in how the food of the Punjab should taste, I recommend that you give it a try for yourself.

8/10

I was invited to try the Maharajas tasting menu at Canal Square by Delicious PR