Balti Triangle

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

Adil’s Balti Restaurant, Birmingham

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The good people of Britain are in debt to Adils. Way back in 1977 when a Findus crispy pancake would be classed as an adventurous dinner, a family arrived from northern Kashmir, bringing with them the very first Balti to these shores. From this small restaurant on a residential street in Stoney Lane led to the famous Balti Triangle, as well as a national obsession of going for a curry, with or without the seven pints of lager beforehand in the pub. I, like many others, am prone to waking up on a Sunday morning with a sore head, curry on my shirt and stained fingers. It’s my badge of honour, earned over many years of king-sized naans and table-top renditions of songs from The Little Mermaid. Going to Adils would be my Jerusalem; the place I could dip my daily bread into the hallowed pressed-steel Balti dish.

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The recently refurbished dining room has succeeded in making it look like a spruced up version of all the other curry houses in the Triangle. Whatever they have done has worked; an hour after its opening time they are already turning tables and we see others waiting through the partitioned glass wall that separates the booze-free bar and thickly carpeted dining room. Crisp popadoms fill a hole whilst the starters are cooked. Grease-less vegetable pakora, delicately spiked with turmeric and cumin, are a large portion for the bargain two pounds.  Being the heat freak that I am, the very sight of green of green chilli bhaji on the glossy menu made me twitch down below.  What came was five complete chillies, seeds and all, each adorned in a light batter that added more spice to the mix.  It was an addictive whack of heat, lip numbing and life affirming.  I took two home in a box with the intention of eating them for lunch the following day.  They are still there.  I am too scared.

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But we are here for the Balti, lets not forget.  Two of them, each ordered from the chefs special menu would test both ends of the spectrum. A garlic chilli chicken was tame in heat compared to the starter, whilst a Makhan chicken owed more to a traditional butter chicken than a Balti, with its creamy texture and almond powder. Both had small pieces of pre-cooked poultry with a spongy texture and a complex level of spicing garnered from forty years of cooking the same dish. I’d like the recipe for the garam masala at the root of these dishes. A peshwari naan was superb; light, supple, and not overly sweet.

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With the dessert menu looking like a fine collection of freezer favourites, we pay the twenty-five-quid bill and leave. Is it the best Balti I have ever eaten? No, not by a long shot. One in Bearwood immediately comes to mind which I will one day get off my arse and share with you about. But it is a good example, cheap and in pleasant surroundings. Adil’s call themselves the Balti pioneers, which seems accurate. Indian food has evolved since they took up shop four decades ago, though there is always room for the originators, provided the passion is still there. Adils is still firing on all cylinders. Here is to another Forty.

7/10

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