Worst Indian Restaurant in London II

Why do I never take my own advice? Never eat in an Indian restaurant in the West End.

I have actually eaten at this establishment quite a few times, but usually at a late hour and drunk and hungry enough not to care what I cram down my gullet. But this time Pete and I were fairly sober and the night was very much young.

We should have heeded the warning signs as soon as we came in - the place stunk of paint. The kind of smell that actually invades your food. I immediately asked to move tables (in case this was a location specific problem). The waiter's expression suggested I had insulted his mother. We moved tables. The paint smell was not a location specific problem.

I should have walked out as soon as I looked at the menu and saw that every dish was priced exactly the same. It doesn't matter what you order - it's all from the same vat!

I should have sent my meal back because I didn't order mutton in Bisto, yet for some reason that was what I was served. The tarka dall looked (and tasted) like something at the bottom of a plasterer's bucket. Which is quite possibly what it was, as throughout our dining experience a man in white overalls kept walking back and forth through the restaurant carrying armfuls of tools. There is nothing like the sight of a large hammer and a bandsaw to put you off your food.

The cherry (onion bhajee) on top of the cake (lassi?) came when some sort of holy man, in full holy man gear, entered the restaurant. The proprietor emerged from the back of restaurant and immediately fussed around him, pouring him booze, "Oh I am so honoured to have you here! It is wonderful to see you!"

The imperious Holy Man sat at the next table and the proprietor plonked himself in front of him, "What do you want? I'll get you anything you want!" The Holy Man gestured vaguely at the menu. His food appeared immediately and he set to it.

"The thing is," said the proprietor, at a loud volume, "This food is shit. You don't want this shit. You come to my house and I'll cook you something good! You can meet my two lovely girls." The Holy Man shrugged. "You'll like my lovely girls! They'll cook you something good. Not this shit."

The proprietor's mobile phone rang. He answered. His face turned purple. "Fucking express!" he screamed. "Fuck you! Fucking express!" The over-attentive teenage waiters looked embarrassed. The German tourists at another table looked shocked. The Holy Man didn't seem to notice, and chewed his bhuna. "No no! Listen to me! Fucking express! Fuck you! FUCK YOU EXPRESS!" And he slammed the phone shut. "It is an honour to have you," he said to the Holy Man.


For this experience, we paid TWENTY QUID EACH.

If you find yourself popping in for a curry at the Indian restaurant opposite Drury Lane Theatre - don't.