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Curry bar An alternative spin on Indian cuisine that’s almost too cheap to be true
CROSSING THE RUBICON
IT’S one of those odd October nights when this city is awash with scary clown hysteria, when the owner of a Scottish golf club is vying to become leader of the free world and possibly a scary clown himself, when I’m sitting in a dimly lit and empty bar – with pink elephants on the walls – eating tandoori brisket pakora of all things. And when – and this is perfectly true – a man walks up the very dark street outside, takes out a measuring tape and runs it across the plate-glass window while simultaneously staring straight through it at me and what I’m eating.
Tonight is already borderline too weird, I think, as I self-consciously cut a slice from a surprisingly ginormous tamarind beef rib served on roasted, spiced vegetables – in a bar. Maybe he’s a confused double glazing salesman, I consider as I move on and the crust of a freshly baked scotch pie stuffed with pork cheek vindaloo of all things cracks under my knife. Or maybe he’s actually a scary clown himself. But undercover.
Anyway, who could have known the 21st century would turn out so interesting? With Russian hipster music playing on the sound system in here, haggis and cheese naan on the menu (no thanks) and the bar staff sporting those curly-wurly moustaches that are surely the final flourish of the Victorian beard fad, this place is undoubtedly interesting too. A Glasgow take on the V Deep hipster curry bar that is doing very well in Edinburgh, anyone?
I momentarily consider mentioning the guy outside to the waitress, who has just returned from a very long search for salt – they can’t find it anywhere, she admits – but I keep schtum. I also consider mentioning the salt is certainly not hiding in these spectacular-looking fried chicken thighs with tomato and ginger ketchup. But again I keep schtum. There’s just enough salt in this rather good coconut fish pakora.
I should say at this point that Crossing the Rubicon uses the word “pakora” in the same way most of us use the word “thing”. The brisket pakora is a pakora only in the sense that anything dipped in a thin film of gram flour is pakora. Theoretically you could have a bus pakora, I suppose. And this isn’t far off it. These are very, very big cubes of brisket, slow cooked obviously, not much (if any) tandoori flavour to them, but lifted by a very fresh tamarindy dip.
The fish pakora itself is simply crumbed or gram-floured white fish mixed with coconut and fried. Think coconut fish goujons, but the fish itself is very fresh. As for that curry pie? No complaints. The pastry is just-made, the pork reasonably tender and the whole thing nicely spiced with a decent afterburning kick.
There’s a curry pot on the table too. Served, like everything seems to be tonight, in an enamel dish that once upon a time I’m sure would have been called an ashet. There were a variety of curries available to fill it including an ox cheek, but I settled on a creamy, buttery dal makhani which is all black lentils and white rice with a fairly good dressed salad.
I forgot to mention that after ordering all this the waitress – who eventually found the salt – came back from the kitchen with dire warnings about the amount of food involved. This was slightly confusing as just about everything I asked for was priced at
around £5 to £6. But sure enough the dishes come in portions that are either ludicrous or a guarantee that when the word gets out people will be queueing to get in. While I wasn’t that keen on the texture of the outer layer, the beef rib on a silver platter at £6.50 could easily be punted for £20 in some restaurants.
Different, then? Kind of. Good? Kind of. And a bargain? Yes. If you know a restaurant Ron should review, email ronmackenna@fastmail.fm
Crossing the Rubicon uses the word ‘pakora’ in the same way most of us use the word ‘thing’