Sssh: it’s Epsom’s best-kept secret
THE l ate Jonathan Gold was the restaurant critic for the Los Angeles Times. He was Falstaffian in build and appetite, and his writing was sprinkled with Prospero’s art. Nothing grand, verbose or overblown, just cool, clean prose, his deep learning and elegant erudition worn as lightly as a flimsy paper napkin. With limited interest in the loftier slopes of haute cuisine (although he appreciated high and low alike), he mainly tramped the byroads and backwaters of LA eating – Korean galbi jjim joints in Koreatown strip malls, Sichuan noodle shops in San Gabriel mini-malls, taco trucks… well, everywhere.
Where others saw boundaries, borders and barriers, he saw lunch. For him, this vast and sprawling city was united by the common, democratic parlance of serious eating, be it birria, doro wat or boat noodles. The language of good food is universal.
After he died, I saw a photograph of his ‘Five Rules For Dining in Los Angeles.’ Scrawled, in block capitals, they were as wise as they were modest. ‘If the restaurant you have been directed to lies between the Seven-Eleven and the dry cleaners in a dusty strip mall,’ goes one, ‘then you’re probably at the right place.’
But my favourite is his fourth: ‘The best choice is always the restaurant 15 minutes further than you are willing to go,’ a mantra as relevant in Lima and Luang Prabang as it is in London and Leeds. Because if you want to find the rough-edged soul of any immigrant cuisine, it’s all about the suburbs. North Indian in Southall, Turkish in Green Lanes, Korean in New Malden. To name but a few. But this time I went further, stretched the boundaries of my voyaging, set out for wilder shores. I set my sights on Epsom.
OK, so Epsom is not exactly a suburb. Nor is it the mean streets of Westmont. But after 33 minutes on the 6.30 South Western train from Waterloo, crammed in like transEuropean cattle, I feel weary, sweat- stained and battle- worn. Like Vasco da Gama’s armpit, or Stanley’s sodden briefs. And in urgent need of a restorative sherbet, preferably eaten to the tinkle of cool fountains and the coo of emerald doves. Dastaan, though, on a pretty unlovely, nondescript stretch of Surrey dual-carriageway suburbia, offers neither soothing water features nor exotic columbines. But it does come garlanded with praise, from Angela Hartnett (‘Just bloody go,’ she said) and Mitch Tonks (‘It’s f****** ace’), two chefs who know of what they speak.
Indeed, chef proprietor Sanjay Gour worked f or Hartnett at Murano. Before going on for a stint as head chef at the brilliant Gymkhana. Where he met co- owner Nand Kishor. So both have form. And t he food here is l eagues removed from your usual BritIndian curry house. Something made blatantly obvious from the very first bite, a sharp, verdantly punchy homemade mint and coriander chutney that contains the quintessence of edible zing. Because Dastaan gets all the small details right. The cool, gently spicy tamarind water, with just a hint of sulphurous black salt, that’s poured into crisp, delicate panipuri. Or the exquisite, almost sensual succulence of the duck and guinea fowl sheek kebab, a splendid cylinder of expertly spiced joy. Whispers of cardamom, grunts of chilli, the gently undertone of coriander seed. A sticky apple muraba (or jam) adds subtle aplomb.
Lamb chops wear the mark of the grill, lavishly tender, thanks to being marinated, we’re told, for 48 hours, in yogurt. The spicing is so precise that it seems laser-guided, as gentle waves roll languorously along the tongue. Underneath, mooli, crisp and clean, drenched in the most pungent of Bengali mustard dressings. After all that gentle ovine allure, it kicks like a Diwali firecracker.
The chilli in the pork vindaloo is subtly used, dried Kashmiri, for that slow, regal warmth. Heavy on the garlic and cloves, while the pork tastes of well-bred pig. There’s a lusty whack of vinegar too, just as there should be. ‘Palm vinegar?’ I ask nonchalantly between bites. I know these things. No, comes the reply. White wine. Ah. I blush, and mumble, incoherently, into my naan. The show-off shown up.
Keema matter is probably the best thing that could ever happen to mince, all gloopy, soupy delight, gently spiced and studded with peas, it gets to the heart of what makes us happy. Bill reckons the rogan josh needs a little bit more punch in the gravy, ‘more knuckle juice’, as he so daintily puts it. But the lamb is softer than a spring bleat ( although with a lot more flavour), and the spicing as sound as it is profound.
‘Brilliant,’ announces Bill as we chew on buttery kulfi. The room may be unexceptional, but the cooking is sublime. Seriously knock-out, some of the best regional Indian I’ve eaten in years. It may share chefs and exalted ingredients with Gymkhana, but it sure doesn’t share those prices. ‘For God’s sake don’t tell the world about this place,’ says one worried punter as we leave. Too late, I’m afraid. I’m certainly not the first to discover its delights. But even wild horses (or worse, the communal hell of the 6.30 South Western from Waterloo) won’t keep me from coming back for more.
Not just an Epsom gem, but a national treasure too. About £25 per head