Restaurant: Bombay Brasserie
Location: Gloucester Road
By Boeing: 3581 miles
By Boris Bike: 2.2 miles
India is entering a golden age with a swagger and confidence that is drawing envious eyes from east and west. With financial muscles flexing they are fast claiming a front row seat in the new world order. Given this renaissance of the rupee it seemed almost disrespectful to visit a crumbling curry-house in a shabby suburb for the Indian leg of the journey. And in any case on an early visit to Brick Lane I discovered that 90% of these are in fact Bangladeshi, trading under the banner and bhajis of their more illustrious neighbours. Indian delicacies are de rigour these days, their chefs lauded, their restaurants awarded and their clientele smart and swanky. But rather than join the back of an increasingly long queue at one of an increasing number of up-market contemporary Indian restaurants I decided to travel through time to an older golden age, that of the British Raj.
When Queen Victoria was made Empress of India the jewel in the crown offered as lavish and luxurious a lifestyle as any long-fingered, ruddy cheeked Englishman could wish for. It was the ultimate home from home. With its lush lawns, ornate verandas and silver service Madras was as English as Maidenhead. A gent could eat, drink, make merry and shoot a tiger before breakfast. This colonial comfort has perhaps never been surpassed in the modern age where even the most indulgent have to break sweat in buttoning their own shirts and tend to get by without someone fanning them with a large leaf. Seeking a glimpse into the lost life of the British Raj I found myself in the Bombay Brasserie.
After the indignity of standing wedged against a door on the tube there was something very soothing about walking into a room with high ceilings. The Georgian grandeur of Gloucester Road is fitting, I thought, as a man in a maroon waistcoat offered to take my coat. Used to carpeted walls, crammed in tables, the musk of massala and mildew, and dishes of Bombay mix doubling as ashtrays this was a far cry from the Raj Doot Tandori I visited 57 times in 1995. The decor was subtle and sumptuous and the ambience tranquil and sophisticated, like the lounge of regal hotel. In this frantic world that we call the modern age it is easy to forget that there once was a halcyon time when life wasn’t as breathless and where people could pause and relax before moving on. Sitting in the bar, sipping an aperitif, the absence of urgency was pure bliss. An evening is longer if it is anticipated before it is enjoyed.
At our leisure we were led through to our table in a cavernous , low-lit room dominated by a huge, shimmering chandelier. Sat at our table there wasn’t another diner within earshot, such was the feeling of space. Used to a stray chair leg being raked onto an unfortunate toe, or an elbow dislodging a soup spoon in mid gurgle this was a pleasure indeed. Space and time is rare luxury indeed in a modern city. On the walls around us hung 19th century Indian scenes of hunts and house parties and behind us was an ornate, bejewelled, circular window.
When the food was served the delicacy and depth of flavour immediately marked it out from your average spiced stodge. Given the west London location and elegant surroundings we shouldn’t have been shocked at the prices, but nevertheless scratched our heads as we suggested combinations of sundries that we hoped may constitute a meal. The sauce for the Xacuti, a rich tomato and cardamom, was like a fine wine, with different flavours slowly making themselves known to the palette. Together with Gobi Methi Muttar, a medley of spiced cauliflower, fenugreek, onions and tomatoes, it treated and teased the tastebuds. For many years the English saw an Indian not so much as a meal but a rites of passage, flavour was irrelevant as eye-watering heat was prized above all else. An Indian was a sub-category of dining only enjoyed after a beer swilling night at the pub.
But in the last few years Indian food has regained its dignity and its rightful reputation as a delicacy. In central London at least the gloopy, ghee saturated Massala is off the menu along and Vindaloo is faintly recalled as song once sung by football fans.
India has once again become the promised land and through its cuisine England is rediscovering why it first fell in love with this sensual land of spice and satraps. The majority of our fellow diners were Indian and as comfortable in the colonial setting as we were. Nostalgia and good food are a heady mix in any culture and the English have more in common with India than almost any other country, including an instinctive ear for wordplay, an appreciation of cricket and a strange compulsion to talk at length about railways and the weather.
