Can you imagine an Italian restaurant without lasagne on the menu?
What about a Chinese joint with no chow mein? Or a chip shop that doesn't
sell tins of dog food and wee jars of mussels?
You're right, absolutely no chance. Culinary traditions stretching back
hundreds of years dictate it just wouldn't happen.
So imagine my surprise, dear reader, when I recently discovered an Indian
eaterie that was - wait for it - a pakora- free zone.
How the hell do you begin to explain that one?
Well, it's quite simple really.
The restaurant in question is called The Dhabba - "an authentic north Indian
diner" - and when it comes to proper Indian food, I'm afraid pakora just ain't
authentic.
Nope, it turns out it's just a savoury snack that was developed to satisfy
the palate of the western world.
Indeed, according to our friendly waiter Raj, punters in Calcutta wouldn't
even recognise a piece of pakora if it leapt off the plate and started biting
them back.
Raj was extremely helpful. Not only did he talk us through the entire menu -
a mouth- watering experience that lasted a good 10 minutes - he also pointed out
where the toilets were located and how to find the fire escape.
I bet customers of a nervous disposition just love hearing that last bit of
information.
The Dhabba is very smart and extremely stylish - in fact, you'll probably
have no idea it's an Indian restaurant until the poppadoms arrive - and Raj kept
emphasising (very proudly, I thought) the A word - authentic.
"Listen, I just hope eating too much authentic Indian food doesn't result in
rapid hair loss," I joked, glancing towards his thinning thatch.
"Don't worry, big man," he fired back, "it was the headboard and plenty
U-turns on the mattress that's responsible for that."
Funny, but I don't remember those pictures in the Kama Sutra - just like the
pakora, perhaps that's not authentically Indian either.
The menu certainly looked refreshingly different - I don't recall seeing
tandoori lobster in too many other places and plenty of the chicken and lamb
dishes are cooked on the bone - and I quickly sensed this isn't the sort of bog
standard curry house where tasteless cubes of boiled chicken are drowned in
shiny red sauces that could have been created by Dulux.
My dining companion certainly enjoyed this exciting eating experience and, as
requested, I'm going to call her Charmaine.
That's not her real name, of course. No, I'm afraid the Milton area of
Glasgow hasn't given the world too many Charmaines, but she pleaded for a change
of identity for fear of being slagged in print by yours truly.
Come on, pet, did you honestly think I was going to poke fun at your denim
dress? No way. I'm actually a huge fan of The Beverley Hillbillies.
Suzanne - oops, I mean Charmaine - particularly enjoyed her starter, a light
and spicy lentil soup with loads of fresh, pungent herbs, while my appetiser was
... well it was just totally different from anything I tasted before.
Tender pieces of lamb had been rolled in fresh roti bread before being
lightly pan- fried and cut into delicious little bite-sized chunks.
With no mixed pickle (a personal favourite) available in the kitchen, I
savoured each piece with a smattering of freshly chopped green chillies. Now
where exactly did he say that fire escape was again?
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