Dishoom, Shoreditch: little Madras, no chicken

It’s been a while since Reprobate Tom and I slipped off for an early evening bite sans les smalls, but having aced the pub quiz several Wednesdays in a row, and no longer having a contract free mobile that enables us cheap midweek movies, we decided to try something a little more sophistamicated, and went to Dishroom on Boundary Road, Shoreditch as it’s kinda on the way home for both of us.

Like many trendy eateries these days it won’t take bookings unless you’re a corporate party, and the ominous queue outside had me flapping at the gate, though of course, the place, with its clever colonial decor, flapper waitresses and pervasive aura of incense, looked popular enough. An hour they told us, as I unsubtly calculated how much extra this would cost us in childcare, and whether or not my stomach rumbles would be audible above the 20s jazz soundtrack. We took a punt, and in five minutes we were whisked in side by a friendly slicked-back waiter, with whom we struck up an immediate rapport, ordering, rather extravagantly, festive nibbles called Far Far to come with our drinks (G and T for the lady, a beer for him) while we sat and deconstructed the menu, which, as it diverged greatly from that of our local curry house, took a little while to get our heads around. But with some guidance from our lovely waiter, we picked a selection of dishes that we were told was a good order. So full marks for us.

When the food arrived – Chicken Tikka for me, Lamb Boti Kebab for Tom but, ya know, sharsies; House speciality Black Dahl was rich and meaty, though obviously just pulses, scooped up with chewy Roti, a side of rice, and garlicky, though unnecessary bowl of greens. It was perfect catching up fare. We dipped in and out of each other’s bowls, mopping up sauces with our flatbread, and ordering second drinks.

I nipped off to powder my schnozz, and was reminded of my own six months travelling round the empire’s Jewel – not for the state of them, thank goodness, as the subcontinent is not renowned for its loos. Thankfully these, modelled on train carriages, were the height of perfumed decadence at its Raj era zenith, rather than the rather more authentic squatting hole usually to be found on Indian network rail.

On my return, Tom was being convinced to try pudding, and neither of us needed much persuasion to put the new childminder through her paces. We were recommended to try Kala Khatta Gola Ice, which is an unusual lurid concoction that managed to be both cool and spicy, sweet, sour and salty, all at the same time. My tongue was turning circles within a few mouthfuls, but Tom was addicted and finished the lot. All this, for less than sixty quid and we were home to face the music before the kids had quite managed to get to sleep. Oh well – we’ll stay for chai next time.