When it comes to Indian food, I have grown to be a bit choosy.
The proliferation of basic curry and tandoori houses around Britain means that standards have, in my own view, fallen. It is much easier than used to be the case to eat badly and/or feel ripped off. You can dine very well indeed but that often means splashing out on posh Indian.
When I lived and worked in Paris, and my duties as The Daily Telegraph‘s correspondent covering all things French included a blog for the paper’s newish website, I embarked on a leisurely and haphazard search for France’s best Indian restaurant.
It was a popular initiative among readers and, even more so, to me. In this strictly professional cause, I ate at the newspaper’s expense at just the right number of places, once even taking the TGV down to Angoulême to check out a recommendation.
Then, just over seven years ago, I compared experiences at two restaurants, both long established and both familiar to me: the Gandhi in Saint-Tropez and Monty’s just around the corner from Ealing Broadway station in West London.
It was a deeply flawed exercise, the outcome influenced by a rare disappointment at Monty’s, and Gandhi came out marginally on top.
In our French part of the year, we probably have lunch at the Gandhi two or three times. It is always a pleasure.
In honour of its fanatically animal-loving nearish neighbour, it offers a veggie Brigitte Bardot menu (of no interest to me).
The owner and staff are known to us and what they do well – tandoori chicken, for example, and their superb nan – they do exceptionally well. Invariably, however, there is something missing, a feature I still find common in France despite the strides Indian cuisine had made there in recent years.
One omission is the delicious prawn puri starter. Monty’s already does the best version I have even tasted; veer off-piste, ignore the menu and ask for king prawns and you are served what I regard as the finest dish on earth. It bumps up the price a little but is worth every extra penny.
We’ve been back to Monty’s a couple of times since our winter sojourn back in London began in October and have had at least one delivered takeaway.
Our bill last night was just £65 which, even allowing for the shared main (a generous plate of lamb chops) was excellent value since we also went for a bottle of wine, albeit the house red, rather than a glass each or Cobra.
The staff are young, friendly and efficient. Despite the place being pretty full, upstairs and down, service was impeccable. My faith in the traditional, no-frills Indian – OK Nepalese in this case – restaurant is restored.
And since I can get tribal at times, let me add that the evening was made no less enjoyable by the arrival on a neighbouring table of three people wearing the blue and white colours of Sheffield Wednesday after watching their FA Cup victory over Newcastle United (arch enemies of Monsieur Salut’s Sunderland) in a pub. Ordered by Mme Salut to remain on best behaviour, I said nothing until we were leaving, when I thanked them for helping to make my night.