India

When a cuisine is a local rarity, the devil isn’t in the details but in whether the food really delivers.

Curry houses are a rare breed in Beirut, which for a restaurant scene which is ravenously trendy, experimental and international, says a great deal about local palates (incidentally, for those of you who really can’t bear anything more challenging than the paprika on your hummus, the back of India’s menu has manouché, steak, pasta and the like, so if you want to be shamefully pedestrian, you can).
But they are here, and India has a prime location. Monday night was slow, which didn’t seem to encourage the multiple waiters to be any more attentive, or the kitchen any faster. But points for comedy were gained, when a request for the whereabouts of the toilet elicited a Mexican (Punjabi?) wave of eager directions from all five at once. Apparently they had
that detail covered. But we were prepared to let a lot go for the much-vaunted ‘authenticPunjabi cuisine’. Plain and spicy
poppadoms eventually appeared on the table (but not on the bill, even though we ordered a second round), with the curry-head’s crack cocaine equivalent of mango chutney, spicy yoghurt dip, curried vegetables and pickles. Honesty dictates
that the yoghurt tasted mildly synthetic and the mango chutney was heavy in sugary clumps, but all was forgiven with the arrival of the Chicken Tandoori and lamb Rogan Josh, both important classic dishes.
The chicken was a huge portion of juicy barbecued meat heavy with aromatic spices, and the lamb lurked, sinfully good, in
its steel bowl of rich sauce. The Paneer and Keema naan breads we ordered with them were serviceable rather than
exciting – apparently fireworks at India are reserved for the main event, but they were impressive enough to induce that vital, slightly woozy, post-curry satisfaction.