Hyderabadi lobster jhinga? No thanks. Give me chicken balti any day

Here’s a short light piece I wrote for the Guardian some time ago. It’s quick, simple, self-explanatory and, as much as anything else, a nostalgic tip of the hat to the curries I used to eat two-at-a time and as hot as volcanic lava when growing up hungry in Manchester a lifetime ago. Think of it as a modest table-gift from me to you as we prepare to eat ourselves silly over Christmas.

The other day, at an Indian restaurant of the sort you wear a jacket to, a waiter dressed like Aladdin’s genie positioned himself salaciously at my ear and in a low voice asked me to confide my secret longings. Jealousy swept the table. Why, my fellow diners wondered, weren’t they being offered a scented suite at the Oberoi Udaivilas, the pick of gemstones mined in Channapatna or, because jealousy once started cannot be contained, a job reading the news at the BBC?

This was not the first time the genie of contemporary Indian cuisine had whispered hotly in my neck. It’s happening to me more and more in the best Indian restaurants in London. And it isn’t riches, favours or indulgence beyond aromatic daydreaming they’re offering; it’s something plainer, but also more enticing: an alternative to what’s on the menu. As a rule, they give me 15 minutes to read the dishes of the day – gobi kempu bezule, hariyali macchi, rose bhapa doi – another five to fail to hide my befuddlement, then move in: “Would sir, perhaps, prefer...?”

And, no, they aren’t wondering if Hyderabadi lobster jhinga with Marabar cave caviar is what I crave. What they know I really want is chicken tikka masala, lamb vindaloo (with extra chilli), rogan josh and, if I’m in luck, tandoori king prawn balti. Ah, balti, balti! Have you, too, wondered where they’ve gone, those burning bowls of hellfire gloop of yesteryear? Well, the good news is they’ve withstood the Michelin stars garnered by the new, fashionable Indian chefs and are still available under the counter to the discerningly old-fashioned slurper of curries, once a sympathetic waiter spots him leafing long-faced through the tasting menu for a dish he doesn’t want merely to sniff or flick his tongue out at, but to drown in, spill down his front, ruin a suit and suffer three-degree burns for, but at least remember for the rest of his life…

“Would sir, perhaps, prefer…?” Too right he would. And then behold the sick expressions on the faces of those sucking daintily on their tiny banana lolly chops coated in rose-flavoured Jaipur jelly when my whole Madras chicken in steaming red slop arrives, accompanied by a dozen poppadoms and all the Patak’s mango chutney and lime pickle I can eat. For here’s the truth of it: no matter how sophisticated Indian food has become, or how many critics laud its elegance and subtlety, what every curry-lover really longs for is the old stuff, hot, bloody, blatant, screaming out for the accompaniment of ice-cold lager and lime, and not fully to be relished until the diner has run out into the street crying, “Water, water!”

And this, the most innovative contemporary Indian restaurants are coming to understand. I salute them. They respect their clientele.