We fancied a curry. Nothing too fancy. The kind where spicing is bold and the menu lists Balti Belt classics that rarely amount to more than just the inclusion of peppers, or maybe double the onions, or maybe an arse worrying amount of chilli powder which, to misquote Gill, is ‘Raj roulette’. We discuss options. The one in Moseley maybe, though that’s gone downhill and they are now allegedly buying in curry sauce, or the one down the road from there, but, no, not that one, because apparently the last time resulted in sitting on a loo for four days straight. There is the one that doesn’t allow alcohol which we instantly discount, because I want — no, need — wine. What about Akbars? Isn’t that the one that used to be a grab-a-granny nightclub? Yes, that one. Never grabbed a granny but can’t imagine it would be that difficult given their average speed and easily gripped flaps of skin. Akbars looks imposing enough next to the TGI’s where I once watched a family of rats nonchalantly cross the car park together. That place sounds just perfect.
Some fifteen minutes later and we’re through the big glass doors of the restaurant. Past the first reception, down the corridor to the second reception, past the big open kitchen with wafts of cooked meat, and oh I’m knackered, there is zero chance I’m trying to find the loo if this is how far away the table is. We sit down. It’s packed. Everyone has naans skewered horizontally on to big metal naan trees and everyone is taking pictures of their naan. From grab-a-gran to snap-a-naan. I’ve just done the marketing for them.
The menu is exactly as I expect, with the added fun of the sticker which says to add certain amounts on to the price of certain dishes, presumably because it would take an hour to walk to the printer. Come for the curry and stay for the arithmetics. We order maybe the worst house red in the city, followed by poppadoms and condiment tray, but not the lime pickle which I specifically ask for and subsequently appears on the bill. The condiments are okay save for the lumpy yogurt thing which has curdled and given-up hope.
The two curries arrive, ordered from different parts of the menu yet identical in appearance and taste. One has more garlic that the other. I suggest sharing but that’s a pointless task given they are both a semi-harmonious blend of bland spice. Westspice, if you like. The naan is good; dangling from its spike like it’s being used to put off strangers from visiting. It’s worked for the next time. The bill is £37 between two. Not expensive but equally not very good.
5/10
