The balti pan is still warm at the end of the meal. Handle slightly distorted, the steel a shifting shade of heat discolouration. The chicken balti has been reduced to the best bits; the smaller pieces of poultry and the hard caramelisation of the sauce that has thickened and intensified as the red hot pan rests on the wood which separates it from the glass table top that also bears the menu. I take the garlic naan, pushing the last out of the umber sauce towards the periphery, squeezing it off the bread and onto the finger tips. This, right here, is my food nirvana. The pan cleaned to reveal an embossed base. “Shababs, home of the Birmingham Balti”.
It is. The last bastion of The Balti Triangle which has little semblance to its 80’s glory days. I know this first hand; I’ve made good money taking journalists on tours of the triangle. There’s not much left; Milan’s for sweets and samosa, Adils to see the picture of The King eating a curry when he was The Prince (edit* Adil’s have also closed). Shababs. Always Shababs. A demonstration from owner Zaf of how the balti is cooked hard and fast – six, maybe six and a half minutes in those metal pans – served direct to the table. I’ve shared dozens of balti’s with journalists. They’re all amazed at how little it shares with home-style curries that simmer away for hours. It really is unique.
Zaf is there when we eat. It’s been hard for them. The recent protests have had a bad effect on business, and he tells me how on one Saturday he had the usual eleven waiting staff on to serve literally nobody. The reality is that places like Shababs needs Western customers to survive. The appeal to the local community is less because, and frankly, they can eat good curry at home, leaving The Balti Triangle to gain its majority custom from those who go in search of the most Brummie of curry. When the narrative changes to being told that we should fear and resent other communities, leading to people phoning the restaurant to ask if it’s safe to visit Ladypool Rd or messaging on social media to ask if they can still go Sparkbrook, it’s problematic to say the least.
Our meal was brilliant. It always is. Sure I can live without the slightly watery yogurt sauce that comes with the poppadoms, but the rest is superb. Paneer tikka cooked in the tandoor, the red and black of House of Targaryen, a smokey foil for the blistered peppers and onions. A tarka daal cooked in the balti pan, bright and fresh with garlic, ginger, and methi leaves. My balti, the work of a fast hand, that also shows off the vibrant garam masala in all its glory. The textbook garlic naan and mushroom fried rice.
We finish it, just, though I’d never knock anyone for taking a doggy bag home from here, and, in news that won’t surprise anyone, walk hassle-free to the carpark via the chai shop. The recent protests are impossible to gloss over so I’ll use my space here to say my piece; firstly, everyone has the right to a peaceful protest regardless of whether or not I agree with them. Secondly, and more sadly, these protests are an attempt to segregate this city, to ruin the beautiful amalgamation of colour and religion that makes Birmingham so diverse and wonderful. We cannot let this happen and I’m increasingly optimistic that hope will prevail over hate. In all the 26 years I have been going to Shababs I have never wrote about it. I guess I figured it never needed shouting about. Now it does, more than ever. Shababs is a part of Birminghams DNA, it must be protected at all costs.
9/10
