Friday 24th February 2017.
Indian restaurant review number 25 – in Sheffield that is. I was targeting a total of 50 at one stage in the full heat of my madness. Now I’m not sure I even have a target. I want to sit in the summer house more often: the wendy shed at the top of our back garden. There’s the chattering birdlife; at night, the owls – meanwhile the self carries on selfing the self.
A tot of whisky now and then, sequestered in the cramped chess nest up the stairs. Marmalade on toast. Marmite flavoured cashew nuts. A single Werther’s Original. That’s also a satisfying three course meal don’t forget. Especially on an early Sunday evening, lying in bed; the Archer’s Omnibus murmuring across the radio waves like a welcome rain shower.
At the moment, Cutler’s Spice holds a food hygiene rating of just one. Open for business nevertheless. Chef caught licking the chutney ladle or belching over the pakora batter probably. And who hasn’t been guilty of that once in a while? The restaurant itself looked perfectly sanitary – quite swish in fact – and spacious with it. Toilet-wise, the wall of floor-length urinals brought back youthful memories of public conveniences in municipal parks.
The pickle tray offered a stonking six options; including a lime, a mango and a chilli pickle. The starters were less impressive on the whole – bland and timorous bhajis and kebabs. Left my flavourless, prawn bhuna sludge largely untouched. (The chicken chatt a notable improvement.) The main meals similarly misfired: groans rumbled across the field of action – stretcher-bearers arrived with naan bread dressings. Yet the naga dishes detonated pleasingly, blasting away the bhunas like Fred Dibnah used to blast his chimneys. In my opinion – I was beginning to say, until this grumpy, Zen monk, Homeless Kodo, crashed in: “People often say, ‘In my opinion…’ Your opinion is no good – so keep your mouth shut!”