Shrub & The Spesh's World Tour of London

The Official Shrub and The Spesh Curry Awards

2010-03-01T03:37:00.000-08:00

For some months, London's curry connoisseurs have grown ever more a-tizz; the question that burns on their lips like a sloppy jalfrezi: which venue will Shrub and The Spesh crown as Greater London's Greatest Curry House? Smoky corners of tandoori houses across the capital echo to discussion of little else.

Finally, the wait has ended. After Shrub and The Spesh's four-year tour of this glittering city, the winners of their awards were announced in a solemn and dignified ceremony whose historical significance was lost on none of the assembled attendees.

Most hospitable curry house
Bengal Lancer, Barking

Curry house with most imaginative menu
Caraway, Redbridge

Curry house that is most half price if you pay in cash
Half Price Curry House, Kingston upon Thames

Curry house with most powerful hand-dryer
Mogul, Greenwich

Best (in fact, only) pudding
Khyber, Croydon

Curry house most faithfully recreating a Victorian railway carriage
Spice Carriage, Barnet

Best posh curry house
The Painted Heron, Kensington and Chelsea

Curry house most frequented by former defence secretaries
Ghandi's, Lambeth

Pub of the tour
Runners-up
Daylight Inn, Bromley
The Crossed Keys, Kensington and Chelsea
White Cross, Richmond
Winner
Cock and Dragon, Enfield

Best curry house - food
Runners-up
Spice of the Raj, Merton
Tangawizi, Richmond
Planet Popadum, Waltham Forest
Winner
Hounslow Tandoori, Hounslow

Best curry house - ambiance
Runners-up
Mogul, Greenwich
Caraway, Redbridge
Noor Jahab, Sutton
Winner
Planet Popadum, Waltham Forest

Shrub and The Spesh's Official Overall Winner: The Greatest Curry House in Greater London

Planet Popadum, Waltham Forest

The ceremony took place in the magnificent surroundings of Planet Popadum itself. The manager was presented with a certificate sealed with red wax (purchased in the gift shop of Winchester Cathedral) surrounded by a decorative border depicting scenes from the tour (drawn by The Spesh) and presented in a silver-effect frame (bought from the Charing Cross branch of Boots). The manager seemed pleased and took great delight in showing the other diners the fine award – much to their bemusement. Some of his staff, however, were more suspicious, particularly when it became clear the Shrub and The Spesh did not represent the Michelin Guide or a national newspaper, but were, in fact, just a couple of chancers on the internet.

Sadly, Shrub and The Spesh themselves were unable to attend the ceremony, sending less-illustrious representatives in their stead. They gave no reasons. Perhaps the duo could not face the bittersweet finality of the event; maybe they have moved on to other projects of even greater ambition and scope; most likely, Shrub and The Spesh have re-ascended to whatever celestial realm originally gave them form, content that, at last, their work on Earth is done.

Pip pip!

Westminster

2009-12-09T09:15:00.000-08:00

A storm rumbled over Westminster. The Spesh arrived wringing wet and grumbling, his once elegant attire crumpled and sodden. Shrub, however, was better prepared; more remarkably still, he managed to carry his umbrella around all evening without losing it. Meeting at the entrance to Chinatown, the pair opted to go for a warming pint. Luckily Shrub had a pub in mind on the other side of Shaftesbury Avenue.

The Crown

This busy Soho boozer was barely two hundred yards from Shrub's office, but he'd never been inside. Both our adventurers quickly warmed to the place, with its mixed crowd and snug atmosphere. They also enjoyed their pints of Polar Bear, chosen from a wide selection of guest beers. They supped on this crisp ale while speculating on the future of that noble project designed to forever end armed conflict on the continent: the European Union. "Deep in the heart of every Frenchman," intoned The Spesh, his eyes focussed on the middle distance, "one desire eclipses all others: the utter destruction of the United Kingdom." Shrub is often unsure whether his wayward friend is joking when spouting this kind of fanciful gibberish. The sad truth is that The Spesh firmly believes every word.

After a merry half-hour comparing Sarkozy to Napoleon and remarking on the propensity of the French to choose leaders with small-man-syndrome intent on blustering their way through Europe, their date with curry destiny called: Shrub and The Spesh set off to the thirty-third and final curry house of the tour.

Veeraswamy

Reputedly London's oldest curry venue, entrance to this first-floor off-Regent Street restaurant was gained via a little lift. Subdued lighting and pleasant staff greeted the diner, although, once sat, The Spesh found the fixtures and fittings fell short: his seat was three inches lower than Shrub's, and he had to suffer the indignity of asking for cushions. Before long, the brusk and efficient waitress had taken their orders: the Spesh opened with mussels (plump) in a coconutty sauce (aromatic). He savoured every mouthful; his lamb shank main course was very good too: tender and very tasty. Shrub's 'street food' starter was anything but; the painstakingly-prepared filo parcel flavoured with yogurt and pomegranate was quite delicious. His prawn curry main was also a delight: delicately flavoured, which was pleasantly surprising given its initially bland appearance. The bill, which included a couple of small glasses of Cobra, amounted to about £50 each: both Shrub and The Spesh felt this was entirely reasonable.

It was with mixed emotions and stiff upper-lips that Shrub and The Spesh wished each other farewell at Charing Cross. Their adventure was complete; where could they go from here? One thing was clear: it was their civic duty to present the journal of this expedition to a grateful nation. What better record of life in this gilded decade could be left for future generations to savour? The Royal Geographical Society, Public Record Office and the British Library could all expect bound copies delivered by Her Majesty's Royal Mail: Shrub and The Spesh suggest they tell their post room staff to keep an eye out.

Wandsworth

2009-11-06T01:44:00.000-08:00

Shrub and The Spesh could hardly visit the Borough of Wandsworth without sidling by their old haunts on Garrett Lane, where the pair once lived above a branch of Pizza Hut. Their characterful and homely two-storey flat, which had survived a V-1 rocketbomb attack in 1944, was, in 2002, sadly rendered uninhabitable by the overwhelming aroma of Meat Feast Stuffed Crust. It was with sadness the pair moved on.

Our heroes' reminiscences of their year in the borough chiefly focused on pub crawls (although The Shrub also looks back misty-eyed at the cheap council tax). These epic adventures incorporated many of the neighbourhoods' cheerful boozers. The Old Sergeant, for example, with its barrels of bitter delivered by shirehorses and framed photos of the Queen Mother pulling a pint. Another favourite was the Irish boozer Tir Na Nog, where The Spesh once set himself on fire during a lock-in. Shrub was also fond of the Jolly Gardner, a bright and airy pub with a spacious conservatory and attractive green paint-scheme: it is to here the tour turned next.

The Jolly Gardener

No longer the venue the pair remembered, the Jolly Gardener is now a dark, wood-panelled gastropub. Hoping to take their John Smiths (the only ales available) to the conservatory, they were denied access: this space was occupied by a restaurant. Clearly, Shrub and The Spesh have difficulty adapting to change, preferring to inhabit an idealised past forever inviolate against the predations of a capricious world. The pub was actually very pleasant and admirably busy for early-evening on a Tuesday; it even had a nice open fire.

Nazmin

The gentrification of Earlsfield had accelarated markedly since Shrub and The Spesh first put the neighbourhood on London's cultural map eight years ago. Alongside newly tarted-up pubs and bars, a branch of Carluccio's sat proudly - surely a Waitrose was not far behind? Reassuringly, a healthy smattering of independent tool merchants and paint shops remained, which The Spesh found to be of comfort.

On first sight, Nazmin looked a little empty. However, the duo's concerns were misplaced; it soon filled to capacity, and an atmospheric hubbub spread through the room. This smart restaurant is certainly worth a visit. Shrub and The Spesh over-ordered quite rashly, and spent quite a lot, but were at least able to try a variety of dishes: each was equally enjoyable, with the sole exception of the spinach bhaji sidedish that reminded the pair of baked seaweed. Shrub's tasty Captain Patilla comes highly recommended, while The Spesh's duck biriani was nothing less than exquisite: a thrilling mixture of textures and flavours he is longing to try again.

Just one more curry to go. Look out, also, for the official Shrub And The Spesh Curry Awards. Who will be crowned London's ultimate curryshop? A city awaits.

Waltham Forest

2009-09-28T07:34:00.000-07:00

The weather was kind to Shrub and The Spesh; on what was probably the last warm weekend of the year, they cycled from Bethnal Green to the Essex borders along the towpaths of the River Lea in beautiful late-September sunshine. Shrub's steed was a handsome drop-handled Peugeot, while The Spesh was pleased to give his sturdy orange mountain bike an early-Autumn airing. They stopped at a friendly canal-side café in Hackney for cornettos, and at Picket's Lock to bicker about directions. Eventually, after a shortcut through a cemetary (where they stumbled across the well-kept graves of the Krays), our heroes arrived at Chingford station, ready for refreshments.

The Station House

Shrub and The Spesh sat outside this cheap and expansive boozer so as to keep an eye on their trusty bicycles. Opting for manly bitter shandies, their conversation dwelt on future adventures; Shrub doubted whether The Spesh's dream of buying a camper van and touring all of Europe's waterslides was likely to bear fruit, at least until the pair were in retirement: he thought the idea (suggested by their erstwhile friend Sneak) of touring the Anglican cathedrals of England and Wales to review their cafeterias and giftshops seemed a much more appropriate challenge for charismatic young hipsters like Shrub and The Spesh.

Planet Popadum

Well before any food arrived, Shrub and The Spesh decided Planet Popadum was the greatest curry house of their tour. When their dishes proved to be delicious, they concluded that perhaps it was the greatest curry house full stop.

Surely Britain's only outer-space themed Indian restaurant, Planet Popadum was decorated to resemble the set of a 1960s sci-fi show; the walls were painted with a fiery moonscape mural, while domes of stars shimmered in the ceiling; all that was missing was William Shatner wrestling a latex lizardman by the bar. Even the meals had an interplanetary theme: The Spesh opted for a Tandoori King Prawn Space Shuttle (cooked in the "space oven") that had a succulent texture and exquisite taste, while Shrub chose the excellent Jupiter Chicken, supplemented by potato and boiled egg in a sauce just the right side of hot. In short, a fantastically enjoyable dining experience that we urge our readers to try for themselves: Chingford is just twenty-eight minutes from Liverpool Street; trains leave every quarter of an hour. Turn left out of Chingford station and Planet Popadum is two minutes' walk away, next to NatWest.

Penultimate stop: Wandsworth.

Tower Hamlets

2009-08-13T05:38:00.000-07:00

The Spesh arrived at Whitechapel a broken man: a three-day cycle-tour of Cumberland and Northumbria had left him wincing as he walked; he talked of little but his delicate tendons. (He did, however, find time to praise the excellent tandoori supper available at Indiagate in Penrith.) Shrub surveyed with dismay the battered frame and pained expression of his companion - he thought it important to usher his crippled comrade into the first pub they could find.

Grave Maurice

It has been a few months since Shrub and The Spesh have had the privilege of visiting a proper filth-hole drinker. The tattered facade of the Grave Maurice looked exactly what they were after. This being the East End home of the Ripper and the Krays, the pair hoped for a dark and smoky boozer in which behatted ne'erdowells would huddle in conspiratorial groups and occasionally engage in random acts of extreme violence. Sadly, the pub was actually fairly pleasant inside, if a little empty. Shrub and The Spesh drank Coors Light, which is a bit like drinking the fluid that gathers underneath a defrosting fridge.

Baraka Eatery

Shrub and The Spesh intended to visit Tayyabs on Fieldgate Street, having received many recommendations. They were put off by a queue that trailed out into the street. Unsure how to deal with this setback, they dropped in on The Spesh's brother, who lives nearby, where The Spesh began to talk through his various injuries, again. The Spesh's brother's flatmate recommended Baraka, a spacious modern diner opposite the Bell Foundry that gave birth to both the Liberty Bell and Big Ben. Before long, our heroes were sat in a spacious booth in its window.

After perusing the menu, Shrub asked about the provenance of the fish dishes. The helpful waiter pointed out that, despite being labelled as 'catch of the day', the fish was all frozen; he should go for the sizzling platter rather than the fish curries. The Rapchanda flatfish that arrived was perfectly pleasant. The Spesh's also enjoyed his Chicken Shatkora, although it did give him hiccups.

As they ate, The Spesh was honoured to be invited to become an usher at Shrub's wedding. "Will I get a top hat?" asked The Spesh, hopefully. The answer was no, but he secretly plans to wear one anyway.

As the Spesh hobbled off towards the Tube, Shrub could only hope his friend would recover soon. The next trip will involve bicycles...

Sutton

2009-07-15T05:13:00.000-07:00

Shrub and The Spesh have little to report from their stroll round downtown Sutton, a place that contains everything a refined (that is "pompous") and aesthetically-astute (i.e. "self-important") English mind has been trained to most despise. This may be unfair. Perhaps future generations will grow fond of the post-war modernist blocks that pepper the town. And the many nationally-franchised shops, bars, pubs and clubs along the high street may lack character and imagination, but they are not short of customers. The Brobdingnagian drinkeries looked particularly formidable; watch out if you find yourself in Sutton on a Friday night.

The Cock and Bull

Our heroes arrived the day before this friendly pub was due to host a giant Scalextric grand prix. The Spesh (fresh from trips to motor races in Monaco and Le Mans) cursed his luck; Shrub was quietly thankful. The staff were chatty and helpful, and the duo also enjoyed their pints of Honey Dew - very refreshing, but perhaps too sweet to be drunk in bulk.

Noor Jahan

Normally reluctant to give upon on an area, the pair feared they may need to abandon Sutton for a neighbouring parish: there was nary a curry house to be seen. However they soon spied the Noor Jahan and ventured inside. Shrub and The Spesh were first struck by the décor; a modern take on a traditional curry house style, complete with designer flock wallpaper. They were the first to arrive but were soon joined by assorted locals.

After polishing off the traditional poppodums (Shrub was pleased to note they were fresh and warm, which is not always the case) Shrub opted for the chef's special roast lamb, while The Spesh sought to discover The Secret of Noor Jahan. These dishes took longer to cook, so they also ordered starters; a generous chicken chat and a well-presented cashew nut concoction. Shrub soon found he had made the age-old mistake of ordering more than he can eat, but gave it a good go. The lamb was tender with a hot, sour sauce. The Spesh's main was actually a gigantic chicken curry on a large oval platter - a visual feast, but bonier than anticipated.

The pair left Sutton well-oiled and buoyant, happily singing classic Kraftwerk tunes to the night. They were glad to have conquered the neighbourhood without mishap - they were also quietly content with the notion that they are unlikely to ever return.

Southwark

2009-05-26T02:54:00.000-07:00

Most of Shrub's childhood was spent in East Dulwich - until his family decamped to Cheshire, and he discovered for the first time how much nicer everybody is outside London.

Lordship Lane, the neighbourhood's main thoroughfare, is now far more genteel and refined than the shabby street Shrub remembered from the early nineties. He pointed out sites of local interest (the library, the barbers, the Budgens that was once a Seven Eleven) while The Spesh asked increasingly absurd questions about Shrub's early life as a South London street scamp.

The Spesh, who was raised in Hampshire, was incredulous that anyone could spend their formative years in an area boasting so few green spaces in which to drink cider. Shrub explained how, aged fifteen, he was reduced to forging a British Gas ID card before slinking off to central London to drink K's in the Trocadero Centre with his mate. It was on such a trip that he had his ear pierced - a fact he now tries to keep hidden.

Palmerston

This was a nice pub, with plenty of beers to choose from, including the sturdy brown ales our heroes opted for. The Spesh was impressed by the solid mini-benches on the pavement next to this boozer: an innovation that deserves to spread more widely. Shrub remembered the venue as "dog rough" in the nineties but pointed out that the same could be said for every pub in East Dulwich that now serves real ale to media-types.

Curry Cabin

This restaurant has the great honour of being the first curry house that Shrub ever visited, aged perhaps eight or nine. The Spesh is very envious at Shrub's early introduction to the world of subcontinental dining: he ate his first Indian at Sheffield's legendary Balti King aged twenty.

The Curry Cabin has an impressive frontage; many white Ionic columns and a cheerful neon 'Open' sign. It was busy inside too, although, for some reason, everyone was very quiet. Spesh found himself talking in a strange theatrical whisper as he explained his plans for the opening ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics (the climax of which would involve morris dancers, break-dancing JCBs, four dove-white Harrier jumpjets, and David Bowie).

Both Shrub and The Spesh enjoyed their meals. Portions were very generous, which pleased The Spesh; the duck chunks in his dish were satisfying and tasty, while Shrub opted for a whole curried flatfish. He was a little worried when the waiter wandered off to the kitchens to check whether this was possible, implying they didn't make many; but, whether the fish was fresh or frozen, it was as tasty as it was unusual.

Next time: Sutton.

Richmond upon Thames

2009-04-22T07:38:00.000-07:00

After their recent valiant trips to more marginal patches of the capital, Shrub and The Spesh finally received their reward. Did anywhere in Greater London offer a more delightful scene that evening than the Richmond riverside in the soft April sun? Shrub and The Spesh doubt it.

The White Cross

It was high tide and the river was brimming. Our heroes sat outside the White Cross, pints in hand, absorbing the scene; the high peach-dappled clouds, the caramel hues of the bridge, the stately processions of swans. The vista was complete when Shrub claimed to have seen the dad from the Krankies walk by. "It was definitely him!" he insisted to his sceptical colleague, pointing at a retreating figure: "You can tell by the hair".

Some years ago, The Spesh sat outside this same pub and watched an overweight man in a pink shirt park a Porsche on a slipway to the river. The sportcar's owner then sauntered into the boozer like he owned that too. The Spesh, along with five hundred other Bank Holiday drinkers, spent the next hour watching as the advancing tide climbed the slipway, creeping ever closer to the defenceless convertible; the water first submerged the front wheels, then its bonnet, before edging nearer and nearer the car's open windows. The Spesh gleefully recalled the scurrilous cheer that erupted from the crowd when the driver finally burst from the pub and barged through the throng to rescue his Teutonic soft-top from the Thames. It is a priceless memory that will probably comfort The Spesh on his deathbed.

Tangawizi

Shrub had been told that the best curry houses were on the Middlesex side of the river, and so, as the light faded, our game adventurers obediently strode across the flagstone of Richmond Bridge. They soon found a suitable restaurant: Tangawizi was modern and welcoming with attentive service and exacting standards. The poppudums, for example, came promptly and were suberb. Soon the main courses arrived; The Spesh tucked-in to a delightful chicken dish, while Shrub tackled his badami lamb with gusto: maybe the fine weather and beer had bouyed his mood, but Shrub cannot remember a curry as enjoyable over the whole length of the tour. His optimism extended to other matters: Shrub spent the meal predicting the imminent end to the economic recession.

With Shrub’s enthusiastic predictions of green shoots still echoing in their ears, the pair tottered homewards. The Shackleton and Scott of the London curry challenge considered what their next adventure might be. Would they ever attempt the legendary pub crawl along the entire length of the A1 with which The Spesh is still obsessed? (See the entry for Barnet.) And would they arrive at the last pub in Edinburgh's Princes Street only to find they had been beaten by a Norwegian?

But there are a few iceflows yet to be conquered on this expedition: Southwark is next.

Redbridge

2009-02-23T08:27:00.000-08:00

Don't worry readers; Shrub and The Spesh hadn't heard of Redbridge either. That this anonymous and semi-detached Borough is home to a quarter-of-a-million people, spread over twenty square-miles, is a fact that the pair found strangely unsettling. Our buccaneering adventurers began their tour of the parish with a late-afternoon stroll from Ilford railway station to Gants Hill, during which The Spesh entirely forgot to congratulate Shrub on his recent engagement.

The Valentine

The Spesh imagines that this gigantic boozer was once a fine country pub surrounded by rolling Essex cornfields. Whatever the truth of these musings, this impressive old hulk is now marooned in a desert of urban mediocrity next to the Gants Hill roundabout. The innards were cavernous and Shrub and The Spesh had no trouble finding a table. Getting a decent beer was a little trickier. There were only a handful of punters, all of whom were transfixed by a booming football match displayed on at least four giant screens. In a heart-warming scene, the duo received a cheerful "Thanks lads!" as they left, unlikely to ever return.

Caraway

This elegant and expansive Indian restaurant is a cut above the usual neighbourhood curry shop. The owners have clearly made an effort to create something unusual and, by and large, they have succeeded. Features that caught the eye included a pond full of petals by the entrance, as well as an open kitchen complete with flaming hobs. Even the menus were packed with interesting details, with plenty of historical asides about the provenance of the dishes.

Most importantly, the food was very enjoyable. The scran on offer included some imaginative options, and The Spesh took a bit of a gamble on a yogurty starter that, in truth, he did not really like, but his tandoori salmon main course offered a delicate mix of subtle flavours that complemented each other excellently. Shrub's Goan fish curry was tasty; he suspected it contained the remainder of the Spesh's salmon. His pancake starter was also very well received. It consisted of sweet potato and two sauces, one hot, one yoghurt-based. A cheery atmosphere accompanied the meal, and the staff were attentive. Worth looking out for, should you unaccountably find yourself in the Redbridge area.

Next month: Richmond upon Thames.

Newham

2009-01-06T13:07:00.000-08:00

What did Shrub and The Spesh's first expedition of 2009 portend for the coming year? If Shrub's experience of this visit to the London Borough of Newham is any indication, the next twelve months will start with a pleasant surprise, before becoming side-tracked in dead-ends and finally stumbling into mediocrity and disquiet.

First, the surprise: while waiting to meet The Spesh outside Whitechapel tube, Shrub was pleased to see a familiar face emerge from the East London mist; it was The Spesh's brother, fresh from a tour of France and the Benelux nations as lead guitarist in an exciting new trash-funk rock band that has set all the Continent a-buzz. The Spesh had forgotten to mention he had invited his more-talented sibling along on this leg of the tour, and Shrub enjoyed catching up on his adventures.

Once The Spesh eventually turned up, it was agreed that they would alight at West Ham; this proved a mistake. Never before had the explorers been to a duller and more lifeless part of London; the odds of finding a pub, let alone a gem of a ruby retailer, among those bleak residential streets looked slim. They quickly gave up and hopped back on the District Line. After the barren wasteland around West Ham station, Upton Park tube proved more fruitful. Indeed, despite it being a Sunday evening, they were greeted by a thriving, bustling high street that was the very model of what a cosmopolitan metropolis should offer. Our newly heartened trio strolled past brightly-lit shops brimming with punters and selling all manner of sub-continental odds and sods, until they reached a boozer, and sloped inside.

The Duke of Edinburgh

The frontage of this pub gave every indication that it would be the worst sort of high-street beer hall; the insides confirmed this. That said, Shrub was served by one of the friendliest and most helpful bartenders of their travels. Our young adventurers soon settled down with a round of Guinness and a long argument about last year's Formula One season.

The Mango Leaf

This recently-refitted restaurant is located above a bar on the main street. The stairs led to a large and, it must be said, incredibly cold room, dominated by a giant flat-screen TV tuned to an Asian hip-hop channel; The Spesh spent most of the meal being distracted by the improbably-gorgeous raven-haired stunners that danced around the television, to the point of breaking off sentences midway and never completing them. It was pathetic to witness.

The usual poppadum starters arrived. Instead of the normal dips, these appeared to be accompanied by a little bowl of Heinz ketchup, much to the gang's surprise. The waiter, a cheerful student from Goa, was engaging and friendly, and slowly the room warmed up, seemingly from the four-dozen halogen light fittings that studded the ceiling, but Spesh nonetheless kept his coat on.

Soon, the main courses arrived. The Spesh and his brother were very happy with their dishes (a generous lamb biriani and tastily thick king prawn "do piazza") but Shrub was less than satisfied with his prawn dansak; he found it cloyingly sweet, to the point of declaring it the worst curry of the tour. A shame.

It was the last Sunday of the Christmas holidays; as a consequence, Shrub, who is a sensitive creature, could not rid himself of a slightly menacing sense of foreboding that had began in the pit of his stomach and now coloured his whole outlook. The curry had not helped. It was in this spirit that the intrepid group raised their collars against the elements and headed back westward. Lets hope he cheers up next time!

Merton

2008-11-06T02:18:00.000-08:00

Nestled on the southern stretches of the Northern Line, straddling the main southbound road from Tooting, Colliers Wood is a reassuringly unpretentious patch, with very handy access to a giant retail park. It also boasts an enormous abandoned tower block, recently voted the ugliest building in London. This shell of a building dominates the Merton skyline, floating above the rooftops and chimney stacks, and casting a brooding shadow over the rows of semis below. Your heroes speculated at some length why someone saw fit to place millions of square feet of office space in such an unprepossessing locale. Whatever vanguard of British industry once leased the site is now long gone. Pondering such matters, our duo strode forth to explore Merton to its very limits - they wandered as far as the Wandsworth border sign, before turning back.

Colliers Tup

A comforting pint at the Colliers Tup was called for after such an excursion. The pair we pleased to find it to be a rugby pub of the highest standard; comfortable battered leather sofas, wooden floors and decent ale were all conducive to Shrub and The Spesh's usual high-brow chit-chat. Recommended.

Spice of the Raj

This dinky restaurant had tried to make good use of its space. One table, squashed in the recess by the window, looked particularly uncomfortable. Naturally your heroes were offered it on entry - Shrub swiftly demanded the best table in the house, which was the one next to it.

At the risk of declaring yet another neighbourhood curry house an unexpected success, Shrub and the Spesh were very pleasantly surprised. The Spesh even declared his prawn tandoori to be one of the best dishes so far. These foolhardy adventurers also ordered a phall (a spicy dish of legendary potency) that Spesh spotted at the bottom of the menu. The kindly proprietor was careful to warn the pair of the danger, but they ploughed forward with a heady arrogance that is sadly becoming increasingly typical. Never one to turn down a challenge, Shrub tasted a tiny amount on the end of his fork. It was some while before he was able to speak again. Truly the most powerful curry yet tasted - more like torture than food. The Spesh was equally taken aback by its sheer force. The manager just laughed with a "told you so" air that was entirely justified. Satisfied they had done their duty at the very extremes of subcontinental cuisine, the duo repaired to a nearby pub, where Shrub was berated by a lunatic old woman for stealing her chair.

Lewisham

2008-09-12T06:44:00.000-07:00

So far on their tour, Shrub and The Spesh have always sought to break fresh soil in their effort to unearth the ultimate London curry. They lazily disregarded such traditions on their trip to Lewisham, by staying within 100 yards of The Spesh's flat. Shrub was intrigued by Forest Hill, straddling as it does a big traffic junction a quite steep part of the South Circular. He also enjoyed a little police car-chase that the pair were fortunate enough to witness outside the station.

The Dartmouth Arms

This is the closest that The Spesh has to a local. Once upon a time, it was the kind of South London boozer where the brewery had to hire a new landlord every six months because the previous incumbent had run off with the takings. It has now been tarted up no end, and looks almost unnervingly sophisticated, complete with faux scruffy interior, battered comfy chairs and stripped wooden floor. Shrub was impressed. The barman too was a fellow in whom you could have confidence. Very few make an effort to remember punters' orders: others could learn a lot.

Wanting to squeeze the last few minutes out of a rather lacklustre summer, the pair braved the beer garden. The Spesh assured Shrub that his shirtsleeves were more than adequate to insulate him against the crisp September evening, but the pair began to feel a little chilly (and not a little foolish) and soon retreated indoors.

Anika Tandoori

Over the road from The Spesh's luxury bedsit, Anika only recently regained its drinks license from the council. Quite how a tandoori outlet loses its booze permit is something our intrepid duo mulled over at length. It was a Tuesday, and the staff clearly did not expect any sit-in customers: in fact, all the tables were pressed up against the walls. The take-away trade seemed quite flat too: four stocky drivers stood kicking their heels at the back of the shop gossiping loudly.

That the people of Forest Hill should snub this outfit is a shame. Admittedly it is all a bit shambolic and odd. (The menu described one dish as "popular in the Midland"; no word on whether they like it at NatWest). But, despite this, the food was very well prepared and rather good. The Spesh's shishlik sizzled enticingly on a cast-iron plate and was dryly delicious. Shrub was equally impressed by his dish which, with respect to tradition, he forgets the name of. Our heroes speculated that perhaps the credit crunch had hit the commuter belt and that the venue would be busier on the weekend. Based on the food alone, it deserves to be.

The intrepid duo finished the evening off by buying choc-ices in Sainsbury's. They ate them in The Spesh's front room, looking over the road to see if Anika had gained new custom. It hadn't. The waiter stood glumly at the window, staring at the drizzle.

Next time: Merton

Lambeth

2008-08-07T02:25:00.000-07:00

An overcast August sky greeted Shrub and The Spesh on their arrival in the uncharted expanses of Kennington. Their ambling circuit of the Oval cricket ground generated quite a thirst, but it was surprisingly difficult to locate a pub. Just when they were about to give up hope, a shimmering oasis of drinking venues appeared on the horizon, much to the pair's relief.

The Dog House

This raffishly shabby pub was full of potted plants and an endearingly lurid carpet. The Spesh thought better of his initial impulse to request a pint of strong scrumpy: there would be plenty of time for that at the pair's forthcoming trip to the Green Man festival in Powys. Instead, Shrub felt the humidity called for shandies all round. The barman made something of a mockery of an order for two lager tops, spilling foaming fluid everywhere, but seemed admirally unbothered. While he trapsed off to find a mop, Shrub and the Spesh chose to brave the benches lining the pavement outside, given it was summer, despite the risk it might soon start to spit.

Gandhi's

Shrub and The Spesh were enticed into this friendly curry restaurant on the Kennington Road by a photograph of a baffled-looking Geoff Hoon in the window. Hoon's effortless and deft understanding of the subtle intricacies of otherwise opaque Asian cultures was demonstrated most forcefully by his time as defence secretary during the invasion of Iraq: as such, his endorsement of this establishment's cuisine was recommendation indeed. So through the door Shrub and The Spesh dutifully filed. They were not disappointed. Our heroes chose to share the house special platter: at £30 for three courses for two people this was good value, and very tasty. The mixed grill starter would have served for an entire meal in other establishments, and it was only by manfully drawing on otherwise hidden reserves of stamina and strength that the pair made such good headway with the subsequent courses, coffee and After Eights.

The atmosphere was leisurely and amiable, and the establishment was very busy, considering it was a Tuesday. Service was attentive and your heroes wiled away a pleasant couple of hours discussing, they claim, the finer points of ancient Greek democracy and the stark foreign policy dilemmas faced by Chamberlain in the 1930s. Mindful of their obligation not to post so many positive reviews, Shrub looked in vain for something to complain about. He reluctantly had to declare that the pair were well looked after: following the omen of Hoon’s perky visage was a wise move.

Kingston upon Thames

2008-06-18T05:52:00.000-07:00

Smug metropolitan types are quick to snigger at Surbiton. Its silly name and proud sitcom heritage only fuel the scorn. The reader should set such thoughts aside: this leafy corner of the capital has much to offer. The spirits of Margot and Gerry watch over the gentle suburb, as its residents, content in their homely existence and the comforting regularity of their commuter lifestyle, bask in the top-quality amenities and rich cultural calendar that the area can provide. An exciting programme of local events culminates in the annual parade (that once featured a monster truck and a lost Sainsbury's lorry), while culinary offerings include fare from the two fine institutions below.

The Victoria

This Young's boozer has recently undergone a sympathetic facelift, and remains a fine example of a solid high-street hostelry, although Shrub, charitable as ever, thought the menu looked more gastro-enteritis than gastro-pub. The place was packed, chiefly due to a sporting competition that Shrub dismissed as "largely irrelevant", but which The Spesh, formerly a soccer nay-sayer, has enthusiastically embraced. This is largely due to his success in an office Euro 2008 prediction league, on which he stands to win £38. The lack of home-nation representation did little to dampen the locals' enthusiasm for the sight of Holland humiliating the French, which resulted in a lively atmosphere. Shrub and The Spesh were joined on this leg of the tour by some equally-daftly-monikered individuals ("Big H", "Taff", "V", "Colin"), mainly old comrades of The Spesh from when he lived in the neighbourhood. They reminisced of long ago (2004), until hunger got the better of them.

The Half Price Curry House

This restaurant, a long-standing mainstay among Surbiton's social elite, does have a proper name, although The Spesh, despite his loyalty, has never known what it is. The important point to note is as follows: the food is half price if you pay in cash. As such, a tandoori mixed grill, pop-o-doms, dips, rice and a large Cobra ends up at under a tenner. Shrub's Thali, a platter of tantalising Eastern eating the size of a dustbin lid, cost little more. How can this be possible? Skimping on ingredients? The Spesh would fight any man who dared suggest such a thing. A scandalous tax dodge? If so, they are admirably blatant about it. An appalling abuse of migrant labour? Why not visit and draw your own conclusions!

Lambeth is next.

Kensington and Chelsea

2008-05-20T06:03:00.000-07:00

It was a beautiful Friday evening. A Bank Holiday weekend lay ahead, and Shrub and The Spesh could not help but feel at ease with the world as they stepped out of Sloane Square tube. For reasons that were never explained, The Spesh had arrived dressed like a gentleman farmer, complete with a flat cap and a proprietorial hands-in-front-pockets swagger. Shrub was too polite to question this, and settled for gentle mockery. As they strolled the inviting streets in the evening sun, The Spesh wondered aloud quite how he had avoided living in Chelsea. After all, this coveted neighbourhood, where, in Spring, the very gutters overflow with blossom, was so appropriate for a man of his sensibilities. He suspected the reason had to do with something vulgar, like money. For the avoidance of doubt, The Shrub actually lives above an opticians in Lewisham.

The Crossed Keys

Shrub and The Spesh hoped to find a beer garden, perhaps near Chelsea Hospital, but had no luck. Instead they ambled along the river, admiring the Georgian townhouses that line the route. Before long the elegant floral exterior of the Crossed Keys pub came into view. Gasping for a pint, the pair stepped inside. The clientele were suitably Sloaney, and some were celebrating something which all added to the atmosphere. Denied access to what they thought was the beer garden (it was in fact a restaurant, a sorry confirmation of the demise of the English pub under the jackboot of 'fine dining') Shrub and The Spesh settled into a corner to admire the scenery. The pair generally agreed that it was a fine establishment: if they lived nearby, it would soon become accustomed to their, er, custom.

The Painted Heron

This is the poshest curry house that Shrub or The Spesh have ever visited. It was also the most expensive. Luckily, however, it might well be the best. Our heroes plumped for the three-course set menu: this, plus a couple of beers and a post-meal coffee came to £45 each. Regular readers may have gathered that this is triple the usual curry-tour budget, but it is nice to splash out on occasions, and Shrub had reason to celebrate, having recently started a new job which seems to mainly involve going to the pictures. Sometimes posh nosh can be a disappointment, but neither Shrub nor The Spesh have any regrets. The food was delicious, particularly the starters: a selection of succulent meats that was flavoursome and deeply satisfying.

The place had no pretentions either. Despite the elegance of the surroundings, there was an assumption of Cobra and poppodoms, rather than fine wine and amuse bouche. For only the second time on their epic journey, Shrub and The Spesh had dessert. Having declared themselves 'stuffed' after the main course, the arrival of the forgotten final course was daunting. Luckily the dainty portions of sweetness were just right.

Onwards, ever onwards, past the lower slopes and to base camp at Kingston. That can be only mean one thing: find out more next month.

Islington

2008-04-25T09:29:00.000-07:00

Shrub and The Spesh planned to tackle the Holloway Road for this leg of the tour, where they would dine in London's only curry house endorsed by flash-in-the-pan rock legends The Darkness. Back when Justin and his hair-metal brethren ruled the rock roost, the band praised the Red Rose Tandoori as the best Indian eatery in Britain. This was not idle chatter: the chef was hired to cater for their Japanese tour, keeping the band fed and watered from Hokkaido to Toyota City. There were, however, two reasons why Shrub and The Spesh did not make it to the Red Rose: first, it was raining quite heavily; second, they have eaten there before, and it really is horrible.

The King's Head

Pitifully, our heroes' trip to the Borough of Islington got no further than Upper Street. It began with a quick pint in the King's Head, a spacious pub attached to a theatre. Watch out for the gigantic antique till at the bar. The staff were surly but it was a convivial atmosphere full of locals sheltering from the rain. The customers were a bit bohemian as befitted a theatre-pub, but your besuited heroes proved able to ignore these scruffy thesps and sup happily on their pints of Best.

Gufaa

Shrub and The Spesh were too polite to ask how to pronounce the name of this Indian restaurant, which is just over the road from Angel tube. As you would hope for this part of town, Gufaa is quietly impressive. Fixtures and fittings were tasteful and restrained, and the food should please most punters: The Spesh certainly enjoyed his Chef's Special Chicken Curry.
Their only complaint is that, while this venue is entirely satisfactory, and run with a professionalism that is a credit to everyone involved, the whole experience was inherently very forgetable. Shrub can already barely recall the venue at all, although this is not unusual. But even The Spesh suspects that, while it was a pleasant evening, those memories will quickly slip away, leaving, at first, just a hazy warmth, and then, ultimately, nothing at all.

Kensington and Chelsea is next.

Hillingdon

2008-02-24T10:13:00.000-08:00

"We've missed out Hillingdon!" screamed the email from The Spesh, who was clearly panicking. "What are we going to do?!" Shrub's eyes narrowed. He had been a fool to trust the judgement of that buffoon, who was not even capable of compiling an accurate alphabetical list of London boroughs. But this was no time for blame. That would come soon enough. Now was the moment for swift and decisive action: before long, Shrub and The Spesh were sat bickering on the 19.33 service from Paddington to Southall.

Glassy Junction

This unique venue was a real novelty. An old pub filled with Punjabi trinkets and Asian satellite television projected onto a big screen. It was for all the world like being on the set of a Bollywood Western. Your heroes half-expected Lee Van Cleef to emerge from the gents in a sari. The barman was very friendly, and the mixed clientele were a testament to the vibrant diversity of modern Britain: all races and creeds united by their burning thirst for a pint. Beers on tap included a range of Indian lagers, and Guinness. Inexplicably, Shrub and the Spesh chose the latter. It was flat and tasted funny.

Sahib's Lounge (or something along those lines)

Doubtless the locals in Southall regard the traditional provincial curry shop, with its plinky music and velvet flock wallpaper, as twee and absurd. Instead, Southall Broadway was lined by expansive eateries stuffed with halogen lights and plasma tellies, and with white ceramic tiles on the floor. The Spesh didn't like the look of any of them: it would be like eating in a space shuttle. Nevertheless, "when in Hyderabad..."

The restaurant was empty and the service was helpful. Shrub chose to sample the trotter curry. The waiter explained that he would find it"quite fatty" and that "Asian people like it". Shrub stood firm in his order. The Spesh was slightly repulsed by the idea of Shrub's sheep feet, and opted for a vegetarian lentil affair. The dishes arrived and Shrub tore into his trotters. They were indeed very fatty, with a gelatinous feel. In truth they tasted only of their curry sauce, but a side dish of samosa helped add some bulk to the meal. Meanwhile, the Spesh found his veggie dish to be prefunctory at best, but that may be because a cold had rendered his tastebuds defunct. Overall, the brave explorers were glad to have finally (and actually) ticked off the last of the 'H's.

Hounslow

2008-02-02T04:33:00.000-08:00

Descending from the Piccadilly Line in Hounslow, Shrub and The Spesh were startled by a terrific howl. It echoed through the streets, reflecting from the shop-fronts, and so seemed to rise from everywhere at once. What was this spectral roar? What phantom had emerged from the hag-ridden mists of antiquity to haunt this shabby suburb? Our monster soon appeared over the rooftops: a bloody great airliner, impossibly low, with fans a-whining and flaps down, blinking and flashing in the gloom of a damp January night. Surely just seconds away from touching the earth again, it probably left Korea while Shrub was having his breakfast. Another arrived every minute. For the first time, Shrub could appreciate the drawbacks of living under a flight path. Maybe the nimbies had a point after all? The Spesh was less sympathetic: "Cheaper rents." he said, sniffing the air for the scent of a curry.

Hounslow Tandoori

First impressions of this restaurant were poor: it was empty and ludicrously overlit. But no alternatives could be found on a short tour of the town centre. This was unusual. It had become a maxim of the tour so far that no matter where the intrepid pair landed, there would be a ratio of curry houses to pubs of at least 1:1. The Hounslow Tandoori was a reluctant choice.

Our heroes were proved to be fools: this curry outlet might be lit up like a Premiership stadium on the night of a midweek replay, but the food here is excellent, from the delicious dips that accompanied the poppudums, to the exquisite sauces and vegetable dishes that formed the main courses. Shrub rediscovered his appetite, previously dulled by lacklustre curries in uninspiring surroundings. The decor here remained mediocre, although a jolly display of copper pots lined the wall: the housing for an all-you-can-eat-for-a-fiver lunch buffet. The reader would be well advised to make their way to this establishment and partake in their fare. It was curry as she is meant to be spoke: a great British dish served and eaten by gentlemen.

The Bulstrode

It was time to go home, although the feckless duo treated themselves to a stop at the pub by the station. The Spesh once heard that Hounslow's local tramp slept in a sleeping bag made from a windsock. No locals could confirm the story. The Shrub is by turns amused and appalled by the fanciful nonsense in which The Spesh routinely trades, though he never tires of the entertainment.

Finally, the H's are over. Islington is next.

Havering

2007-12-18T04:12:00.000-08:00

It took Shrub and The Spesh some months to summon the mental and physical strength necessary for this trip to the London Borough of Havering, which is London's most easterly borough, and, it should be emphasised, a long, long way away.

The Essex Yeoman

The night was piercingly cold. We did not fancy wandering too far afield and this pub benefited from being directly next to Upminster tube station. Inside, hordes of honest Essex yeomanry had settled down to watch the football, giving a lively atmosphere in which to try the local ale (Carling, apparently). Shrub spent a lot of time complaining about the tradesmen who were making a shabby job of fixing his bathroom.

Alishan

A few dozen yards down the road, Shrub and The Spesh found this teeming curry restaurant. Let's begin by listing what we found objectionable about this venue. First, it was full of sixth formers. Second, service was so slack that the waiter, who had a cold, un-self-consciously coughed over our dishes as he brought them to our table. Thirdly, fourthly, and fifthly: the crockery was oddly shaped; the cutlery was flimsy; we had to scrounge napkins from another table. You get the idea.

But, despite this, neither Shrub or The Spesh would hesitate for a second to recommend this restaurant wholeheartedly. In short, the food was great. Spesh's lamb shank madras was incredibly satisfying, with succulent meat that slipped off the bone. Shrub was equally pleased with his tasty offering, although, true to form, he has no recollection of what it was. This was well worth the journey, and we think you should go too.

Hounslow is next.

Harrow

2007-09-26T03:46:00.000-07:00

Never has a curry tour destination been such an anticlimax for Shrub. "Harrow" had conjured images in his mind of public schools and endless playing fields studded with country pubs. Against these baseless bourgeois fantasies, quite unbecoming to a lifelong leftist, the nineteen-eighties red brick architecture of Harrow's town centre proved something of a disappointment. While the town's residents may have been let down by civic architecture - the council offices proudly displayed a sculpture of a concrete slab outside - they have been blessed in other ways. Harrow contains an impressive variety of ethnic restaurants, meaning that the locals need never go hungry.

The Fat Controller

After exploring the high street, Shrub and The Spesh stopped for a Guinness at the Fat Controller, probably the finest-monikored venue of the tour so far. Conversation focussed on matters financial: Spesh, who, let it be remembered, once had a letter printed in The Economist, explained the intricacies of the Northern Rock bank run, while Shrub railed against the the iniquitous customer service at the Strand branch of HSBC. The locals looked a rough bunch to Shrub: let's hope it was a salutory experience when these rough diamonds demonstrated great public spirit by reuniting him with his satchel after, following tradition, he left it behind upon leaving.

The Vintage Restaurant

As they wandered off to find a ruby-retailer, several establishments were rejected by The Spesh for being "overlit": the comfortable-looking environs of The Vintage were deemed suitable. It was a good choice: this venue boasted tasteful interior design and friendly, obliging staff. The specials were perhaps less than special. Indeed, fairly ordinary. However, the food was of a good standard and the atmosphere was convivial. The Spesh loved the chilli-pickle popadum dip in particular. Other diners were similarly impressed: a group of American IT contractors showed their appreciation by being incredibly loud, which we understand to be a tradition in their homeland. In short, Harrow was proclaimed by Shrub and the Spesh to have been a 'vintage' stop on the tour.

Havering is next, wherever that might be.

Haringey

2007-08-13T04:36:00.000-07:00

A clutch of lightning bolts adorns the Borough of Haringey's coat of arms, symbolising the signals transmitted from the pioneering television mast at Alexandra Palace. On learning this, Shrub, who grew up in the shadow of the Crystal Palace transmitter to the south, snorted with derision. As he climbed the winding hill up to Alexandra Palace, he found the sight of the Crystal Palace tower on the far horizon to be a great comfort. The Spesh was also heartened by its lonely grandeur. It was a shame, he suggested, that a viewing platform had not been included. Approaching his nemesis, the Haringey anti-tower, Shrub could not help but smirk at its puny appearance. The setting was, however, magnificent, with great views across London.

The Pheonix

The pub at the Palace had the atmosphere of a rock festival, with a group of locals sat in the sun playing guitars well, and singing badly. The Spesh considered requesting Lynyrd Skynyrd. Tuborg, a Copenhagen brew, was on tap, but tasted a little funny.

Benji's Balti

Down the hill a bit, Shrub and The Spesh found an impressive little scran-outlet that deserves a loyal following. Service was efficient and yet not intrusive, and the curries were tasty. Shrub's prawn dish was very satisfying and The Spesh enjoyed his dansak, mopping it up with a solid wodge of chapatti, while explaining how dry breads are increasingly eclipsing Hovis in his bread bin, because they make fewer crumbs.

The next stop is Harrow.

Hammersmith and Fulham

2007-08-03T06:11:00.000-07:00

Many centuries after the motor car is rendered obsolete, the Hammersmith Flyover will remain. It shall be preserved, like a Roman aqueduct, for future generations to enjoy; those graceful lines will be silhouetted against another ten thousand summer skies, until the returning glaciers finally grind this latter-day megalith into the London clay.

Meanwhile, picture this: Shrub and The Spesh, dwarfed by the flyover's sturdy stanchions, pottering through the centre of Hammersmith in search of the river, and, more particularly, a nice place to have a quiet pint.

The Dove

The Thames upstream of Hammersmith Bridge is a great place for a riverside pub crawl. Sadly, we only had time to visit a couple of drinkers before seeking out an Indian. The Dove was one of our stops. The balcony overlooking the river is highly recommended.

The Spice of India

This is Shrub and The Spesh's best guess at the name of this restaurant. Their broken and aged minds can no longer be expected to remember this kind of detail. Shrub is barely able to recall what he ordered, although The Spesh can declare that his chicken saag was delicious: its tangy, almost fruity, flavour was very enjoyable, and he said as much to the bloke who ran the place. A great success: our window seat even had an impressive view of the flyover.

Haringey is next.

Hackney

2007-05-02T09:32:00.000-07:00

One year has passed since Shrub and The Spesh first hesitantly crossed the threshold of an empty tandoori house in Barking, thereby commencing their historic tour of London's curry venues. Much has happened since then: The Spesh now greatly values the structure and purpose that this tour provides to his otherwise rudderless existence (although it is a source of some grief to him that the tastiest curry he ate in the last twelve months was on the Gloucester Road in Bristol).

Indeed, as time passes, it becomes ever more clear that this venture will rank chief among this unworthy pair's more noble deeds, clearly eclipsing Shrub's sterling efforts to bolster Britain's beleaguered monarchy during the year of the Golden Jubilee, or the occasion when The Spesh paid a man to adopt "Pingu" as his middle name.

The Lion

We chose Stoke Newington as our venue: The Spesh once lived in a nearby squat and wanted to show Shrub the delights of Clissold Park, a charming and well-kept set of municipal gardens that contain an aviary and a pond full of terrapins. The Spesh is quick to contrast this with neighbouring Finsbury Park, which contains a pond full of syringes, and which, he argues, should be levelled to make way for a motor-racing circuit capable of hosting the British Grand Prix.

We celebrated our anniversary, and the unseasonably fine weather, with a jug of Pimm's in The Lion, a nice-enough pub on Church Steet. We drank from pint glasses, so as to preserve some semblance of masculinity, while the other punters roared at the football.

Rasa

We also glammed it up when dining; Rasa is a bit more classy than our usual curry-stops. We opened with a mix of Indian breads, which were very interesting, but, in fact, less satisfying than a couple of poppadoms. For a main, Shrub had a delicious duck dish with a thick gingery sauce. The Spesh enjoyed an unpronouncable fishy curry that was, by itself, a little bland, but great when accompanied by the vegetable side. The staff were incredibly polite too, although perhaps a tad pushy. All in all, a success. Next month: Hammersmith and Fulham.

Greenwich

2007-03-02T08:23:00.001-08:00

After a circuitous journey through south-east London, Shrub and the Spesh eventually arrived in Greenwich. It was now quite late on a crisp spring evening. The Royal Naval College's Portland stone glowed in the moonlight, peering in smug distain at the cuckoo's nest of assorted trinkets that is the Canary Wharf development. We strolled along the water's edge, past Wren's proud pile, to the Trafalgar Tavern.

The Trafalgar Tavern

This riverside pub has a pleasingly nautical ambiance and a fine list of ales: a snug environ within which to sup and chat. The Spesh had once had a works Christmas lunch in that very pub, where a bloke from his office recounted an amusing tale about when he had been arrested for subversion in Bahrain after accidentally setting a beach hut on fire. Two pints later, curry beckoned. The Spesh asked for a recommendation from the barman and off we wandered, becoming lost, again.

Mogul

This bustling curry house on the corner of Greenwich market was crammed with hungry locals. The self-effacing staff bent over backwards to serve us (sadly not literally) and the curries were excellent. Spesh took great satisfaction in pulling the richly-scented meat from bone of his chicken dish, while Shrub found his meal had the perfect mix of "spiciness and sourness". He finished the whole lot: a first in our many borough tours.

A word of caution: some prankster has removed the hand-drier in the gents and replaced it with the engine from a 747. Keep your wits about you.

Hackney is next.

Enfield

2007-01-22T08:04:00.001-08:00

Thanks to the silly name, Cockfosters is king of the last-stop-on-the-tube suburbs. Everyone has heard of it, but few have been, which is a shame. The visitor should, however, be aware that Cockfosters contains just one pub. After a fruitless search along the shopping parade that lines the A111, and desperate speculation about whether a theatre for special-needs children was likely to contain a bar, we eventually asked in a branch of Threshers. The sales assistant drew a helpful if convoluted map that directed us to a comfortable boozer behind a cricket ground.

The Cock and Dragon

The Cock and Dragon was a snug refuge on a bleak Sunday afternoon. It had the atmosphere of a relaxed hunting lodge: a stuffed pike and a carved hawk surveyed the three of us as we nestled in leather armchairs and enjoyed our pints. (It should be noted that this was the first occasion that a GURL had been invited to accompany us on a visit. Readers can be reassured that the chat was wholesome and dignified, as befits mixed company). The pub also sold Chinese food, although that was clearly of little use to us.

Anuraag

The neighbourhood may have lacked much in the way of hostelries (the drought of boozers made Shrub fear he had stumbled into some kind of puritanical temperance community) but we were offered a wealth of choice when it came to curry houses. We counted four. Choosing one was a hard decision: the outfit nearest the tube eventually got our vote.

Anuraag was homely and clean, if a little quiet. This was not surprising as it was a Sunday evening in the suburbs. The service was efficient and unobtrusive but Shrub found the menu to be uninspiring. Sadly, due to inexcusable laziness, Shrub took so long to record his remarks on the visit that these are the only impressions of the restaurant that have remained in his mind. Lets all hope he will be a bit more spritely next time. The buffoon.

Ealing

2006-12-22T03:50:00.000-08:00

The Spesh once spent a sweltering summer living in Ealing, but never warmed to the place. Admittedly, he actually lived some distance from Ealing town centre, in a flat next to the Hangar Lane gyratory system, with a bloke from Devon. He found this to be a slightly odd part of London: under that hazy July sky, The Spesh imagined himself to be inhabiting England's equivalent of the San Fernando Valley, an infinite stretch of sprawling storage depots and Chinese cash & carries intersected by humming urban motorways. He did not regret leaving.

The heart of Ealing is to the south however, and reached through Ealing Broadway station. Shrub thought he had been there before, for a wedding, but could only really remember the Church ceremony being very Roman Catholic, complete with smoke and bells. That's what you want at a wedding, a bit of fire and brimstone.

Finnegan's Wake

After a bit of an amble, and a few of Shrub's holiday stories from an exhausting jaunt to Cuba, we ended up in an expansive and overlit Irish pub that smelt of bleach. The Spesh has of late developed a taste for Jamesons and ginger ale: he ordered two. It struck Shrub as a drink for very elderly women, but it tasted nice enough.

Monty's Tandoori

Monty's was the first Nepalese restaurant of our tour. Like Finnegan's, the lighting was harsh. The service was lazy but it was Christmas time and the staff could be forgiven for having hung up every light available at Woolworths and indulging in (one assumes) festive banter while they should have been serving us. The curries were more than adequate but lacked any distinct essence of Nepal. Neither of us have been to Nepal of course, but we were nonetheless disappointed that the curries tasted like they would do in a non-Nepalese curry house.

We stopped in at the obligatory soulless Weatherspoons on the way back to the station. The Spesh suggested a few minutes of fun on the pub quiz machine. We left 20 minutes later £5 worse off and bidding each other the very best for the festive season we set back to the Metropolis.

Croydon

2006-11-11T11:01:00.000-08:00

Breaking with tradition, we chose a Friday night for our adventure to Croydon. This had two consequences: first, we both had a couple of post-work pints in us before heading out; second, it meant the curry house would be packed.

Frequently dismissed by smug Zone-Oners as "the arse end of nowhere", Croydon has proudly adopted a barely more prestigious title as "the home of Nestle UK". This bustling metropolitan satellite of London is not quite a city in its own right: it trailed behind Brighton & Hove in the last round of city nominations. But it can boast an impessive collection of towering post-war architecture, as well as some noteworthy nineteenth century buildings that include the magnificent municipal library. The Spesh in particular quickly warmed to the place.

Green King
Our first stop was a Green King pub by the station. We intended to start in a fairly filthy boozer, and this was just the ticket, although it had been a close call between this and a neighbouring Wetherspoons. Pumping dance music got steadily louder as we supped our beers, while, all around us, Croydonites in townie jeans and hairdresser haircuts started their evenings of revelry.

Heading on to the entertainment district we passed endless banks of chain bars and nightclubs. Shrub asked two bouncers where the nearest curry house was: in spite their frosty exteriors, they proved very helpful. It just went to show that inside every Nazi is a hippy trying to get out.

Khyber
The Khyber curry house was a revelation. In all of our travels so far, this was the busiest curry house and had the best atmos. The meal started promisingly. Shrub went to the loo, and by the time he had returned, the Cobras had been ordered and a platter of popadums was waiting. (Unfortunately the Cobras did not in fact show up, so we ordered again with our food order). Shrub sampled a delicacy which turned out to be Indian scotch eggs in a curry sauce, and none the worse for that. The Spesh had a more traditional curry which he polished off with abandon.

The upselling was slightly annoying, and we were talked in to ordering desserts for the first time on our adventure. The Spesh had an Indian ice cream that tasted like it has been in the freezer since 1994. Shrub had a kind of dumpling in syrup. We think they saw us coming. Overall though, this was a successful meal and we said as much in the thoughtfully provided guestbook.

After perusing the amusing messages left by previous punters (mostly favourable, but with the occassional "shite" or rhyming slang play on the restaurant's name) we decided we needed a sharpener for the journey home. Passing a pub blasting out Black Sabbath, we knew we had found our place. We got a few quizzical looks as we entered, and polite enquiries as to our comfort. It seemed to Shrub that metallers can be just as shallow and self important as any other pop tribe. We finished our Fosters and left them to wallow in their own sense of self importance.

Next month: a grand Christmas curry in Ealing.

The City

2006-10-05T02:56:00.000-07:00

It is seven years since Shrub and The Spesh ceased to be students (this might prove a surprise to some: Spesh's affection for tinned spaghetti is well known) but the wintery bite of an October evening still manages to tug some hidden "back to school" work-ethic from this otherwise feckless pair. The neoclassical limestone of the City of London seems an appropriate place to reluctantly relinquish the pleasures of an indolent summer: behind these grandeous facades, proper business is done.

But not quite yet: stood beneath the frontage of the Bank of England, The Spesh could not resist recounting, again, the tale of when he had attended a drinks reception there, and had sneaked onto its broad balcony with a small group of other troublemakers. "All the money's gone!" one ne'erdowell shouted at the pedestrians below, although sadly none of the besuited commuters were paying attention. The Spesh spent much of the rest of that evening, his fragile mind addled by the central bank's gratis plonk, in the company of the skater dudes who congregated beneath the Royal Exchange, although his first-hand memories of this are patchy to say the least. Shrub listened to this story patiently, perhaps as one might humour an elderly and forgetful relative who is explaining the plot of a favourite Dick Francis novel for the eighth time.

The Counting House

We wandered down Cornhill, stopping at the Counting House, an enjoyable City drinker in a converted banking hall. The main room was huge, all dark wood and chandaliers, with a bulky island bar in the middle, but nonetheless very busy. We sat upstairs, overlooking the hubbub at the pumps, impressed by the number of people milling about below. Outside, the light was fading: Shrub decided this was good venue for the winter months. We drank in the atmosphere and nursed our pints before heading on.

Kasturi

Aldgate High Street is probably in the City, but we have not actually checked in case it turns out we ate in a neighbouring borough. But, ignoring that, it is fair to say that this was the most successful curry for several months. The platter of cooked meats that we chose for a starter was particularly tasty, with a dry spiciness we both enjoyed, and service managed to be attentive without being intrusive. What's more, Shrub was able to walk home afterwards, which will seem quite a luxury in a month's time: our next destination is Croydon.

Camden

2006-09-15T06:43:00.000-07:00

For the latest leg of our tour of this smoky and heretical city, we needed to find a destination in the London Borough of Camden. Stretching from Bloomsbury to Hampstead, Camden is a hodgepodge of different distinctive neighbourhoods, and finding a location that encapsulated the feel of the borough was always going to be a tall order. So we went in the middle: Camden Town.

The World's End

Both Shrub and The Spesh regard Camden Town with some distaste. Particularly offensive are the men on the street trying to sell skunks to passers-by, as if the woodland mammals of North America aren't under enough pressure already. But, as we were there, The World's End was the obvious drinker to opt for. Billed as the biggest pub in Britain (although The Spesh was under the impression this was in Guildford) it could have done with more than four bar staff. The atmosphere was cheerful though, with small-time pub bands huddling round tables dripping with spilt lager, while goths and men in Megadeth t-shirts waited patiently at the bar.

We found a dark corner, illuminated solely by the lights of a darts-themed fruit machine endorsed by Phil "The Power" Taylor, and talked about this and that. The Spesh recalled he had once watched the Grand National in the World's End, with the commentary periodically interrupted by a friend of his reading passages from a book he had found in Camden market about keeping crocodiles as pets.

Camden Tandoori (or something like that)

The curry venue for the evening was functional, if mostly forgettable. The staff were very friendly though. We had begun to expect a meal a little out of the ordinary when the popadoms arrived (the golden unspoken rule of ordering popadoms is one each, plus one) and we were asked whether we wanted dips. This was such an unexpected question that Shrub was momentarily stunned. The Spesh took over and confirmed the need for dips which arrived laid out on a lovely circular dish.

There is very little else the Shrub remembers about the rest of the meal, apart from the strange accompaniment which we ate with great curiosity. Did it contain tofu? vegetables? some as yet unexperienced meat from the Indian subcontinent? No: it contained cheese. This just about topped off a quite dream-like dining experience brought on by a combination of The Spesh's impending cold and Shrub's fatigue and hunger and no doubt the smell of the skunks.

Sorry readers. We will try harder in future to search out some really noteworthy curry houses. The City of London is next.

Bromley

2006-08-16T03:06:00.000-07:00

The leafy neighbourhood of Pett's Wood was our destination on this stage of the tour, an area chiefly populated by retired bank raiders.

The Daylight Inn

According to a cabbie the Spesh once hailed at Chiselhurst station, the 1970s South London building society robbers who didn’t fancy life on the Costa would pay cash for a half-timbered house in Pett's Wood. They would bury the remainder of the loot under the shed until the heat passed. While waiting at the bar of The Daylight Inn, a local boozer, Shrub decided many of the punters would certainly be quite comfortable opening up a Securicor van with an angle-grinder.

This large ivy-coated pub opposite the train station had an appealing mock-Tudor architectural style that would have looked twee on a smaller building, but was carried off here with some aplomb. The interior was less impressive, but it was a sunny evening, and the beer garden served us very well. Drinks seemed good value too.

Little India

There were four curry houses near the station. (There was also a store called the Pett's Wood Pet Shop.) We opted for Little India on the basis that it was the only curry house with any customers. We took that either to be an endorsement of Little India or condemnation of the other three; in any case, Shrub imagined its name was a pun on a popular BBC sketch show, and the Spesh liked the blue neon signage, so it was good enough for us.

The decor was clean and modern which suited the small interior. Decorated in blue and white with an orchid on each table it reminded Shrub of a Pizza Express. There are worse restaurants to model your colour scheme on, but not many. However it was light and cheerful.

We opted for the 'Little India Delight', a set menu for two that promised a selection of tandoori meats to start and a choice range of traditional dishes as the main course. It started well: the tandoori chicken and lamb were very flavoursome and cooked well. The portions were slightly too big though, and the main course suffered by comparison. A collection of dreary stew-like curries followed which failed to excite the taste-buds. We left a little deflated (albeit inflated by the giant starter). At £30 for two, we felt that the Delight menu had the potential to be good value, but the execution let it down.

As we waited at the station for the service to Victoria, bathing in sulphurous pools of light under the regulation blue lamp posts, Shrub commented on Hopperesque air of loneliness that imbued the scene. But that's what an A-level in Art gives you: a limitless capacity for bullshit.

The London Borough of Camden is next.

Brent

2006-07-19T02:59:00.000-07:00

Our excursion to Brent didn't get as far as Wembley: travel looked too much of a faff. We chose to disembark at Kilburn instead.

The Sir Colin Campbell

It was a lovely evening. Kilburn High Road, lined chiefly by bookmakers' shops, basked under a cloudless July sky. Above the chatter of the drinkers milling about outside corner pubs, a giant tar-spreader beeped and rumbled as it resurfaced the road. The pubs did all look very lively, although not our chosen boozer, a dour and sparse establishment full of red-faced Irishmen who went silent as we entered. Brilliant. We sat by the window, where the Foster's logo engraved in the glass cast the shadow of a giant "F" across Shrub's face for the entire session.

The slightly mystical and disturbing nature of the Kilburn High Road had been impressed upon us as soon as we left the tube station. Several giant murals on a railway bridge depicted scenes of pixies and time-travellers, and had prompted reminiscences about the Glastonbury Festival. Shrub regailed the massed audience of one with his story about sneaking into the 1998 festival in a giant fertiliser drum towed behind a local farmer's Land Rover. It was in this vein, bouyed up by shandies and lager tops that we headed towards our venue, Kovalam.

Kovalam

If you have ever seen an eighties brat pack film featuring a discoteque, you will have some idea about the mood lighting in the restaurant. The mirrors were back-lit in violent rainbow hues giving the impression of being on the set of Top of the Pops circa. 1983. Nonetheless, the place was clean and cheerful.

Shrub attempted several times to ask our waiter which South Indian dish he recommended. The result was the waiter pointing out every South Indian dish on the menu in the section marked "South Indian Dishes". Shrub's impatience got the better of him after a while and he chose the crab dish. While by no means a disaster the meat unexpectedly arrived in its shell and Shrub spent a messy half hour extracting crab meat with a fork and a nut cracker.

The Spesh had a prawn korma that could have had a few more prawns. He also tried some savoury doughnuts and potato bread which proved a good accompaniment to the sauce. In short, it was a functional meal, but we would not rush back.

Next month: Bromley.

Bexley

2006-06-07T02:25:00.000-07:00

We planned to visit Thamesmead on this leg of the tour: the only district of London named by holding a public competition. (The prize was £20). The reader should not be surprised that an unfortunate confusion at Waterloo East, where the railway lines spill from the station like undercooked linguini, meant we ended up on a train to Bexleyheath. Shrub was not afraid to say he was relieved at this turn of events having not steeled himself sufficiently for a night out on the notorious Thamesmead estate.

King's Arms (Head?)

The sultry evening that we were lucky enough to enjoy led us to the only pub on the high street with a beer garden - or so we thought. Having purchased our Courage Best we were informed by the barmaid (who had taken a shine to The Spesh) that what we thought was a beer garden was not. Perhaps it was a mirage or hallucination brought on by a rancourous debate about the role of the state with particular reference to town planners (this was one of The Spesh's favourite topics - he thought they should all be fired).

Nonetheless, it was a pleasant enough pub which sported a jukebox offering two million tunes. Somehow the cream rose to the top of the selection and we were treated to a blast of Dire Straights and Oasis. The locals sang along merrily in cod Manc accents and we took our leave.

Akash Tandoori

For the first time in this tour, we took notes. The manager of the Akash Tandoori probably concluded that this meant we were Customs officials doing a VAT inspection. As such, not only will this entry actually contain the names of what we ate, our meal will have gone through the books too.

We chose our venue partly on the basis of a large brass plaque by the door: the restaurant had been opened by none other than the Mayor of Bexley! Senior members of local government are not going to endorse any old establishment, and we suspected Councillor David Todd-Dunning knew a thing or two about good eating. This was confirmed when we spotted his well-fed image in a photographer's shop on the way home.

We were right to have faith in our elected representatives: the scran was good. The poppadom dips were the best so far (including a nice tomato-based one that we both enjoyed) and our dishes were satisfying and well presented. The Spesh chose a Murg Shahi Tukra, where solid chunks of chicken sat on in a flavoursome sauce, while Shrub had Nawabi Murgi Stick ("a superb eastern majestic dish") that he found a little less than majestic but quite edible. Though by no means a poor dish, Shrub made a mental note to order a spicier offering next time. The coconut and cream-based sauce lent itself well to eating with a naan, but it lacked the defining flavour to make it memorable.

No free drinks this time, but we did finish with half-time oranges and a hot towel. Brent is next: "Hello Wembley!"

Barnet

2006-05-18T04:07:00.000-07:00

King's Head

High Barnet, perched at the top of the Northern Line, feels very detached from the seething metropolis to the south. In fact, in the May drizzle, the steeply rising High Street reminded The Spesh of the western districts of his own beloved Sheffield. Despite the weather, we both warmed to this leafy borough, with its wooded hills studded with thirties semis. Perhaps the main drawback to a life in this corner of the capital would be the epic commutes.

Walking up the hill, and suddenly caught by the strengthening rain, we sloped into the King's Head (or Arms?), a nicely grotty boozer with all the traditional features: battered leather sofas, oak panelling, towering fruit machine cabinets, flock wallpaper and a yellow-tinged video projection of the Champions League final. The barman was cheerful, and the local brew "AK" was decent enough.

The Spesh spent much time here setting out his plans for a pub crawl along the length of the A1. This venture (his "personal Everest") is a topic to which his conversation routinely returns. It is to Shrub's credit that he is so patiently indulging here despite his private prediction that this is one summit the Spesh will never conquer.

The Spice Carriage
The drizzle was now a downpour but luckily our ultimate destination was not far away. A mere ten strides from the pub was the Spice Carriage. As we entered the door, we stepped back in time. The curry house was decorated like a Pullman railway carriage: an ingenious use of a very narrow space, and one which created an instant atmosphere of adventure. The detailing was immaculate - from the overhead luggage racks to the scenes of exotic flamingo-filled lands glimpsed though the picture windows.

Alas Shrub felt his dish (a 'ghost' from the chef's special menu) did not quite live up to the etherial ambience of the restaurant (or by the name of his dish). He was shouted down by the Spesh, whose lamb and chicken curry, presented on a lettuce-lined platter, and also a chef's special, was judged to be top notch. Our dining companions (who recommended the venue) appeared equally satisfied with their meals. The service was friendly and unobtrusive, and we were presented with a a complimentary glass of Baileys to close the meal. The Spesh reckons everybody secretly loves Baileys. Perhaps the only exceptions are those who were bought a pint of it on their eighteenth birthday, and spewed the lot into the passenger footwell of their mum's Honda Civic. They tended to be more ambivilent.

It was a productive evening. Shrub and the Spesh recruited a new Co-head of Special Projects to join their burgeoning business empire, and succeeded in their secondary objective: procuring gratis drinks at every destination.

With the town hall of the forlorn borough of Barking & Dagenham (our first destination) now in the hands of the Nazis, we spent our trip back down the Northern Line speculating about the Barking fascists' future plans. Neighboring Bexley will be our next stop on the curry World Tour of London. Will it escape annexation by jack-booted former Ford workers yearning for Lebensraum? And will we stop blithely making light of what are clearly very serious matters? Find out next month.

Barking and Dagenham

2006-04-23T14:21:00.000-07:00

Bengal Lancer

We can't remember the name of the filthy boozer we went to first, but we do remember the broken fruit machine mocking us with its faulty wheels of fate. We reached the pub through the centre of Barking, as neglected a town centre as you are likely to find. The park with the ruined medieval building (close to the Tesco superstore) where the proud folk of Barking celebrated the Golden Jubilee in 2002 only added to the pathos.

The ales were fine - Boddington's, served a little too cold - but the locals scorned us through empty eyes so we left agreeing that we had never been in such a desolate boozer. Nethertheless, we also agreed that this was the correct way to approach a World Tour of London and that the next Borough should host us in an even more desperate hostelry.

The curry house we found was an absolute gem though. The Bengal Lancer was over the road from a park with a little boating lake: presumably the posh part of town. It's imaginative decor included a delightful burbling fountain, and a rockery studded with foliage and exotic moss (probably).

But it was the food that proved a real find. Choose the chef's specials, the names of which were unfamiliar to us and which we cannot remember, and you will enter a world of well-balanced flavours and fine scents. The bloke helpfully explained that these dishes took their top chef about quarter of an hour to prepare, rather than the slop that the plebs ask for, so bear that in mind if you visit. Clearly they could tell we were a class act, a pair of curry afficionados and a cut above the usual punter. The long and the short of it is that the bloke ended up giving us some beers on the house! We were under the impression that that has never happened to anyone in real life, and were very proud. In short, a very successful start to our tour.

Barnet is next.