In a dodgy Bradford curry house (just about the only one in that gastronomically underrated city), despite having found a lentil with six legs in my main course, I was once foolishly tempted to take a free mint from the bowl at the checkout. A big mistake, because I discovered later that blokes frequently go to the khazi, don't bother to "please wash your hands" afterwards, then wipe salmonella bacteria all over the naked mints while they're selecting one. The result? Other diners may fall into a deep korma.
They wisely don't have communal bowls of mints in the curry houses of Mumbai, but they do hand out side plates of chillies without a moment's hesitation. And fresh green chillies at that, in ice and broken in half, leaving you simply to roll them like a cigar (though preferably not between your thighs) to remove the seeds, then chew the deliciously fiery chunks. My favourite haunt among the several I visited was the Masala Craft (in the Taj Mahal Hotel), which was once the home of the legendary gourmands' club Greens (back when this city was still called Bombay), but has now got rid of its downmarket Indian-dancing-for-tourists trappings, kitted its staff out in cult-orange robes, and offers multi-regional cuisine. And it has also spent oodles on an interior design that makes you feel like a little person in Land Of The Giants, as you sit in a gigantic mahogany pipe box for a very long time (because, in India, the waiters habitually take the starter orders, then disappear for aeons before returning to take the main course).
But who cared? Certainly not me or my companion, because the laid-back Mumbaian concept of time was already undermining our European obsession with the clock, while the pungent scent of asafoetida hung enticingly in the air, like an angel's fart trapped in a lift. Besides, a stack of papads had arrived long before starters were even thought of, accompanied by a tomato dip and the freshest pickles I've ever eaten (far more succulent than the imported stuff we're used to in Britain, which has gently simmered in its own oil during transit). However, our dry European environment does give us an advantage when it comes to the crispness of papads, because the sultry Mumbai atmosphere caused ours to wilt visibly, even in the air-conditioned room.
Our shared starters included "PKB" (a sort of nut brittle) and paperwali machi, two succulent tandoori pomfret presented in faux newspaper, an allusion to old-style British fish 'n' chips. But the undoubted star was a Lucknowi speciality, the paradoxically named galouti kebab, through which no spike could possibly pass without causing the immediate disintegration of the entire dish. According to the waiter, this ob-skewer recipe "is a secret handed down by the royal chefs ... it was eaten by the older Maharajas when their teeth could no longer chew meat". And I saw what he meant when it arrived, four little patties with the consistency of the best foie gras, so thixotropic that if I'd flicked them a little, I could have stuck a straw in each and simply sucked them down.
Main courses (also shared) included kali murch ka murga, smoked chicken with the robust kick of peppercorns, in a sauce that a pernickety critic might say had split, but that tasted like essence of Christmas (of cinnamon, sage and thyme). And the bhatti ka jheenga was even better, Amritsar-style marinated prawns grilled over sandalwood embers (not the chemical substitutes used to impart smokiness in the UK), so good that the waiter instructed my companion to "eat the crunchy end of the tail madam, it is the best part". The side dishes of dhal and dahi bhalle were two of the finest Indian vegetarian dishes I've eaten, and the anjeer halwa that followed (figs baked in thickened milk) formed a sublime coda; "you must eat from the bottom," insisted the waiter, so (as with Guinness) we supped the black part through the white part.
Only the wine threatened to disappoint, with an unimpressive Tavel Rose costing an extremely impressive £36 a bottle, so instead I took the opportunity to ask the waiter, "Have you a salted Lassi?" Although when he said "yes" I nobly resisted the temptation to shout out, "Call the PDSA at once. The bestialist has admitted it."
"We grind the masala just before using it," sous chef Shyam Longani told me afterwards. "That is the secret ... " They also have access there to the freshest ingredients, but you can get something close to the quality here if you try hard enough, at the Red Fort in Soho, Omar's in Bradford, and the Anand brothers' Brilliant restaurant in Southall. Prince Charles himself pops into Brilliant, but don't hold that against them, because their food is so good that diners even order takeout and have it flown directly to India. There, as at Masala Craft, nothing - but nothing - is ever left on the plate for Krishna.
Telephone: (91-22) 566 53366
Email: tmhresv.bom@tajhotels.com (reservations recommended).
Address: The Taj Mahal Palace and Tower, Apollo Bunder, Mumbai 400 001.
Open: Lunch, 12.30-3.30pm; dinner, 7pm-12 midnight. Price guide £77 for two (without wine).
Dress: Semi-formal.
