Telephone: 020-8203 6904
Address: 148-150 Brent Street, London, NW4
Open: All week, 11am-11.30pm

Throughout history, the most powerful philosophical minds have striven to define the elusive concept of happiness. Aristotle dismissed it as a futile quest for human beings, loftily declaring that "happiness is for the pigs", but in 1964 Ken Dodd revolutionised the debate: "Happiness," he said, "is a field of grain/Lifting its face to the falling rain/I can see it in the sunshine,/ I breathe it in the rain."

Overlooking a latter clause posited by lyrical deconstructionists as a possible inspiration for water-boarding, we glimpse here the extent of the problem. The crushing pressure to find and retain happiness is a leading factor in the rise of depression here in the wealthy west, yet few of us can begin to agree what it really means.

Take my wife, as that Plato of the music hall Max Miller once had it. To her, a sine qua non of happiness is the absence of football-inspired noise. So it was that she was unable to share fully in one of the most blissful experiences of my life at Lahore in Hendon a few weeks ago. For to sit at a table eating sensational Pakistani food and drinking wine bought from a nearby off-licence (hurrah for the bring-your-own-bottle restaurant) is a pleasure. But to do so beneath a flat-screen TV featuring Manchester United versus Barcelona in the Champions League semi-final, when you thought you'd screwed up on the dates and would therefore miss it, is for me the very distillation of happiness.

The highest testament I can pay this suburban branch of an East End legend is that, despite the ceaseless screeching and the visceral roar that greeted Paul Scholes's winner that night, my wife still adored it. So did my Aunt Gloria, known until recently as William (don't ask), but now, by way of comedic tribute, as Walliam. This is quite a tribute in itself - Walliam shares the penchant of her sister, my mother, for causing trouble if displeased by a meal. A volatile restaurant presence, capable at any time of disrobing or standing on the table to reprise her role in the original St Trinian's film, Walliam was once barred from a Surrey joint for repeatedly replying to inquiries as to what she thought of her meal with a polite but firm, "Very average, thank you."

This was not an easy audience, then, yet within 10 minutes of being seated in a utilitarian back room with vague pretensions to grandeur (grubby white walls, faux-marble MDF tables, huge backlit mirror sandwiched between a bouquet of plastic flowers and an installation entitled Pile Of Chairs), we were purring.

"This is your first time?" our friendly young waiter had inquired, after bringing an ice bucket unbidden. "You're going to love the food." If anything, he understated it, because what followed shamed not just 98% of local "Indians", but most of the posh ones as well. What set it apart wasn't the ingredients or cooking, top-quality though both were, but the vibrant brilliance of the seasoning. From our first bite of shami kebab, it was clear that the chillis had been freshly chopped and the spices newly crushed, and every subsequent dish served only to confirm this.

Lamb chops proved five fleshy cutlets bursting with the unique savour of the flame-grill, and these, just like a vast serving of chicken drumsticks (though the menu advertised them as "wings"), gratifyingly tingled the tongue. Juicy garlic prawns drew an instant, "God, this is wonderful", but the pick of the bunch was masala fish - four colossal chunks of beautifully cooked, delicate white fish that the waiter told us was tilapia, and that came plainly garnished with green pepper and tomato - which was simply divine.

So lavish were the portions that we were sated after the starters. However, in the interests of research (not to mention the chance to catch the start of the second half of the football), we ploughed on and unearthed yet more treasures. Karahi bhuna gosht was as tender, succulent and sublimely rich a rendition of that lamb dish as I can recall, karahi fish (more tilapia) zinged with the delectable taste of perfect garam masala, and chicken jalfrezi bore a similar relationship to the typical tandoori house version as Manchester United Football Club does to Manchester City. Peshwari and chilli nan breads were perfect, and a lentil daal was deemed "unspeakably delicious".

"This is the best food of the kind I've ever eaten," Walliam declared when the bowls had been cleared and the doggy bag filled, "but the really amazing thing about it is the lightness. I don't feel bloated in the least. Which is a miracle." She was right, too. We'd ordered enough for six, and eaten most of it.

This is Michelin-standard cooking at transport caff prices. What this is not, however, is one of those self-effacing gems that lives in adorable ignorance of its own virtue - the front of the menu lauds Lahore as "The most famous halal restaurant in the world."

I'm not sure about that, but I am convinced that, while this is clearly not a venue for the pigs, even Aristotle would concede that happiness is dinner at the Lahore on the evening of June 10, when his beloved Greece play Sweden in Euro 2008.

The bill

Three poppadoms £2.25

2 kebabs (two pieces each) £3.60

Chicken drumsticks £4

Lamb chops £6.50

Masala fish £7

Garlic king prawns £10

Chicken jalfrezi £6.50

Karahi fish £7

Karahi bhuna gosht £7

Tarka daal £5.50

Two pilau rice £5

Two nan bread £4.50

Total bill (without tip) £68.85