High Street, Cookham, Berkshire (01628 520085). Meal for two, including drinks: £70-90
It was when they started pumping out the Vaughan Williams at us, a waft of the English pastoral over the poppadoms, that it got really odd. Then again, why not? Malik’s is in Cookham, a buffed and polished town with a BTEC in Englishness. It makes sense that here even the Indian restaurants should cleave to a mythologised version of nationhood. After all, Malik’s sits within a hunk of glorious oldness, all arthritic black beams and white walls, set off beautifully by the glittering icicle lights dangling from them at this time of year. We cracked off some more poppadom and dredged it through the bog-standard mango sauce and the above-average lime pickle.
This was an opportunistic visit. I had been curious about Malik’s for years, ever since Heston Blumenthal, whose Fat Duck is in nearby Bray, had told me that it was where he went for his family’s takeaways. Apparently Malik’s would wait until he was at the door before slapping on the nans. A couple of minutes’ dawdling and Britain’s Greatest Living Chef would get them as fresh as could be. It would be impossible to not regard this as a recommendation. Blumenthal has an extraordinary palate. He has excruciatingly good taste. Surely he would only come here if it was properly good?
In this I later realised I was applying double standards. People assume, because of my job, that I treat my mouth with due care and attention; that it’s all roasted swan and braised baby otter, while I’m hosed down with Cristal. In truth I am just a very greedy person with an expense account; most politely I can describe myself as catholic in my tastes. Less politely I can describe myself as a food slut. I’m not for a moment suggesting Blumenthal has sluttish tendencies. It’s just that it can’t be cannelloni of cuttlefish and snail porridge all the time, can it?
Still, I had also heard about Malik’s from others, from the Light Ent types who live out here between the M4 and M40 where the golfing opportunities are plentiful, the landing spots for helicopters notorious and the drive into the TV studios west of London quick. And here on the gallery page of the website they all are: Malik with Heston, natch; Malik with Chris Tarrant; Malik with David Seaman and Heston; Malik with Paul Daniels and Barbara Windsor and oh, who’s that? It looks like… yes! It’s Rolf Harris! Oh well. He won’t be popping in any time soon. Still, you get the idea. Malik’s is the curry house to the stars at rest. My sister lives not far away in Beaconsfield. We had family business which needed attending to, and a lunch with which to recover from it. Where better to go?
Of course, judging a restaurant’s lofty sense of itself purely by who chooses to go there is not (always) fair, however many times the owner likes to be photographed with them. Judging it both by its prices – a full meal for two with drinks will easily head towards the ton – and by the accolades it displays, is fair. Malik’s is a regular winner in the oddly titled British Curry Awards. Not all Indian food is curry and not all curries are Indian. No matter; they’ve won a bunch of them and the proof is framed and under glass, alongside a signed cricket top that once belonged to Andrew Strauss.
At first there are grounds for optimism. We get one of the mixed appetisers. A couple of tandoori-roasted prawns, slicked with garlic butter, have been treated with respect. Which means whipping them out of the heat before they suffer grievous bodily harm. These retain a fresh bite the right side of rubbery. Pieces of tandoori chicken are crisp and smoky without being dry and avoid being a disconcerting shade of cochineal pink.
After that it all gets a bit strange. Minced lamb “sheek” kebabs have been brutalised. I want them to have a lushness, to explode in my mouth with hot savoury juices, the way the best do. These thud. And then die. Pieces of cubed chicken breast come in a tamarind-heavy sauce that makes me bare my teeth. It is a savage hit of sweet and sour. Worst of the lot are two flaps of brutalised duck – only identified as such from the menu – which are so tough I could walk home on them.
A dish of battered soft-shell crabs, rarely seen on Indian menus, shows promise. The moment they arrive we can see they have spent too long in the oil, that the tips of the legs are closer to black than brown. They need something sharp to cut through the funky hit of hot seafood; instead they’re on a mess of creamy, sweet and softly spiced sauce. We’re halfway through them when the waiter appears. He asks how we’re finding the soft-shell crabs. I open my mouth to speak. He nods. “A bit burnt?” he says, expectantly. “Yes,” I say gently, “But you knew that.” He nods sadly and walks away. He does not offer to change them and they still appear on the bill.
Sikandari lamb, a heavily braised lamb shank in an onion-rich sauce thick with chickpeas, is by far the best thing we eat. This has much to do with it being a domestic dish, the sort of long-cooked stew a Punjabi momma might ladle on to your plate while bellowing “EAT!” The meat cascades away from the bone. Dhal is underseasoned. Aubergines are crying out for a longer roast. Their special rice, with fat lozenges of fried egg, forces me to quote myself to my sister from a previous review; that it’s only special in the way Benny from Crossroads was special. Thankfully, she doesn’t always read my reviews.
Soft-shell crabs aside, what I have described is not a catastrophe. It’s not a horror story. It’s simply the sort of thing you get from any number of bog-standard British high-street curry houses. It’s what you want to eat in front of the telly at the end of a long week, when you’re looking for a hit of ghee and garlic and salt. It’s reassuring that the gilded denizens of Marlow, Cookham and Bray are no different to the rest of us. The bill comes on a plate with two Ferrero Rochers and two After Eights: the food equivalent of a gravel carriage drive. The regulars must love that.
Jay’s news bites
■ This is the perfect opportunity to record the passing of the great Mian Mohammed Tayyab, who in 1972 founded the Pakistani grill house on Fieldgate Street in Whitechapel which holds his family’s name. Now under the care of his son Wasim, Tayyabs has grown and prospered and remains the place for killer seekh kebabs and a dry meat curry, the flavour of which will stay with you for days. Our condolences to the family. (tayyabs.co.uk).
■ At last! Sheffield’s finest spicy condiment, the sauce that inspired questions in the House of Commons, has its own cookbook. The Henderson’s Relish Cookbook includes recipes from Great British Menu chef Stephanie Moon and Sheffield MPs Nick Clegg and David Blunkett. (hendersonsrelish.com).
■ Congrats to the Nottinghamshire-based School of Artisan Food, famed for its courses in butchery and dairy, which has been named both Cookery School of the Year and (for the second year running) Best Large Professional Cookery School at the British Cookery School Awards.
Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk. Follow Jay on Twitter@jayrayner1
