The Big Curry Hunt

Connoisseurs Indian Tandoori lists itself as a curry house.  I list it as a shit house and I’m in a benevolent mood right now.  I’m honestly surprised this joint hasn’t been fire bombed yet.  What a hole.

I used to visit Paddington on a semi regular basis and my regular partner in curry there enjoyed a good korma (yes, his sexual preference is under full investigation).  Our usual venue, the Indus Delta, closed temporarily for refurbishment and we needed somewhere new to visit.  I had a little look around and was instantly impressed by the accreditations and awards listed in the window of this place.  This looked like a true hidden gem.  Curry house of the year on more than one occasion.  In fact, according to themselves, they had only missed out on twice in eleven years on that most distinguished of prizes.  This was a must visit it seemed.

In we went.  Nothing too spectacular to look at but I can see past all that.  We sat down, ordered our poppadoms and beers before our bums had touched our seats, naturally, and took a look at the menu.  Alarm bells should have started to ring there and then.  No cheap plastic laminate, just a wonky, badly photocopied sheet of paper.  I felt like I was sitting in an old and unknown relatives front room.  Not comfortable at all and everything seemed to echo in an eerie fashion.  Still, according to themselves, this curry was going to knock me into the middle of next week and keep me coming back like a crackhead looking for his fix.  All fine by me.

The waiter who served us looked like he’d just been in a fight and lost.  He was scruffier than an old fashioned tramp and smelt worse.  Oh dear.  It got no better throughout the meal and I did wonder if it was our curries that had given our surly scruffed up waiter a good shoeing.  They looked a little tired too.  The sheer indignity of being served in this dump would do that to even the finest Lamb Bhuna.  This was, and still is,  the only curry house I’ve left feeling angry and impotent and had the pleasure of paying for it.  Lucky me.

Ratings

Poppadoms and Pickles – Bad.  Cold and chewy.  The mango chutney looked and tasted like burger sauce from your local kebab house.  The onion salad fared no better.  Have you ever seen a brown onion?  I have

Beers – Cobra 660ml was present.  None too cold though

Sides – Awful.  How can you fuck up Sag Aloo?  If you ever visit Connoissers, ask them and let me know.  I’m genuinely interested.  It takes real talent to make food taste that evil and ill intentioned.

Curries – I swear the sauce was from a tin.  My madras was so plastic tasting it could have been served in a northern chip shop as curry sauce.  I needed counselling after this you know.  The things I do for you guys.

Vindictiveness of Waiters – Lamer than a horse that has been forced to walk through a field full of bear traps.

Face Towels – The last time I felt this insulted it involved myself, a naked clown, a picture of the pope, three bottles of chilled meths and a damning newspaper expose.  This KFC style face towel was so old that when I opened its vacuum sealing, I swear I could hear the distant cries of Indian oppression at the hands of the despotic British of yesteryear.  Now, I love all things Indian but in this place it almost sounded good.

Complimentary Chocolate With the Bill – Can’t remember, sorry.  It was a traumatic experience.  I am looking down at my feet and squirming a little if that helps.

Price – Wrong, wrong, wrong.  4 poppadoms, 2 cobra 660ml, 2 curries and 1 Sag Aloo came in at over £45.  An absolute liberty when everything was as poor as it was.  They hadn’t even bothered to chill the cobras properly.

Final Score – 1 out of 10.  In the same way that I’m not giving Gaylord a perfect 10 yet as my experince is incomplete, I’m not giving Connoisseurs a big fat zero.  There could be worse although I very much doubt it.

One Sentence Summary – DO NOT EAT HERE