It111111 . 1EMI 1 POPUIEWIlli

#

The Malabar

NOW that we are in the age of the Upmarket Indian, when whitewash has taken over from flock wallpaper and the travelogue-menu has taught us that there is more to the cuisine of the subcontinent than chicken dansak and lamb vindaloo, The Malabar has lost a degree of its original allure. But though it has been superseded, in terms of culinary innovation and high-profile modishness (to which, in all fairness, it never aspired), by the likes of the Bombay Brasserie and Jamdani, it has retained the affection of its clientele (mostly local) and its own quiet status. If you're after potatoes cooked in asafetida and cumin, split chickpeas with bitter gourds or fenugreek leaves stuffed With minced beef, then you will be dis- appointed with The Malabar's menu. But still, six years after it opened, this small — and on a busy night stiflingly small — Plainly decorated restaurant in the villagey enclave behind Notting Hill does offer a number of dishes which have yet to find favour with the big boys down in West- bourne Grove. Start with devilled kaleja, charcoal- grilled chicken livers in an aromatic yoghurt sauce or hiran, venison marinaded in tamarind, the strips of dense-fleshed meat subtly sour, and set off by the sweetness of the onions which are served with it. Malabar prawns, king prawns cooked in the tandoor, are pricey at £6.95, and they do look, with their stickily coated redness, as if they belong in a drawer marked 'Wounds' in the prop department of a horror film company, but they are perfectly cooked, the fragrantly-fleshed shrimp meat infused with an ashy smoki- ness.

Partly for cultural and religious reasons, partly due to a straightforward economic factor — meat in India being generally beyond the means of a great number of people — Indian vegetable cookery is more extensive, varied and satisfying than any other vegetarian cuisine. The Malabar doesn't include the full complement of vegetable dishes — no restaurant could — and does away with some of the more familiar, but there are a couple you would be hard pressed to find elsewhere. One is the kayla foogath, sliced banana 'Brian threw out the remote control gadget to encourage a more active retirement.' cooked in ginger and turmeric. I had always thought the presence of bananas in

Indian cooking was a sure sign of inauthen- ticity, introduced, along with hard-boiled eggs, by the ladies of the Raj. Neither

Sameen Rushdie nor Madhur Jaffrey, who

have written the most readable, reliably cookable-from guides to Indian food,

make any reference to this dish, and there is much to be said for giving it a miss too. As a side dish to a strongly, hotly-spiced 'dry' meat dish I can see it would have its

merits, but eaten alongside the other vegetables, its spongey sweetness gives it a mouth-cloyingly intrusive rather than illu- minatingly distinctive taste. Then there is the kaddu, huge cubes of pumpkin suf- fused with turmeric, cumin and coriander. For those whose experience of the veget- able is limited to the emetic Thanksgiving pumpkin pie, this dish is something of a revelation.

Meat eaters have to content themselves with more familiar dishes, but go for the

gosht masala, boned lamb baked in a clay oven and then cooked in yoghurt and mint, or the jeera chicken, which comes in a creamy sauce, flecked with roasted cumin,

and you won't feel shortchanged, although if you are greedy you might well feel

disappointed at the neatness of the por- tions. On Fridays there is fish curry, made from whatever fish is in season (and one of the best fishmongers in London, Chalmers

& Gray, is just down the road); on Sunday lunchtimes there is a buffet, when for £6.95, you can eat as much as you want from the six or so dishes on offer, which, not surprisingly given the price, exclude tandoori or seafood.

The Malabar has a more evolved wine list than many other medium-priced Indian restaurants, though I can't speak for the

quality of its wines, since I have never managed to lose the habit of drinking beer

with Indian food. If you insist on a pud-

ding, then there are quite a few to choose from here. I have never acquired a taste for

kulfi, the pistachio and almond studded Indian ice cream, but there is also a huge bowl of fresh fruit to choose from, sorbets

and mango fool (not really a fool at all, the cream lying in a puddle on top rather than being incorporated into the fruit puree) with the gloopy texture of baby food. Otherwise end simply with a spice, mint or ordinary Indian tea. The main drawback of The Malabar is that the tables are so close together you do feel that you are almost sitting on your neighbour's lap. It has to be said, too, that standards can vacillate, though service is always quick and friendly. It's not a place to cross town for, but worth getting to know if you live in the area. Expect to pay about £15-£20 a head.

The Malabar: 27 Uxbridge St, W8; 01-727 8800

Nigella Lawson