In dear old Blighty, the Health & Safety chaps would have a fit with their collective legs in the air; “Britney-Jade, don’t touch that! I know your bruvva’s annoying you but there’s no need to scald his ears on that hot grill….” Welcome to family dining, Indian style.

No messing about here. Order food. Get food. Grill food (on your own grill). Eat.

Yes, your own grill. Marvel, as like a Frankie N’ Benny’s style Tracey Island, the middle bit of your table comes out and your very own grill slots seamlessly into its place. Marvel again as your waiting staff, perversely dressed in the yellow and green of World Series Cricket Australia or Justin Fashanu era Norwich City, place sharp skewers laden with warming meat and vegetables on to your own personal furnace. Then, for good measure, apply your own baste with the brushes and drizzles and sauces provided.

At least, that’s what I presume they are. Following on (that was really harsh typing that- today of all days…) from our dining experience last week at Vishalla and the National Museum of Utensils, they could be put to use for a quick impromptu Impressionist composition of your fellow diners as you wait for your paneer angara or jhinga lahsooni.

Barbeque Nation. We’ll never see its like in the UK, which is a bally shame, because as dining experiences go, it is thoroughly recommended. It’s as random as a Reeves & Mortimer duologue, and as welcoming as an England middle order to an Indian spin bowling attack. I was left feeling very impressed by my first visit.

Sadly though, you just couldn’t get it past Health & Safety. There’s more chance of England winning the next Test Match (Sorry non-cricket fans, this is a really bitter post, you’ll understand one day. Maybe.).

Essentially; you rock up, have your barbecued starters finished on your grill (the faultlessly enthusiastic waiters will keep refreshing your grill, unless, via the medium of table-mounted flag, you specify otherwise), take in the Indian staple main courses buffet before returning later for dessert. All this is washed down by one of the restaurant’s mock-tails (in other states, alcoholic drinks are available) and accompanied by copious amounts of loud Beatles or Jerry Lee Lewis tracks over the jukebox.
Families are seduced by the ‘Early Bird’ offer (we sat outside, obliviously, for ten minutes on the plastic patio chairs with other patrons waiting for the doors to open) and all the other stuff that goes with a trip to India’s improved take on The Harvester.

In fact, we’d still be there now if we hadn’t joined in with singing Happy Birthday. Apparently, ‘Why Was She Born So Beautiful?‘ doesn’t translate to well into Gujurati….

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