ICC World Cup 2019: Curry trails in England

I am waiting for the check when I notice Pakistan pacer Mohammed Amir coming in, picking up an order, posing for a quick photo, and dashing off.

Anyone who says food in Britain sucks is talking of another time, another era. In the here and the now, it is possible to eat as well in London as anywhere in the world, because chefs, gourmands, and restaurateurs from around the world flock here, to the British capital.

Representational image of chicken biriyani. (Satyabrata Tripathy/HT Photo)

So what do you do if you love food, and you’ve had a long day at work chasing the cricket? You recharge. You walk around and pick a place jammed with the locals—the surest sign that you’ll get good food there—and wriggle your way in. And every once in a while, you meet someone from the Pakistan cricket team or staff doing the same.

(Also check: Full Coverage of ICC World Cup 2019)

Oh my world!

Work on my second day in London wrapped early, so I took a 20-minute stroll—all the better to work up an appetite—from the Oval to Borough Market in Southwark. Under a single translucent roof held aloft by green latticed columns—the roof rattled every time a train passed by—I find the most amazing tapestry of food. On display—hunks of charcuterie, wheels of oozing cheese, gleaming stacks of fresh fish, mussels, sea-urchins, and oysters; smoked venison, paella cooking over a giant pan, soul food, Jerk chicken, fish and chips, baos and wok noodles, spices and olives, brownies and fudges, and even some glammed up masur daal dosa at a Gujarati food stall. I prance around, literally, conveniently forgetting the market closes at 5 pm. No problem. This will be the first of many detailed visits.

Amir picks up dinner

Five days in and I’m definitely missing home. So off I go to Nottingham’s Memsaab, located just around the corner from my hotel. It’s 8 pm and the restaurant is packed. I know what to order—chicken tikka masala and naan. The floor manager is Mukhtar, from Goa. He tries to dissuade me from ordering the chicken tikka since it’s very mild. Then he gives up and asks if I want it British style or desi style. Definitely desi. As I dig in, I realise the tikkas are not spicy, tandoor-charred morsels of meat but just lightly roasted chicken that hasn’t quite absorbed the flavours of the gravy. I look around. I am probably the only person using my hands to eat. I am waiting for the check when I notice Pakistan pacer Mohammed Amir coming in, picking up an order, posing for a quick photo, and dashing off.

On home ground

Pakistan have upset England’s applecart which means more work today. Only an Indian meal can help me relax. I head to Calcutta Club on Maid Marian Way. An emotional call—I’m hoping they might have something on the menu which will take me back to me old stomping grounds. No luck, as they do Punjabi cuisine. I get a Kadhai chicken, and it’s expertly made—a beautifully complex blend of spices, that’s neither too overwhelming, nor too restrained.

I look to my right, and there’s Pakistan coach Micky Arthur digging into his gravy with gusto.

My ears prick up—I keep overhearing ‘India’ from his table. The mother of all clashes is less than two weeks away, so the chatter is obvious.

I don’t go up to him. Best not to bother a man enjoying his dinner after a rollercoaster day. But I can’t help but notice he insists on having a scoop of ice cream with his strawberry sponge cake. Good choice.