Bradford, West Yorkshire, is not known as the curry capital of Britain for nothing. The city is home to more than 200 Asian restaurants. In the main, these are Kashmiri and Pakistani – driven by the city’s Pakistani-Muslim population which is one of the most concentrated in the country – and much of the local economy relies on them for jobs and income.
My memories of Bradford curry houses go back to the late 1990s when I worked at the university. Commuting from London and therefore living in student digs meant I would eat out more often than not. That meant curry almost every night I was in the city as it cost little more than a sandwich.
Bradford’s curry houses are known for their homestyle cooking, rather than fancy, westernised, Instagram-aesthetic grub. These restaurants – where the roti and naan are freshly made on the premises – are often places for social gathering, with extended families sitting around a large table together as though they were in their mother’s kitchen. Many are family-run; there are very few chains around.
Now, however, with higher business rates and tighter recruitment rules when it comes to skilled migrant chefs, those same curry houses are in particular peril. Indeed, trade publication Spice Business recently reported that last year’s Budget risks ‘hollowing out’ Britain’s country industry.
When I visited Bradford last week, nostalgia and an interest in how these restaurants are coping took me on a two-day curry crawl at which every meal, aside from a breakfast of strong coffee, was Pakistani.
First stop was the very traditional My Peshawar: which claims to be the city’s top family restaurant. It’s a cliché, but I actually was the only white person in the entire place. There were big family groups, sharing mountains of spiced lamb chops with onion salad, washed down with water from the tall, silver metal jugs and cups that kept it cold all evening. I could not resist a poppadom and the pickle tray – so often stale and uninteresting but not here. The lentil-based crackers were fresh and crunchy and the accompaniments – tomato and onion, mango, yogurt, and green chilli and mint – were as vibrant as the smells wafting from the kitchen.
I ordered the lamb chops, supposedly an appetiser and – at £8.50 for eight small ones – very good value. The ginger, chilli, garlic and black pepper tenderised the meat, giving it an almighty kick.
All I could manage after that was a side dish of aloo gobi, incidentally the only vegetable dish on the menu. The spinach was cooked down to a sauce consistency, and the texture of the potatoes was buttery, just the right side of firm.
These restaurants – where the roti and naan are freshly made on the premises – are often places for social gathering
The next day, I tried the iconic My Lahore. It was lunchtime, but I managed a fragrant chicken balti with a paratha. Just the right side of spicy and the chicken came from unctuous thighs, not dry, tasteless breasts.
I couldn’t go to Bradford without trying Jinnah, which is a small chain but none the worse for that. Its vegetable biryani was served with some moreish roti and a fresh mango lassi. The atmosphere was warm and friendly, with a large table of men drinking BYO beer. I saw a few plates of fish in masala batter and could all but hear the crunch as it was demolished. I had order envy.
After a hard day’s work, with a delicious meal ahead of me, I would normally have a couple of cold glasses of off-dry white wine – perfect with spicy food. On this occasion, though, I was valiantly dry throughout my curry crawl. I can report back on the virgin mojito that is served up at pretty much every joint in the city, though. Zingy, with lots of mint and fresh lime, tempered with a little sugar syrup.
Heading back to London, and not due home until well after dinner, I popped into Shimlas on my way to the station, where I picked up the only travel-friendly item I could find: a chicken tikka donner. I justified my choice by telling myself that I could eat it in the vestibule and that it was a bit like a sandwich.
The tender chicken had been marinated in a smoky sauce, and was served with crunchy, spicy salad in soft, naan-type bread, bouncy and charred. As I carefully relished it on the train, the only looks I got from fellow passengers were driven by envy, as they made do with fruitcake and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps from the buffet car.
It seems Bradford is more than holding its own, then, against Birmingham’s curry mile, Brick Lane or Southall in London. Against anywhere in fact. Despite the shadow looming over so many of the nation’s curry houses, I’m relieved to see Bradford is keeping the karahis aflame, the customers sated and, in short, the food flag flying.
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