Curry

Well, I’m still full. That’s the first thing to know. -Probably will be at the time you read this too. It’s 16 hours since I finished dinner at Kid, and I think I might be ready to eat again at dinner tomorrow. So was it worth it? I’m writing this more quickly after the meal than usual. Why the rush? This is because, for one time only, I wanted to be the FIRST critic to review a HOT NEW OPENING. There was nothing in the papers last week, so I think I’ve done it… although the Times puts Giles Coren online on a Wednesday, and as I have to write on Tuesday, I don’t know yet. It’s an utterly pointless thing to strive for, but you’ve got to show commitment.

‘Expect David Cameron to be there.’ This was the main thing I had been told before I went to Four Boys in Rock, Cornwall. As I arrive, it makes sense. This is a Cameron-y sort of place and not just because every man in here looks a bit like David Cameron. Why? Well, Cameron’s big idea as leader of the Conservative party was to modernise it. ‘We’ll get elected if we hug hoodies and manage to not pull a face when we see an avocado.’ Four Boys, with its awareness of fashion, is doing something similar. I notice something at the top of the menu when I sit down. ‘We recommend sharing our food.’ What? Small plates?! Sharing?! I’m trying to get away from east London! Yet all has been done judiciously.

One of the things I find most confusing is the practice of going for a curry when you’re hammered. Having tried this with friends a couple of times, I have concluded that anyone who likes the pints-then-curry act is a liar or feels so awful regularly that the feeling afterwards is nothing abnormal. There is no type of food I dislike more than bad Indian: the places where a vindaloo means three scoops of curry powder and a rogan josh means two; where onion is undetectable in the sunflower oil bhaji.