David Gerrard

Review of Mughli Restaurants

Tonight you re looking for something different. An...

Tonight you re looking for something different. Another night at the local would send you under, listening to Fred tell you about his ex-wife's flash new lover for the third time this week. He drives a Mercedes, he has a gold watch, he wears cufflinks. You've never understood why people wear cufflinks. No, it won t be the local again. Tonight you want a curry, a proper curry. You're tired of tepid greige dhansak served in rooms that remind you of '70s working men s clubs. The setting doesn't make the food but when the food's bad, everything else feels worse. Someone, you don't remember whom, recommended Mughli. The jewel of the curry mile, they said.

You arrive early for your booking. Your date hasn t turned up yet but you ask to be seated anyway. You order wine and wait. You re not anxious. You're well versed in the shame of being stood up. The setting is relaxed and the atmosphere is pleasant. You should come to places like this more often. Your date arrives. You pour her a drink and order food.

To start with, you select the charcoal grilled lamb. You ordered it because you don t have a charcoal pit at home. You don t even have a barbecue or a garden for that matter. Dingy apartment living is everything the dystopian novels of your youth promised it would be. For the main attraction you opt for the Ruby Murray. The name hints at an old neighbour you admired. You wonder where she is now. Probably long gone. Your date settles on Bombay Chicken, we can share she suggests. You reluctantly agree.

You've barely sunk your second glass of pinot before the starter arrives. The meat is tender and falls apart in your mouth. It s delicious. You make small talk with your date. She s a nurse and wants to travel the world. She spent three weeks in Thailand when she was 19. Her father makes his money restoring classic cars. You tell her you wish you were in a more noble profession.

The main course arrives. The Ruby Murray is rich and your second dose of lamb is as good as the first. The Bombay Chicken is also tasty. It s sweet and you re glad you agreed to share. Both transcend your expectations and impart respectable levels of heat. Your date is equally enamoured. You tell her a story about how you cracked your head open as a child. She laughs. It s going well. You decide not to go for dessert. You re too full. You decide to go for drinks instead. You ask for the bill. It s not as much as expected.

You leave feeling fulfilled. You half turn back towards the door on your way and let out a satisfied sigh. That was the best Indian food you've had in Manchester since Ashar s homemade dal. That's the kind of meal Fred's ex-wife is eating now she's courting Mr. Mercedes and his expensive timepiece. No more microwaved Chicken Kievs for her Fred. Not anymore.