Telephone: 020-7272 9091
Address: 34 Highgate Hill, London N19
Rating: 15/20
As pants the hart for a cooling stream when heated in the chase, so pants my heart for a pork vindaloo and a dhaansaak after a period of finely wrought, finely tuned, gilded haute cuisine in the French manner. Such were the cheery anticipations as I galloped down Highgate Hill on my way to the Parsee.
The Parsee is no novelty turn among London restaurants. It has been quietly going about its business - a virtuous neighbourhood eatery serving virtuous food for virtuous Highgatoria - for, oh, I don't know how many years. It is still quietly going about its business, although not long ago it was taken under the wing of London's pre-eminent Parsee, the irrepressible, the inexhaustible, the incredible Cyrus Todiwala. At least, he is the pre-eminent Parsee as far as London restaurants are concerned. I don't want to give offence to the other Parsees.
Parsees, in case you are not quite up to speed on them, base their beliefs on the teachings of Zoroaster, aka Zarathustra, the monotheistic divine who flourished in around 1,000BC, or so it says here on the menu. Parsees put great emphasis on good thoughts, good words and good deeds, which, in the case of the Parsee, take the form of good food and good manners.
Which is more than could be said for me. Tucker was in a somewhat resigned mood by the time I hurtled through the door 20 minutes late for dinner. However, such is the humanising and gentle nature of the service at the Parsee that resignation had not turned to hostility or vilification, which it might so easily have done. Tolerant forgiveness filled the air.
When I said that the heart panted after dhaansaak and pork vindaloo, it was no more than the literal truth. These dishes may have for years been vilely traduced staples of the flock wallpapered, gilt and lager end of the Indian restaurant market, with their macho, chilli-overkill, bowel-trembling confections, but when cooked with respect and care they can still bring pleasure and happiness. In their proper form, they come as a revelation in the same way that a well-made trifle or chicken pie does. They remind you what all the fuss was about.
Vindaloo is, in fact, an early example of fusion food from Goa, and one of the rare incidences of the Portuguese influence on world food culture. Goa was once a Portuguese colony, and vindaloo should be spelled vindalho, but I expect you already know all that. The use of pork is something of a giveaway: there's not a lot of a porky nature in Indian cookery, still less of that classically European combination of vinegar and garlic, two of the key ingredients. However, the Goans, sensibly, did not leave it at that, adding cumin, coriander, ginger, cassia bark and chilli, among a host of other spices, to liven it up.
By the standard of high-street curries, the Parsee's textured, dark, glossy, brown version was notable for its relative restraint in the heat department, but it more than made up for it in terms of the breadth and vivacity of its other spices. I wouldn't swear that I could identify everything that went into the mix, but I was aware of individual flavours tangoing over the tongue (or over the olfactory bulb, as Heston Blumenthal would have it in his unromantic way). It was served with breezy jeera no plalav - rice flavoured with sautéed onion, cassia bark and cardamom.
If vindaloo is Goan by origin, dhaansaak, or dhansak, or however it is spelled, is Parsee through and through. Traditionally eaten on a Sunday, it is a subtle and complex equivalent to the British roast, with caramelised, star anise-infused pulao rice in place of the potatoes. The colour was lighter than the vindaloo, more beige than brown, but the lamb was tender and true, and the sauce thick with lentils, onion, ginger and garlic. Cumin was there and turmeric. I think that I also picked up the tang of tamarind and the fresh breath of mint. On the other hand, I might have imagined it and simply aspired to expertise that I don't possess. Either way, it was top tucker.
We had kicked off with a Parsee platter, in which eggs, of which the Parsees are inordinately fond, figured prominently. There was a delicious mumbai no frankie (a kind of Parsee shepherd's pie) and a pretty clunking papeta na pattice (a superior potato cake with tomato sauce). Come to think of it, I was also in favour of the vengna nay tooria no patio - a gloopy, sweetish vegetable stew that put aubergines and courgettes to good use. In fact, the only disappointment was a kulfi, made with Hunza apricots, that was rather short on apricot flavour, but then Hunza apricots are quite retiring fruits.
At a time when many new Indian restaurants are experimenting with European notions of plate art and scaling the heights of upmarket design and pricing, the Parsee is a welcome reminder of traditional virtues. It is not smart, it is not up-market, it has no truck with plate art in any form. But it is the acme of decency: in the kitchen, in the service and in the price, which was £42. And it's worth that of anybody's money, whether or not you live in Highgate.
· Open: Dinner only, Mon-Sat, 6-10.45pm
