I've been hemming and hawing for a while about whether to write about this week's restaurant. That's not because it's a gem so secret that I don't want to draw anyone's attention to it; or because it's so nasty that it defies description; or because it's impossible to find; or because I forgot to take notes, so can't remember what I ate (though all of the above except the first have happened to me in the past). My hesitations have been because of something more primeval: I had a takeaway. Is a takeaway the same as a restaurant meal? You obviously can't judge many aspects of the restaurant, but can you hold the cooking to the same standard?
The answer, I think, is yes, though it doesn't apply to all cooking equally. Fancy European cooking needs a formal, sit-down setting to be appreciated: you can't take away pasta or French bistro cooking. But we Brits are an exception to European norms. Our favourite foods – Indian, Chinese, fish and chips, burgers – adapt well to being taken away. Or perhaps it's the other way round and we like them because we like takeaways. The most recent set of figures I've seen has us eating more than twice as many takeaways as the Germans and more than three times as many as the French. Why? Nobody knows. We just really like takeaways. And we're right to, since when you're in the mood for it – can't be arsed to cook, can't be arsed to go out – there's nothing that hits the spot like a good takeaway.
Since this kind of cooking tends not to get reviewed or guidebookified, you're more than usually reliant on word-of-mouth advice. I was in Sheffield, and my first plan had been to go to the once-famous Kashmir Curry Centre, but that closed late last year, a victim of its own success in sparking competition. So I took counsel and was sent to Mangla, the city's current standard bearer in Kashmiri cooking. It's in Spital Hill where, once I'd got out of the car and looked around a bit, I did find myself wondering about the probability of getting stabbed. My local sources tell me it's not as rough as it looks, and I'm happy to believe them, but there is quite a contrast between the more genteelly terraced, Nick Clegg-voting bits of the city and this tatty urban part.
Mangla is a bright, clean, modern space without fancy accoutrements – like an upmarket canteen, say. It's not licensed, though there's an offy across the road if you want to bring your own, and they do make a famously good lassi. My first plan had been to eat in, but my eight-year-old son had spent the whole day in the car, and since we were staying only about half a mile away, I moved to takeaway plan B.
The meal had one duff component, a chicken pokora starter. This was deep-fried chicken bits, but the deep fryer is not the glory of the subcontinental kitchen, as the batters are often too heavy; so heavy, at times, that they seem to attract extra gravitational power. This one was like that. Masala fish was better, a dense piece of white fish spicily marinaded and served in a batter that was both less heavy and detachable. The fish was better without it.
The chef's speciality main courses and the breads, however, are where it's really at. Chicken karahi was chicken in smallish pieces, on the bone, in a tomato-based sauce with lots of coriander to lighten it and spicing so complex I couldn't identify one specific dominant note – which is one way of identifying a really good masala. Bruchi lamb was a new one for me, a dense mutton (I think) curry that was half-dry and cooked with crunchy potatoes and fried onions. This was chewy and strong-flavoured, a real no-faint-hearts Kashmiri special. Saag paneer was more puréed than I like my spinach and seemed heavy on the ghee, which I'd have to say is an issue at Mangla. Luckily, a garlic nan was on hand to cut the richness and/or mop up the sauce. Paratha, another of the region's world-class breads, was another hit.
Mangla doesn't just do takeaway, they also deliver, and free for orders over £7 and within three miles. I wish that were more common. Takeaways that deliver often aren't as good as ones that don't; Mangla is a happy exception to that rule.
