I arrive at the Cinnamon Club and Larman is early, suitably attired. A camel-coloured lounge suit fits both his bookish nature and the library bar – and he wouldn’t look out of place in the foothills of Rajasthan. This is, of course, the definitive Indian restaurant in London and it would do it a disservice to appear sartorially inadequate. He raises an eyebrow to the room, a passing approval as he sips his gin and tonic, “Not bad, eh?”, and signals the bartender, selecting something suitable from their ‘gin experience’ for me. I’m presented with a measure of Dodd’s and my eyes are still circling the room as the poured tonic fizzes with enthusiasm in front of me.
“I thought we’d be better off in here, rather than downstairs…”.
“Why, what’s downstairs?” I ask.
“The ‘club’ bar. It feels like a bordello from Buck Rogers. It had a video wall, Larry” he sneers. “This is far more us,” he concludes, and pops a Bombay cracker in his mouth.
Thankfully, its contemporary touches aside, the refurb has, too, complimented old hacks like us. It’s been a while in the making and I can well imagine the swathes of Londoners – and others, for its clientele travel from far and wide to make the pilgrimage – quite distraught of an evening without their fix of Vivek Singh’s mastery in the kitchen while the renovation has been underway. Needless to say, we metaphorically doff our hats to its new look as we’re led across the floor to take our seats at a corner table, and it’s the ideal vantage point.
At first you’d be forgiven for thinking little had changed bar a lick of paint; but as we delve deeper its transformation is revealed before us. This being the former Westminster Library the bookshelves remain (Larman reaches for a copy of the collected works of Evelyn Waugh and smiles approvingly), as do the imposing brass ceiling light bowls, but everywhere there is a feel of it being refreshed, re-energised. Touches of teal, new furnishings and striking artworks have brought an old institution right up to date and it’s the perfect backdrop to compliment what amounted to one of the finest meals I’ve had inspired by the Indian subcontinent. Without actually going to the Indian subcontinent.
Unusually, for a restaurant of this ilk, I couldn’t decide on the starter; not for want of choice, but nothing leapt at me on the menu. Not the spinach chaat, nor the railway cake, nor the kidney bean kebab. The smoked salmon was proposed thrice by our waiter, each time with more vigour than the last, and thrice I declined. After all, it’s smoked salmon, why would I order that here of all places? In lieu of a credible alternative to my mood, however, I relented, and I did not regret the decision.
Smoked salmon or gravadlax on a menu is a default. Here, it’s a speciality. Subtle spice draws you away from the characteristic unguent of the fish but it’s still there in the background. Given texture by jhal muri puffed rice, the warmth from a chutney hummed on the palette long after to be cooled by our citrusy Sauvignon Blanc. That wine stood out; and I was surprised to find it one of Cinnamon Club’s ‘select’, nothing grand. Glancing around, Larman pointed out how many diners were drinking beer. Evidently one can take the Brit out of the curry house but one can’t take the curry house out of the Brit. But somehow it was comforting to know that lager works on the highest level. The Cinnamon Club does not judge.
Not ones for unobtrusive dining, Larman and I seem unable to eat out without pomp, and wooden blocks being wheeled over and causing a stir are now de rigeur. In this case, the shared main of a rack of Romney Marsh lamb seemed a suitable departure from a traditional curry but, this being Indian cuisine, we were still sieged by an array of sides and platters and sauces, presented by an army of waiters bent on wedging numerous crockery and condiments onto every inch of space about our table. Black lentils, kale porial and a selection of breads remain from the Generation Game conveyor of dishes to remember and no same combination on a fork was repeated throughout the meal.
But, about the lamb, it is a rack of lamb worth poring over. Our plates were prepared before us and offered ceremoniously. I can dismiss the presentation, however; they could have served it on a toilet seat and it would not have diminished my appreciation – it was, in a word, sensational. Imagine the tenderest, pinkest lamb chop you might have had. Now imagine it marinaded with ginger, garlic, chilli and garam masala nestling into the meat, a soft, sour tang offered by the yoghurt and corn sauce and vinegar-led chutney that accompanied it. I savoured each and every one of the four cuts on my plate. And then I armed myself with an arsenal of breads and leapt onto every other dish on the table. For an hour Larman led the charge, our arms whirling and pirouetting past each other as we ducked and weaved to dip and dunk. By the end, our table resembled Carthage at the end of the Third Punic War.
The dilemma of the starters was met with the opposite when it came to desserts. We needed everything. So everything we had. The ‘platter’ seemed fitting under the circumstances, and there were spoonfuls of cardamom brûlée, pumpkin and corn cake, banana tatin, baked jalandhar and chocolate and rasgolla tart. All capped with a glass of Nicolas Guesquin Rose Permier Cru. I mean, wow.
It wasn’t just our appreciation either. There seemed to be a wave of animation throughout the restaurant. And packed it was, too. Three suited gentlemen to our left, rendered silent while they tucked in. A family to our right, celebrating a birthday, it looked like, having just sat and gleeful with excitement as they browsed the new menu. Tables everywhere buzzed, the atmospheric hum of a restaurant, to capacity, in full flow.
Welcome back, Cinnamon Club.
For more information about Cinnamon Club, including menus and details of its affiliate restaurants, visit www.cinnamonclub.com.
