Hot in the city: The Tamil Prince in Islington serves south Indian dishes with a twist within the cool surrounds of a traditional pub
(Picture: Adrian Lourie)British pubs, enlivened by an unexpected jolt of immigrant cuisine and culture, are a long-time obsession of mine. At the Caribbean-run Golden Anchor in Nunhead, dominoes players slap down their tiles amid the beckoning waft of oxtail stew. In Hounslow’s Punjabi-influenced African Queen, the clubby, blue-lit room thrums with the sizzle of tandoori mixed grills and the constant roar of televised sport. Duck into the Castle Tavern in Woolwich and you’ll see pints of Stella employed to wash down vast platters of Ghanaian ‘red red’ beans and fried plantain. They are scrappy monuments to a specific sort of multicultural, hybrid Britishness. But outside of the Midlands, especially — where South Asian-run ‘desi pubs’ proliferate — they remain a stubbornly unknown quantity.
In London at least, The Tamil Prince might be about to change that. A partnership between former Roti King colleagues (namely, Tamil Nadu-born executive chef Prince Durairaj and general manager Glen Leeson), this smartly rendered Islington spot both flies the flag for the desi pub while also pushing the medium forward. I can think of few other places where the sneak-attack of exceptional food in unassuming surroundings has felt quite so intricately wrought and electrifying.
And it really is a pretty unassuming expression of the form. Tucked away on a residential street corner in a 19th century site that most recently housed The Cuckoo, The Tamil Prince deals in a kind of smart minimalism. The exterior has been painted a buttery off-white; the main bar and dining room is largely bare but for some plants, scuffed tables and bottle-green walls; there is no telly permanently tuned to Sky Sports and there is Aesop and incense in the loos. Arriving for a midweek lunch, I found my mate Mark at one of only two occupied tables; a sign that, even though temperatures hadn’t yet hit this week’s highs, eating king prawn moilee or swiping roti through chilli chutney was understandably low on the heatwave priority lists of most Londoners.
It didn’t take long to appreciate that other people’s loss was very much our gain. Okra fries were unusually effective: nubby green fingers, generously cloaked in a batter defined by assertive spicing as much as lacy, audible crunch. Chicken lollipops — essentially wings with the meat flayed from the bone and pushed down into a bulbous, burnished mass — had an outrageous, gushing succulence. Elsewhere, the ‘large plates’ section of a concise menu brought hulking, lavishly charred lamb chops plus equally gargantuan tiger prawns, smeared in a garlicky masala marinade. “Honestly,” said Mark, “these might be some of the best prawns I’ve ever had.”
These dishes demonstrate the kitchen’s ability to light a rocket under some familiar combinations. But where The Tamil Prince excels is in its little curlicues of surprise. Desi salad brought a mass of kachumber-ish vegetables invigorated by sesame seeds and a mango dressing; pulled beef uttapam (a fluffy dosa pancake and Tamil breakfast staple, vigorously inlaid with chillis, tomatoes and coriander) had a gorgeous swell of heat. That Durairaj is riffing on his own south Indian heritage — in a stark geographical contrast to Punjab-inflected traditional desi pubs — only adds to the richness of an experience that is so much more interesting than curries and pints. Though, of course, as well as summer-ready nectarine spritzes, there are very good draught beers from Harbour.
Yes, the dal makhani — beyond the peerless, rumpled roti canai we ordered alongside it — was oddly forgettable. But it is a mark of the plate-licking, wanton lust The Tamil Prince inspires that, glancing at the menu again, all I can think about are the things I need to go back to try (most pressingly, channa bhatura: the puffed zeppelin of fried bread that wasn’t available when we were in). We finished with warm, syrupy gulab jamun, savouring every moment in the cool as the sun beat down outside. Pub dining has a new fresh prince. We have no option but to bend the knee.
