MY DAUGHTER squinted and peered at the metal mask in the cabinet, pressing her nose so tightly against the glass that for one moment it looked as if it belonged to an ageing jakey who'd seen one rammy too many.
Why, she wanted to know, was there a padlock next to that ancient soldier's hat? I explained that it wasn't a relic from an armoury but an 18th-century contraption that was once wedged over the head of a malicious German fräulein found guilty of goss
iping and slander. To ensure the punishment fitted the crime, the padlock shut the mask so tightly that the gossip in question could no longer talk.
I steeled myself for a mini-treatise on the rights of women or an outraged rant on the ills of medieval gender stereotyping. Instead, all I got was a stream of consciousness along the following lines: "Well, she probably deserved it because gossiping's not nice… but if she couldn't talk then she couldn't eat either… that's not good, not good at all… Daddy, did they have curry in Germany in the olden days?"
The last question wasn't a total non-sequitur. We were visiting Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, one of the UK's cultural high points, and despite her attempts to take her cultural tutelage seriously, by now it was clear that all my daughter could think about was the close proximity to Mother India's Café and her impending appointment with a smorgasbord of baltis, bhunas, dosas and pakoras. She is, in this if nothing else, her mother's daughter; curry is not so much the food of choice in our house as the default option.
For the family Bath, you'd have to go a long way to beat a day that combines the amazing exhibits of Kelvingrove and one of Glasgow's legendary curry emporiums. The name Mother India suggests that this was the place that gave rise to Glasgow's curry houses, and while that's pushing it more than a little, it's true to say it is one of the city's more venerable Indian institutions.
The inspiration for Mother India's was Monir Mohammed, who decided in 1995 that when he ate out he wanted to be able to do so at a place that shared his culinary aspirations, that replicated the vibrant made-to-measure food he got at home rather than the dull one-size-fits-all fodder routinely being served up in restaurants across the city. It turned out that he was not alone, and so the runaway success that is Mother India's was born.
It's more than a decade since it opened, but there has been surprisingly little divergence from the original formula. The restaurant is still at the small site in the West End, and there are still only a maximum of 30 covers. And despite the economics, the idea of an Indian tapas still holds sway; rather than big, unwieldy dishes, you're encouraged by the prices and the size of dishes to order two to three each and then to pool your resources. Not only is it a more sociable, interactive way to eat, but it also minimises the potential for disappointment: if one of your choices doesn't turn out to suit your palate – or, perish the thought, is just rotten – it doesn't ruin the whole meal.
That wasn't a problem for us, though. Nothing failed to live up to the hype: the service was fantastic, with the waiter patiently talking our kids through the options; and you could almost feel the love and affection with which our meal had been prepared, the way in which the dishes were infused with a heady mix of fresh ginger, garlic, cardamom, coriander and lemon. Even better, the list of specials included two of my favourite dishes: prawn poori and mixed dahl. The poori, where spicy prawns in a mild gravy sit on top of a poppadom-sized disc of unleavened deep-fried bread, was outstanding; as was the dark, rich mix of five different lentils, which sparked a feeding frenzy and a plaintive cry from my eldest, Ollie: "Leave some for me, I'm a vegetarian."
He needn't have bothered because the one thing you can be sure of is that every menu in an Indian restaurant will have lots of non-meat options. The chana aloo (potato and chickpeas) and the spicy potato fritters soon put his mind at rest, while the carnivores tucked into machi massala (beautifully creamy fish curry), butter chicken, methi keema mutter (lamb mince cooked with peas and fenugreek) and a chilli chicken dosa as if we were speed-eating. All were stunning.
In fact, there is not much about Mother India's Café that is not superb. The refusal to take bookings may be slightly annoying, especially as the place is almost always full, but it's worth the wait. Alex Kapranos, Franz Ferdinand front man and obsessive foodie, once worked here delivering meals for a tenner a night, not because he needed the money, but mostly because it meant he had a free choice at the end of every evening.
It is, he says, his first port of call when he returns to the Dear Green Place, which just about says it all.
VITAL STATISTICSMother India's Café1355 Argyle Street, Glasgow (0141 339 9145,
www.motherindiascafe.co.uk)
Out of pocket £2.95–£4.95 per dish (three to four recommended for two people); rice £1.75; naan £1.95
Rating 8/10
The full article contains 915 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
