A short stroll to the Punjab... well, to Southall, and the Roxy New Asian Tandoori Centre for a suitably fiery feast (and a bellyful of stodge)
Roxy, New Asian Tandoori Centre
114-118 The Green, Southall
Rating: 
In the old days, I might have described myself as downright lazy. An indolent sod with an aversion to exertion, a layabout, idler and bum.
Give me eternal damnation over the horrors of jogging. Crucifixion before cross-trainer. And the full unholy wrath of Satan’s massed infernal armies rather than a couple of hours in the gym.
Hell, I’d even embrace clean eating, homeopathy and kombu enemas. Anything to avoid the Lycra-clad indignities of the outdoor racing bike.
Southall exudes heartily robust Punjabi charm and Roxy at the New Asian Tandoori Centre is bland, well scrubbed and briskly utilitarian. The only soundtrack, the whine of the fridge
But these days, it’s all fine. Because I’m not bone idle, rather exercise intolerant. A genuine medical condition, I’m told. Unabletogetoffmyfatassitis, to use its official Latin name.
I’m a victim, just like those poor saps who confuse genuine gluten intolerance (the rare and deeply debilitating Coeliac disease) with some half-baked belief that it makes you fat.
And anyone who disagrees, be they dime-a-dozen doctor, or mere misguided scientist, is plainly wrong. I think, therefore I’m ill.
So it follows that I’d be allergic to any form of walking. Wrong. Because whereas a walk for walk’s sake is obviously deranged, a stroll to the pub, say, or a restaurant, is a different prospect indeed.
I love a wander, potter and meander. Especially when rewarded by grub. Which is why I find myself ambling up the Uxbridge Road in west London, from my home in Shepherd’s Bush, past graveyards and chicken shops, lock-ups and lawyers, parks, police stations, nutters and nannies, towards Southall. One of those blissfully exotic countries within the city – patriam in urbe, if you will – that makes London so great.
Service is curt but professional. You come here for no-nonsense Punjabi ballast, gloriously loaded with salt, sugar, spice, fat and stodge
Because nowhere else on Earth can you find so many disparate nations and religions, rubbing shoulders, breaking bread, and generally getting along.
That sliver of Korea in New Malden; the Arabic allure of the Edgware Road; Turkish vim in Green Lanes; Brixton’s mighty Caribbean currents; streets in Stockwell that resonate with the melancholy of Portuguese fado; a herb-drenched taste of Vietnam in Kingsland Road; the little Lagos of Peckham; a roar of Polish around the Uxbridge Road. All of the world in one sprawling, mind-the-gap mass. For optimists and eaters alike, it makes the heart sing.
Southall exudes heartily robust Punjabi charm, with its Sikh sports clubs, sickly sweet shops, vegetarian cafes and fabric emporiums billowing with brightly coloured cloth.
I shuffle past Bina Musicals and its tablas, dholaks, sitars and snake flutes, and the distant glimmer of golden domes. And into the prosaically named New Asian Tandoori Centre, through the sugar-soaked takeaway counter of the first room.
Then into the restaurant proper: Roxy, bland, well scrubbed and briskly utilitarian. A steel jug of water sits on every table, alongside plastic squeezy bottles of tamarind juice and mint raita. The only soundtrack, the whine of the fridge.
Service is curt but professional. You come here for no-nonsense Punjabi ballast, gloriously loaded with salt, sugar, spice, fat and stodge.
Papdi chaat arrives within a minute of being ordered, flung together next door, a luscious mess of crisp wheat crackers, chickpeas and potato, drenched in cool yoghurt, and slathered with tart, sweet tamarind.
They like their tamarind here, and their chickpeas too. Dahi bhalla is less exciting, a rather stolid, sullen dumpling that lurks grumpily in more tamarind-stained yoghurt.
And just to ensure we’re fully saturated with legume and mouth-puckering pod, a half-dozen gol gappa, the North Indian incarnation of the ubiquitous Indian street food.
Crisp semolina shells, to be filled with, yup, you’ve guessed it, chickpeas, tamarind chutney and a wonderfully tart, black salt and mint-spiked water.
They’re decent, but lack the cool gasp, the ethereal lightness of the very best.
Tandoori fish shows a seasoned hand at the tandoor tiller, but lacks character, and is solid rather than spectacular.
Lamb chops, on the other hand, arrive sizzling, blackened and clad in a heady spice bazaar of paste. The meat bleats with adolescent vigour, while the charred nubs of burnt fat induce indecent delight.
Curries are equally blunt, hearty and straightforward, the madras mighty with tomato, chilli and softly fatty lamb. Fiery fuel for a race of ancient warriors. And eaters too.
Butter chicken is, well, butter chicken, about as subtle as a Bollywood romance. Tinned tomato soup mixed with a bucketful of ghee. Fine if you’re a fan of the cloyingly sweet.
Onion-stuffed kulcha is over-stodgy, despite the tandoor’s kiss, while methi paratha is slimmer, and scented with fenugreek.
Don’t expect gastronomic fireworks, rather well-priced, good quality Punjabi tucker in an upmarket local canteen that’s entirely confident in its ability to please.
I stagger out and contemplate the walk back into town. With nothing to tempt me at the journey’s end, and a belly laden with stodge, I revert to lazy type. And take the next train home.
Lunch for two: £30
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