teaandbiscuits - the latest

Trio Brasserie

AleInTheVale — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 18:53:00 +0100

I’ve just read this cracking screenplay. It’s called “The Terrible and Pretentious Tale of The Curs-ed Restaurant”. Once upon a time there was a wise old man called Basil, who reigned supreme amongst his fish at one end of a thriving market town. He’d seen off his main competitor, an Irishman (possibly a saxophonist) named Mulligan, whose once-legendary empire had fallen into ruin. But, getting weary with age, Basil had decided to leave his thriving kingdom to a young Italian called Valentino, who’d been rudely evicted from his home by the evil Lord Tesco.

Trust me, I’m getting there.

But the young lothario was too proud to inherit the wise old man’s legacy. He didn’t listen to the townspeople, who told him that carrot-and-hoisin sauce-flavoured pizza was not fusion food (indeed, it was barely food), and that whilst the farmers of the valley were more Barbour jacketed than barley chomping, their wives didn’t appreciate being charged an arm and an Ugg-booted leg for what amounted to ostentatious slop.

Valentino, like Mulligan, saw his empire fall into rack and ruin. For two terrible winters Basil’s beautiful old castle lay in waste. But then, two merchant brothers from a nearby Marketplace fell into quarrel. Parting company, one sibling took the plunge and moved into Basil’s old castle at the head of the town, determined to make a mint. Little did he know, the old place had upon it a terrible curse…

Trio Brasserie is marketed on a curious premise (“Meat – Fish - Pasta” proclaims its minimalist, black-and-gold signs. Well, yes), but it’s actually based on the tried-and-tested principle of nearby eateries El Prado and The Caesar’s Arms (and La Brasserie and S
Champers in Cardiff) – a selection of fresh, marinated fish and meats on a counter, ready to be grilled to perfection.

It’s a reasonably winning formula and having evidently won custody of this style of restaurant (the new Marketplace is now a bistro), Ale had high hopes: after all, how hard is it to grill a good piece of meat? And boy, do the Trio folks market hard. Signs and flyers all over the town (including a billboard on the verge of the nearby dual carriageway) proclaim their early-evening, two-course set meal: a snip at £8.95. Surely, given the discerning (read: monied) palettes of Cowbridge’s great and good, Trio had to be serving meals of quality and distinction?

Oh dear.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Our table of six turned up at 8.30pm on a Saturday – not exactly late, and having booked – to find a member of staff furiously scrubbing the menu off the blackboards (too late for the set meal, see). Which wouldn’t be so bad, were it not for the fact that a good 50% of the menu was now, apparently unavailable to purchase a la carte. I’m sure it’s usually the other way around, chaps.

Absurdly, another pair of dishes on the remaining list had been crossed through, leaving just a handful of starters and mains. But, y’know, a small menu is often a good thing, and though what remained was patchy, it wasn’t without attraction. Fillet of mackerel with a poached quail’s egg was greedily ordered up, as was a duck salad and the curiously titled “gambo prawns” in sizzling chilli oil. Handsome main course cuts of meats were all present and correct on the glass counter, though the selection of fish and lack of any salad counter was frankly miserable compared to El Prado or S
Champers.

We should have known something was up when drinks were ordered. Two wines by the glass: “red” or “white”. Bloody hell. We only sampled the latter, but whatever it was (and we didn’t see any evidence of a bottle), it would have been poured away in disgust by a purveyor of the most rock bottom plonk. And – and I don’t want to get Chief into libel trouble here (much) – could they really be watering down the gin? Three members of the party felt there was barely any hint of alcohol in the proffered G&T (again, no sign of a gin bottle). And Mrs Ale’s family know their gin (hic).

Now, this is already sounding like a hatchet job, and I’m really not out to be horrible for the sake of it. But this was a disastrous experience. The staff – some five or six waitresses – spent most of their time frankly arsing about by the bar. Loudly. About 6 feet from our table. Fair play, there weren’t that many customers, and I’m not the sort that expects staff to go polishing brasses and dusting cornices when it’s slow, but it’s a pretty poor show when you practically have to start a fire to get someone’s attention a stone’s throw away. Not only that, the arrival of the meals was announced to us with all the charm of a barking Alsatian. FIIIIISH!

It wouldn’t have been so bad had the food been good. And it was in *very* small quantities. The mackerel was delicious, though the egg – the size of a saucer – was patently not laid by the advertised fowl (either that or they’re feeding the quails in the Vale some sort of nuclear waste).

But the gambo prawns were just chopped (chopped?) peeled king prawns, entirely lacking in any flavour, in sizzling oil with the merest hint of chilli, whilst the duck salad was absolutely repulsive. Young Master Mrs Ale (you’re keeping up here?) complained that it didn’t taste too good, and having tasted it personally, I couldn’t even swallow it. Again, I hate reviewers that claim something was “inedible” just because it wasn’t gilded in truffle oil. But this wasn’t just bad. It was actually rotting. I gagged – properly gagged – and couldn’t even get it down.

Amazingly, when we approached the half-dozen staff assembled by the bar to complain, they treated the prospect of food poisoning with all the insouciance of a supermodel filing her nails. The head waitress – at least a little more switched on than the others – offered a replacement, but the chosen dish from the menu was – you’ve guessed it – off. Mains were another curate’s egg. Fair play, Ale’s rare T-bone was done spot on (which does show some cooking talent), and most of the fish dishes went down well enough. But chips were very poor (unlike the old Marketplace chips, which were a thing of beauty).

And then there was the veg. When you’re paying upward of £15 for a main, you do not expect to be given a gigantic bowl of peas, topped with three stale cauliflower florets and some sliced carrots between three people. Especially since a pair of our party had politely requested extra veg instead of chips. And when we asked for more cauliflower, the waitress took our request…

…and went home. No, really. The waitress took our query, ran off, and went home. We waited minutes and minutes and asked another staff member, who told us that the girl had left for the night without telling anyone. And there was no more cauliflower. It was off. Eventually, the head waitress got the chef to make up some Mediterranean veg, which she claimed we should have had all along.

We skipped dessert.

Do I sound like a pompous arse describing all of this? I apologise, I don’t mean it. Honestly, out of 12 dishes served, probably 9 had at least one element that was atrocious, and one was actually a health hazard. The service was brusque and inattentive, half the menu was off, and the drinks were appalling. The head waitress did comp a third off the bill – which was kind of her. But to be brutally honest, paying full price would have been a scandal for what we had.

It’s such a shame. You get the feeling the folks at Trio must be losing money on their bargain prix-fixe menu – Cowbridge is a devastatingly expensive place to pay rent on a business – even though it looks like they do pack them in for this. But you don’t make up the money by charging silly prices for a la carte, and by cutting the quality of your produce. It doesn’t take Gordon Ramsay to tell you that (even though he does, over and over and over again, on Kitchen Nightmares). And employing so many staff, all evening, to standing around buggering about – that’s just throwing away money.

Ultimately, it's all very well serving up mediocre food on the cheap for your Happy Hour-stylee promotion. But dishing up the same utter dreck - accompanied by a laughable lack of choice and terrible service - at full price is just insulting. A once-proud restaurant has become the equivalent of a service-station "Grab'n'Go Meal Deal". Somewhere, old Basil has a tear in his eye.

Cafe Minuet

Chief — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 18:04:31 +0100

I once met Emma Kirkby. She was lovely. In face I've met James Bowman now I think of it. And unless you're big on your classical music you're more likely to think I hang around with pasta dishes rather than real people. That's because one of Cardiff's most cherished Italians made the bizarre move of naming several of its recipes after stars of what Radio 3 will tell you is called 'the early music movement' (famously once defined by somebody who should have known better as the music you listen to before breakfast).

And such curiosities are the foundation of the Cafe Minuet ethos. Prepare yourself for a soundtrack of obscure Baroque opera hits from the perilously perched and ever-skipping CD player. Revel in the pleasure of releasing your plastic menu from its rubber band. And savour the smoothness of your tablecloth hued from purest vinyl. Doesn't sound appealing? Well, if you want fancy linen and Nigella cutlery you're in the wrong place, but I bet the music won't be half as good at the poncy establishment you end up at.

As for the food, there's something miraculous about the fact they produce anything at all given the size of the kitchen - possibly rivalling the magic tricks performed at La Vita just around the corner. Nothing fancy here, but simple staples of pasta, salads, and our choice of the famous Minuet 'slipper'. It's just a slab of pizza really, and once we'd managed to prise a fork from the waitress it went down very nicely. Salad dressing's a bit tricky though - you'll have to make it yourself from the oil and vinegar they bring. Come on though, they're only charging a fiver for it. They're bloody friendly too.

Presumably Emma and James visited once. Maybe they'll come again. Maybe I'll even get to eat an Emma Kirkby with Emma Kirkby one day. That would be really cool.

Fairyhill

Chief — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 22:47:52 +0100

There are some restaurants which can get away with the cardinal waiter sin, and others which can't. So, as the full pint glass tumbled towards my new linen trousers in horrifying slow motion, it seemed a good moment to consider whether the meal which had preceded this hugely undesirable moment merited forgiveness.

The weather certainly helped, although no restaurant can take credit for that. But Fairyhill does offer the perfect location to enjoy a sunny afternoon, set in luscious countryside on the Gower peninsula, and if you can bag a space on the terrace for aperetifs you'll certainly be set fair to cope with most of what waiters might want to throw at you in the course of a meal. Inside too, the set-up is impressive, with seemingly endless lounges and bars to deliberate over the menu.

But therein lies a hint of darker forces. Fairyhill caters for the upmarket guest, and the owners are keen to keep it that way. Don't misunderstand - service is polite and prompt - but there's a sense that you should worship the shrine fully, and perhaps feel lucky to be there, even though you're paying a healthy sum for the honour.

All of which is fine if the food lives up to the swagger. And in part it does. These are chefs with an enviable eye for presentation, and a willingness to experiment. Scrambled eggs might sound a let-down as a first course, but these were perfectly cooked duck eggs mixed with local cockles, Penclawdd grit and all. Gently seasoned too, and just the right size. The ox-cheek 'pie' was mostly a winner too, although balancing a pastry crust on a rich slow-baked ox stew a-pie-does-not-make in the regular universe we argue.

But there are some misses too. Fairyhill makes great play of its locally sourced produce, and puts much of it to great use. Pride, though, seems to get in the way occasionally. On the restaurant's doorstep, almost literally, is one of the finest makers of chocolate brownies, and yet Fairyhill evidently make their own for the restaurant. Fine if you're going to do a cracking job, but there was nothing thrilling about these little chaps, a triumph of texture over flavour. Certainly no chocolatey exhileration you'll get from the local rivals. And watch out if you're planning to spice it up with a glass of brandy - 9 quid is the cheapest you'll find on the somewhat eye-wateringly expensive drinks menu.

So, what of those beer-stained trousers? If only I could have afforded the brandy it wouldn't have been so bad, but I won't be sending in this particular dry-cleaning bill. Even with stinking clothes, and a lighter wallet, I left Fairyhill with a smile on my face, and that can't be a bad sign.

Waterloo Tea Gardens

Chief — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 22:43:33 +0100

This review comes from an unfortunate perspective which needs to be made clear at the outset: tea has always been a mystery to me. I just don't GET it. Teas don't do anything. They just sit there in their fancy pots, leaves splayed everywhere, and all you get is some slightly weirdly flavoured hot water. Others will disagree of course. Perhaps this website will even be destroyed by tea fanatics. But that's just the way it is.

So we'll just have to take it as read that the teas at Waterloo TG are the real thing, and will send Assam aficionados and Jasmine junkies into ecstatic realms. They will certainly love the endless selection on offer, funky teapots (I am told that tea drinkers can't get enough of quirky receptacles), and precise instructions on how long to leave your infusion.

What I can confirm is that the Tea Gardens are generally a pleasant place to pass the odd half hour, especially if the sun is shining through the enormous bay windows (so big you can use them as an emergency exit if the tea becomes too overwhelming). And if you want to go for the full experience there's even a multi-tiered finger sandwich and scone affair on offer, just to impress the lady.

All is not quite perfect though. The coffee is a big disappointment, and way short of their reputation for fine, punchy, rich brews. Nothing disastrous, but just average. And the cakes are definitely in need of some refinement. The chocolate and beetroot number has nothing like enough beetroot to proclaim its brashness, and not enough chocolate to have any richness. And it takes a peculiar skill to make a lemon cake taste so little of lemon.

But these are small gripes. If you're in the market for a tea fiesta then there's nowhere else to go. And maybe one day I'll understand what all the fuss is about.

Carluccio's

Chief — Wed, 26 May 2010 16:10:11 +0100

There aren't many gastronomic pilgrimages actually worth making, but the tiny Al Bicerin cafe in a secluded corner of Turin is definitely one of the most magical. The 'bicerin' in question is their signature drink, invented on the premises, and served daily to a long line of admirers who will happily queue for an hour on a wet Wednesday afternoon in January for the experience. The ingredients are simple: one espresso, one hot chocolate, and a dab of cream. The enigma is in the making, all done in a mysterious back room where the concoction is deftly prepared in a glass so that the elements sit in three distinct layers. The result: a drink where every mouthful has a different balance of bitter coffee, sweet chocolate, and indulgent cream. Brilliant.

So why have Antonio Carluccio's people decided to butcher it in his cafes? Order it in Cardiff and you'll get some kind of crazy DIY kit. Presumably risottos aren't served as a pile of dry rice, a glass of wine and a pitcher of stock, so why the 3 jugs of ingredients for a bicerin? If I wanted to make it myself I'd have stayed at home and done it for half the price.

'Authenticity' is Carluccio's selling point, and sadly the lack of it goes beyond a slightly esoteric Torino tipple. Half of it is there: most of the dishes stand out for their simplicity of ingredients and design. The trouble is, something's gone wrong with the other half: taste. This is food by numbers, and if there's one cuisine that doesn't stand up to that treatment it's Italian.

Try the carpaccio stuffed with mozzarella. Looks great on the plate, but there's no depth to the meat, and total blandness in the mozzarella. Texture rules OK.

How about the pasta test? This is where the near-neighbour Jamie's delivers big punches - even the simplest of dishes smacks you around the chops with ballsy flavours. But try the seafood linguine in both restaurants and there's a chasm between them. Carluccio's version skimps on the fish and whereas Jamie's linguine taste like they have an ocean of fish trying to burst out Carluccio's are, well, I'm so bored eating them I can't be bothered to conjure an adjective. And if you're still clinging on in the hope of a final flourish you'd best avoid the chocolate fondent. That's the one you remember from Masterchef: 'should be firm on the outside, gooey on the inside' you hear Greg roar. Let's hope he doesn't see Carluccio soon because this one was hard on the outside, hard on the inside, and not particularly warm.

The message is clear. If you want passion for Italian food which goes the whole way, Jamie's wins hands down. If you want a good cup of coffee Carluccio's is your man. Trouble is, they built a hell of a restaurant to turn out a reasonable cuppa.

The Bell at Skenfrith

Chief — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 20:18:17 +0100

If you could produce a chef by combining body parts of Heston Blumenthal and Jamie Oliver, what would he produce? Roast lamb ice cream? Snail tagliatelle? Chocolate brownies cooked sous-vide? Not an enticing prospect perhaps, but the true answers should in theory be found in the devastatingly idyllic village of Skenfrith, Monmouthshire, inside the Welsh border by a matter of metres. The 17th-century coaching inn is now restored as The Bell (sorry, 'the bell', as their capitals-free website insists), and currently rests its culinary reputation in the hands of head chef Rupert Taylor who counts both The Fat Duck and Fifteen as his training grounds. As such, he's one of a new breed of British chefs who have known nothing but the era of the TV chef, and have only read of the years when fine British food meant cutting your own chips rather than raking them from an oven tray.

You could of course argue that a Sunday lunch doesn't offer a young gun the chance to give of his best. Until, that is, you met someone who has been to The Bell's big rival and near clone that is - I speak of the Felin Fach Griffin, words which bring a flutter to the heart of anyone in search of a Sunday roast cooked with true flare and imagination, a place whose beef and lamb can almost be spooned into the mouth.

The basics are certainly there at The Bell. There's a handsome list of suppliers chalked up on the wall, including the enigmatic 'William' who brings in the game (William, can we talk partridge sometime?) and both a decent wine list and local ales to complement a menu which should please both granny and young Masterchef oik. The trouble is, I just couldn't help feeling there was a gap between the execution and ultimate satisfaction.

Take the mackerel for starters: delicately marinaded and served with a decent aioli and salad from the kitchen garden but just lacking in contrast, a bit of acidity from some pickle maybe. And even if we didn't mind the rather idiotic granite slabs, the waiting staff sure aren't keen on them.

It's the same story with the main courses. The beef is cooked beautifully, but doesn't have quite the depth of flavour their great rival manages, and the pork certainly doesn't do anything special. And most frustrating of all was some shambolic plating-up - I'd love to know what Heston used to say when he saw beef going out without the horseradish and pork without the crackling. And at £25 a head we're surely getting to territory where the staff should remember roughly who is having what, rather than storming up to the table and shouting PORK, COD, BEEF as if they were Alex Ferguson commanding a tactical reorganisation from the Old Trafford touchline. And if that wasn't enough to disturb the peace, the three rounds of plate-smashing certainly were. Were they trying to get rid of those bloody granite slabs once and for all?

And yet this IS a chef with real flare and ability. It's just that you have to get to the dessert to see it come through. Whether The Fat Duck can lay claim to the ice cream recipes we can't say, but the spiced carrot accompaniment to the unctuous chocolate and walnut marquise (think gooey brownie) is stunning, and if there's one sign that great things will come of this restaurant it sits on the plate of those who order rhubarb crumble. A slither of caremalised rhubarb might sound nothing special, but it's a brilliant touch, a hint of innovation, even a bit of humour. Heston would be proud, but his acolytes aren't quite threatening his crown yet.

Thai Basil

The Granary — Sun, 11 Apr 2010 14:02:24 +0100

Searching for a place to eat at half-past nine on a Friday night, we stumbled across Thai Basil, the new rival to the swanky Bangkok Café, its near neighbour. The menu advertises “subtle fragrant aromas…crunchy textures…sour, sweet, salty, bitter and hot”. Thai food certainly should be all of these, so we thought we’d see if the place lived up to its promises.

Thai Basil is definitely no-frills - clean, but not fancy. You can view the kitchen through a big window (shame the chef makes no show of this). We had a friendly, attentive waitress, always there to offer another Chang beer when our glasses were empty, but without fuss.
So, to the promises. The starter of mixed Thai Basil (yep - we didn't have a clue what to expect either) was basically a mixed platter of the usual oriental restaurant stuff: sesame toast, spring rolls and chicken on a stick. Not particularly Thai, as far as I could tell. An order of Massa Mun Kae (lamb with Thai curry and coconut milk) was OK, but not very subtle: a coconut stew with new potatoes. Not particularly hot, or sweet, or bitter, or any of those things promised, but fine. The Pat Thai Goong (the famous dish of Pad Thai, served with king prawns) was disappointingly bland, only a faint taste of the promised peanuts, and over-powered by the bean sprouts.

So, a pretty disappointing meal, not living up to any of those promises on the menu. OK for a casual dinner after a few beers, certainly not the place for a special outing. But great service, and at the end of the meal we were accepted as lifelong members, with the promise of 10% off all food at future visits, a promise of members-only nights with surprise entertainment, and the promise that we will meet and socialise with other customers.

We’ll be back soon. Promise.

Mint and Mustard

Chief — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 21:01:25 +0100

One of the greatest TV pinnacles of the last decade was undoubtedly Banzai. For the benefit of those unfamiliar with its tomfoolery, this excellent Channel 4 vehicle consisted of a series of idiotic games undertaken in mock-Japanese style, challenging the viewer to bet on their outcome. Mr Shake-Hands Man is a fond memory for all Banzai fans, with his weekly attempt to grasp the limb of an unfortunate celebrity for implausible periods of time.

Banzai is, sadly. no more. But, GOOD NEWS, there is now an Indian restaurant in which you can have just as much fun. The rules: just before you finish each course challenge your companions to guess how quickly the waiters will seize the plate from under your nose, and then employ whatever tactics you can to delay the inevitable crockery grab. Tonight, we tried what we imagined to be masterful delaying tactics: continuing to hold the cutlery in eating pose with the belief that no waiter would be rude enough to snatch everything from a diner clearly savouring his last mouthful.

[the following to be read in ludicrous Japanese accent]

If you said:
a) 'waiter will hover right next to you watching your final dozen mouthfuls in a sinister way, then ignore fact you clearly haven't finished and grab everything anyway'

[Japanese gong]

YOU ARE A WINNER!!

Yes, Mint and Mustard is sad living proof that a few humorless, unwelcoming waiters can dampen the very best of restaurant experiences. Fine if you're in a rush, and not in the mood to chat, but nobody wants to feel that their seat is eagerly awaited by the next customer, that dishes will follow as quickly as humanly possible, that you will be asked for your orders at two-minute intervals until you're damned well ready. And certainly not in a restaurant which is turning out mighty fine food.

This is the tragedy. The food in Mint and Mustard, masterminded by the incredibly talented and affable Anand George would be the star of the evening if only we were allowed to enjoy it. These are chefs who are total masters of balancing flavours, and producing food with the qualities of a fine wine, exhibiting aroma, background and foreground flavours, and a complex finish. Take the Spinach and Prune cakes on the starter menu. There's a delicious sweetness from the prunes, slight bitterness from the spinach and tamarind, and then a Wonka-like arrival of chilli heat maybe 40 seconds after the first bite. Stunning. For those who like to indulge a little more, the paneer is also something to behold with a gloriously creamy and rich flavour. But the cooking skills really came out in the highlight of the main courses, a monkfish steak cooked in a 'boatman's' chilli sauce. Surely such a delicate creature would be destroyed by the heat of the sauce. Not a bit of it - this was perfectly cooked fish which seemed to operate in a different dimension from the roar and piquancy of the accompaniment. I have absolutely no idea how they did that, but it was impressive.

That the food is so brilliantly assembled only makes the frostiness of the experience sadder. Not that there weren't any smiles to be seen. If only they hadn't been produced by the handover of a tip, and a calling for coats. I'm not sure how much I want to go to restaurants only happy to see me leave, however good the food.

North Star

Chief — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 22:55:11 +0000

If the Conservative Party ran a pub it would definitely be North Star. This is a place reaching out to everyone, and we're all damned well supposed to be grateful to them.

There's a touch of the William Hagues about the furnishings, period chairs delivering a comforting sense of history yet nodding to the working classes with their clapped-out springs. There's a half-hearted attempt at glamour too with the Theresa May-esque Hollywood posters and sexy mirrors. Ken Clarke would be delighted to see a couple of real ales on tap, even if the uninspiring Timothy Taylor is hardly going to set the Hush Puppies dancing. And Dave himself would thoroughly approve of the hearty attempt to steal the young vote with a good old open mic session featuring many of Cardiff's aspiring, if not inspiring, musical voices.

All of which explains why nobody will be quite happy with the result. North Star's intentions are definitely in the gastro arena, promising 'exquisite food made from only fresh ingredients'. And there's also a gloriously pretentious promise to match beers perfectly not just to every dish but even to the glasses they are served in. Right, so you're telling me that the perpetually lack-lustre Everards is the ying to the chicken pie's yang. Right.

The results are, alas, variable. Amongst the starters, the antipasto is probably the best bet with a mozzarella combining juicy freshness with a brie-like tang, some zingy artichoke and salumi which would pass muster in most Italian trattoria. If only the salsiccie dish had matched it though - these sausages were desperately in need of some oomph. Of the main courses, calzone is probably worth a try (with a choice from any of the pizza selection), and the Spaghetti Putanesca makes a hearty attempt at combining some interesting flavours with a chilli hit balanced nicely with caper acidity. Shame about the burger though - nothing special to report here.

The problem is, a foodie won't find enough choice and excitement on the menu, a CAMRA man won't be impressed with just a couple of mediocre ales (although there's a decent range of Belgian beers in the fridge), and plenty of students will find it just that little bit staid. But, like the Tory message, this is an offering delivered with total confidence and just enough style to disguise the sometime lack of substance. Don't think about it too much, and you might find yourself voting for them more than you'd have expected.

Chai Street

Chief — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 14:49:32 +0000

I think I may have an apology to make. It's not that I'd fallen out of love with Indian food, just that I was wondering if it was really capable of the subtlety and variety of its European equivalent. It was Gordon Ramsay's 'Best Local Restaurant' challenge that did it. The Indians' approach seemed so narrow - whatever the task, whatever the ingredients, they'd just marinade them in spices and serve 'em up with a dal or two. Where were the casseroles, the confits, the pies, the reductions, the pastries of sub-continental cookery? But now I've discovered there are some great happenings on Whitchurch Road. I may have seen the light.

Chai Street is the 'street food' offshoot of the much-respected Mint and Mustard. (You'll notice the lack of a link to our review there. It's not that we haven't tried, just that M&M is almost impossible to get into without planning yours life two decades in advance.) The proposition is simple: breakfast and lunch from a mini-menu, at reasonable prices, but with the cooking aspirations of its bigger brother.

It's also a dream cafe for the indecisive. Your best bet is the thali, £5 for the basic or £6 for the full two-courser, and if you're not mightily impressed with what turns up you might as well stop reading this and buy yourself a year's McDonald's vouchers. The delicacy with which the flavours are balanced is astonishing - few chefs could get spices to blend so beautifully, each dish premiering one distinctive foreground with a backdrop of pastel shades. This really was Canaletto in food form. There was a rich, aromatic spiced potato accompaniment too, impeccably baked breads, and perfectly textured rice the like of which you will find no where else in the city. Remarkable for a fiver.

If there's a hint of a complaint, it's that the staff let the food do all the talking. Smiles are not on the menu, in fact you'll do well to get much of a conversation at all. They've gone a bit nuts on the Bollywood interior too. And as for the chocolate wallpaper, that might have been better left on a TV home interior show.

But these are trifling complaints. Chai Street and its bigger brother are rapidly redefining Indian food in Cardiff. And there's a loyal following in the making too - you'll find plenty of local Indians, up-market foodies, and broad-minded locals all clammering for a lunch space. This is proof that good food sells, and you'd do well to make sure you're one of the ones buying.