Star of India - Homage to AA Gill

Leuvensesteenweg / Chaussée de Louvain, 175
1210 - Brussels.

by Lavin.

The restaurant was called Star of India, and it was in Sint-Joost ten Node. That on itself should have been enough to make you feel a bit wary. No matter: the table having already been booked at an unspecified time (yes, you are reading that correctly) and the constant, unheeded growls of hunger coming from the squashers' stomachs couldn't be ignored.

Now, Star of India is an interesting name for an Indian restaurant. It is probably the name of the largest sapphire in the world (it was actually mined in then Ceylan, but at the time it was all part of the same British Empire) It has 563.35 carats (112.67 grams), and apparently is nigh-flawless and has stars on both sides, which according to Wikipedia, it is unusual. Right. Suffice to say that J.P.Morgan (the original banker) was involved in it, and he wouldn't get up of bed unless huge profits were to be made.

The decoration was Indian standard-issue: Images of late Mughal emperors and consorts, Jade and/or wood images of alegoric Indian animals, metal-framed furniture, a smell of spices and polite, attentive white-shirted waiters with sleevless undershirts. I was missing the usual dancing Shiva sculpture somewhat, but then I realised why there might not have been any: the owners seemed to me Bangladeshis, like most Indian restaurants. If this were true, and since Bangladeshis are almost all muslims, that could explain the lack of images of Hindu gods. Or maybe I am completely wrong, and they just decided to decorate it like that.

Be it as it may, most Bangladeshi-owned restaurants have fantastic fish dishes, so that got me salivating, but strangely, the menu lacked any fish dish, which was a pity. In fact it was squarely for Western taste and it consisted of the usual 3-variable equation: chicken, beef, lamb or prawns as ingredients; oven-clay, sizzling, slowly-cooked, yoghurt&spice-coated or swimming in brightly yellow (or brightly orange) sauce as cooking-methods; and any variation of hotness between bland tikka masala and fiery vindaloo. Even the poppadoms and the mango chutney were average.

The food was in line with the restaurant: freshly cooked, but lacked in depth. Yes, the flavours were there for the ignorant Westerners' tongues, and yes, each different dish seemed different on its presentation, but there was a sameness on it all that you see too often in Indian restaurants between Reykjavik and Aya Napa. They have a formula that works with most people, and they stick to it. If you want something authentically Indian, either you pay twice as much or you go to India. Which I might just as well do.

The service was, however, above your average Indian. The waiter was attentive, helped you with the Pilau rice, didn't push you into ordering more drinks, and was generally almost invisible, which is what you would expect, and what some serious waiters are proud of: the service was good, but nobody can remember the waiter. You are thus more likely to ensure a comeback from your clients.

I was lucky enough to be accompanied by some very nice people, so it was a good chance to socialise over a meal, and crack the usual jokes about different tastes, trying not to choose anything too hot, remembering the last time one of us did eat something too hot and generally having a good time. We all liked the evening, to be honest. But was that due to the fact that we all got on very well, or was it due to the restaurant itself? Ah, now that is a question, isn't it?


Verdict: 3. High Street rock for the average tourist.


Legend:

5/5 Superstar.
4/5 Star of India.
3/5 Starfish.
2/5 Star Wars.
1/5 Starry eyes.