Tamarind

We’ve arrived. Aside from not having hot water, we’re delighted with our flat at Endsleigh Court, Bloomsbury. New mobile phone in hand, we ventured out to a restaurant reputed to be the most popular Indian joint in town: Tamarind. Our verdict: “popular” seems appropriate only with an accompanying qualifier: “among people who don’t really like Indian food.” From the rose-water martini to scallops and sea bass, we were first disappointed, then disgusted that a Michelin-starred establishment could be such a sell-out to mediocre palates: bland, bland, bland. We imagine vats of tomato paste as the base to most of what emerges from the kitchen, each dish nearly indistinguishable from the last. Shame on you, New York Times, for leading us astray on our first night in London.

Putting aside culinary disappointments, we’ve already swooned to London in the summer, catching glimpses in shop windows, light refracted over rooftops: signs of more good things to come. Early morning tomorrow to pick up our class from Heathrow….