Mehek's bright future

It seems no matter how upmarket you go - stripping off the flock, banishing the dreaded one-pot dishes, spending aeons on elaborate presentation for your sophisticated, pan-subcontinental dishes - the Indian restaurant remains the spiritual reserve of the world's David Brents.

You could sling this lot a DayGlo tikka masala or ring-of-fire vindaloo, and they'd be in their element. But Mehek tries to deliver something a whole lot better. Often the kitchen succeeds - chef Ashok Kuma has spent years working with Atul Kochar, who scored a Michelin star at Tamarind before opening Benares - but often, unfortunately, it flounders.

When dishes worked well, they were terrific. Scallop 'pakora' - large, pearly discs in gram flour batter - were evidence of what the kitchen is capable of: perfectly moist scallops (hard to do when deep frying: timing is of the essence) in a crisp, robust and flavourful coating with a slick of tamarind-scented sauce.

I'm not sure we needed the elaborate spaghetti of raw veg that accompanied this (and almost everything else). You found yourself marvelling at its execution while fighting off foot-long tentacles of beetroot. And I didn't actually want to eat the stuff.

Shammi kebabs were dismal - these spiced lamb patties should have a mousse-y texture; instead, they were school-dinner quality, unyielding pucks. The chutney, though, was gorgeous: heady with mint and coriander.

My half-Bengali date sneered at what he perceived to be a rampaging lack of authenticity. What was described on the menu as mascher jhol - a Bengali fish curry - was, apparently, nothing of the sort. 'This was mother's milk to me,' he sighed. 'It shouldn't have tomato in it. Or onion.' Now, I don't have any problems with a spot of classicstinkering so long as the result is an improvement on the original. But then why not call it something else?

We had an extra course of mixed kebabs. Disappointing. This is generally my favourite part of an Indian meal: succulent meat infused with spices and blasted into ethereal tenderness by the tandoor. Here, the lamb chops hadn't been marinated long enough, the spice crust was harsh and medicinal; the chicken was dry - unforgiveable - and the monkfish cotton-woolly. A sparky big prawn tried its best to hang on to the dish's reputation, but it was a case of too little, too late.

Rogan josh was good: melting lamb and a rich, red sauce in which the flavours of caramelised onion, spices and chillis had happily married. What was described as 'home-style chicken curry' had an agreeably hand-knitted air about it: a thin, flavourful soup containing the less glamorous parts of a chicken.

Breads were acceptable: a paratha could have been more buttery and flakier, a naan stuffed with a selection of aromatics was only OK. But the dal makhni, black lentils slow-cooked with cream, was perfect: soothing, earthy and luxurious at the same time.

It's testament to our lovely waiter (he was so thrilled at our interest in the food for its own sake and not as a lager sponge that he comped us a couple of pear brandies) and the fact that I think the kitchen is capable of blinding things, that I've given this venue three stars.

And maybe if the gals remember the Atkins-friendliness of tandooried meat, it might just lower the testosterone-level, too.

Mehek
London Wall, London, EC2M 5TE