From Bombay to Bridge Street: Dishoom Manchester

"NO ENTERING: KITCHEN" declares the bold capital lettering, hand-painted on the door leading to Dishoom Manchester's engine room. But I want to enter, desperately! Were I to breach this culinary fortress, I might finally uncover how they render keema pau so buttery it practically melts, how the chicken ruby achieves that magnificent boldness, how the roti maintains its perfect elasticity, and what dark sorcery endows their house black daal with its bewitching smokiness.

Notionally, this review concerns my Tuesday evening visit to the Manchester branch, but after dining at three London outposts, Edinburgh, and now twice in Manchester, my narrative inevitably weaves together moments from across these pilgrimages. This particular Tuesday marked an historic first - Dishoom without the ritual of queueing. I almost missed it. I've become so accustomed to the choreography: join the queue, exchange warm smiles and stories with fellow devotees, cradle steaming cups of complimentary chai, shuffle forward with anticipation. The queue at Dishoom functions as a cunningly designed appetiser for stomach and soul.

The typical Dishoom pilgrimage involves sipping one or two thimble-sized cups of chai outside, before being shepherded to the 'Permit Room' – their cocktail bar named for the licences once needed in Bombay to consume alcohol. Here, under vintage ceiling fans, you'll order something infused with cardamom or saffron while being seduced by the scent of distant spices. By the time you reach your table, invariably large enough to accommodate a state banquet, you're famished and ready to feast.

Manchester's branch occupies a generous corner of Bridge Street, meticulously designed to feel as if it's been there since the 1930s rather than 2018. Sepia photographs of unsmiling moustachioed gentlemen adorn walls of artfully distressed plaster. The menu presents itself as a historical document, the "Dishoom Guide to Bombay with Love" – detailing the story of the Irani cafés that once populated and entertained Bombay, brought there by immigrants from Persia.

The house black daal is a signature dish. Cooked for 24 hours until the lentils surrender completely, it arrives glossy as fresh tar, smoky from the overnight cooking, rich with ghee and cream. You'll order it automatically, like scratching an itch every time.

This visit, we also succumbed to the Manchester Special, the Kali Mirch Biryani – a dome of pastry hiding fragrant rice studded with chunks of lamb shoulder, raisins and caramelised onions. Curiously, this "Manchester Special" was also the "King's Cross Special" when I visited that location in January. One wonders how a dish can be special to two cities simultaneously – at Dishoom geography is merely a suggestion. Whatever its provenance, breaking through the golden crust releases a puff of aromatic steam that briefly transforms our table into theatre.

The keema pau lives up to my lovesick introduction – spiced minced lamb served with buttered, doughy white toasted bread. The combination is simultaneously comforting and exotic. The chicken ruby remains a standout. Tender chicken thighs luxuriate in a rich, silky makhani sauce that somehow manages to be both indulgent and light. We also sampled a channa dish, chickpeas simmered in a tangy, aromatic gravy, providing welcome textural contrast to our increasingly elaborate spread.

Dishoom challenges the staple British curry house drinks pairing. Rather than defaulting to the obligatory lager (though they do offer Kingfisher) their thoughtful drink selection complements the food without competing. I savoured a dark chocolate-infused Negroni, which sounds like an unholy fusion but proved startlingly coherent, the bitter chocolate notes enhances the Campari's depth. Later, I switched to their Road Soda, a hazy pale ale with floral notes that complemented the spices beautifully.

The Bridge Street location proved strategically brilliant. After our meal, pleasantly stuffed and slightly euphoric, we made the short stroll to Cask on Liverpool Road – one of Manchester's fine craft ale establishments – for a nightcap of hazy IPAs, the perfect digestif after such a feast.

Each dish arrives as a feast for the eyes before it becomes sustenance. The theatrical breaking of the biryani pastry, the glistening black daal, the array of small copper pots holding chutneys and raitas – all create an immersive experience that makes the typical Friday-night curry seem positively monochromatic by comparison. Yes, you'll pay more than at your local tandoori, but the quality of ingredients justifies the premium.

I've learned the care that goes into their preparations (I own the Dishoom cookbook, which sits in my top three most-used kitchen companions and will be reviewed in a post soon). There are no shortcuts. Each menu item has three hard to find ingredients: patience, attention to detail, and a commitment to quality that verges on obsession.

Rating: 5/5, impeccable food and service, a regular favourite.