The Tamil Prince

Just what London needed - another gastropub-turned-Indian-restaurant hybrid claiming to revolutionize curry. The Tamil Prince in Islington had me rolling my eyes before I even crossed the threshold. These trendy fusion spots are usually where good cuisine goes to die, wrapped in the shroud of exposed brick and craft beer lists.

But damn it all to hell if this place hasn't wormed its way into my reluctant affections.

Let's address the elephant in the room - yes, The Tamil Prince is housed in what was clearly once a proper London boozer, complete with weathered wooden floors that creak like they're auditioning for a horror film. The high-backed bar stools aren't winning any awards for comfort, and the prices will make your wallet wince. But here's where my cynical narrative starts to unravel.

The okra fries arrived first - a dish I've seen butchered more times than I care to count. These were different. Crispy little soldiers of perfectly seasoned vegetation that had me reaching for seconds before I'd even finished my first handful. It was an early warning sign that The Tamil Prince might actually know what they're doing.

Then came the lamb chops. Lord help me, these things. Tender enough to cut with a stern glance, wearing a coating of spices that made me temporarily forget I was paying Zone 2 prices for what is essentially fancy finger food. The chef clearly sold their soul at a crossroads for the secret to this marinade.

The main courses continued the assault on my professional cynicism. Their chicken curry achieved that elusive balance between heat and flavor that so many London Indians miss by a mile. The sauce, rich enough to make a banker blush, clung to each morsel of meat like it was afraid of letting go. And rightfully so - I'd be clingy too if I tasted that good.

Let's talk about the service, shall we? In a city where genuine warmth from staff is rarer than an affordable flat, The Tamil Prince's team manages to be both efficient and actually pleasant. They know their menu inside out and aren't afraid to make recommendations that don't just point to the most expensive dishes. It's almost suspicious how genuine they seem.

The cocktail program deserves mention, if only because it somehow manages to incorporate Indian flavors without descending into gimmickry. Their take on a gin and tonic actually enhanced my meal rather than merely accompanying it - a rare feat that justified the eye-watering price tag.

The space works better than it should. They've maintained enough of the pub's bones to feel authentic while adding touches that remind you you're in a serious restaurant. The lighting hits that sweet spot between "romantic dinner" and "actually being able to see your food." Weekend evenings are packed, but somehow they've managed to keep the noise level just below "having to shout your order."

For families considering a visit (because apparently that's a thing people do now), they're surprisingly accommodating. Though I'd suggest leaving the kids at home - not because they're unwelcome, but because you'll want to savor this meal without tiny humans demanding chicken nuggets.

Reservations are essential unless you enjoy standing hopefully at the bar like a lost puppy. The Tamil Prince in London's Islington has become popular enough to warrant planning ahead, which pains me to admit but there it is.

Look, I wanted to hate The Tamil Prince. I really did. It would have been easier to dismiss it as another pretentious London eatery charging West End prices for East End portions. Instead, I'm sitting here plotting my return visit, mentally justifying the cost because where else in London are you going to find okra fries that good? Make a reservation. Go hungry. Take your card with the highest limit. Just don't blame me when you become as annoyingly evangelical about the place as I've apparently become.