The Tamil Crown, N1

A restaurant by any other name...

Alright, here’s a confession: I’ve never been to The Tamil Prince. Yes, that Tamil Prince, the one that every food writer in London obsessed about for a bit, the one that’s still booked out weeks ahead, the one that’s only 20 minutes from my flat and so I’ve really got no excuse at all. I’ve always meant to get around to it, I’ve tried (and failed) to get a table a couple of times, and I know I’ll make it eventually but it just hasn’t happened yet, alright?

But I can, at least, now say that I’ve been to The Tamil Crown, the slightly-easier-to-book follow-up that opened this time last year and shares about half its menu with the original site.

Like the Prince, The Tamil Crown is billed as a pub, but in reality this goes no further than the fact that there are a few draught beers on and they do a south Indian-inspired Sunday roast. It may be on the site of the former Charles Lamb, and retains much of the pub trimmings, but this doesn’t come close to passing the ‘would you go there for just a drink?’ test, not least because you usually need a booking to get a sniff of a table. Think of this as a restaurant doing fancy dress as a pub and you’re along the right lines.

Still, it may be a dud of a drinking hole, but as a restaurant The Tamil Crown positively sings. The best way to approach the menu is probably to do as we did: go in a group of six and order the entire menu. This is, conveniently, almost exactly the right amount of food and guarantees there’ll be no saddening omissions.

If you must be pickier, start with the onion bhaji. I won’t pretend these do anything to reinvent the form, but the tangled nests of crisp onions are expertly fried, crisp but not greasy, an earthy spiced hit balanced by a dollop of bright mint chutney. I haven’t had many better bhaji in my life, and I’ve eaten more of them than I’d care to admit.

Samosas come plump and pillowy, a far cry from the fine, shattering sort in your typical takeaway. A heaving mound of bhel puri threatens (and follows through) to spill out onto the table, crisp and crunchy and bright and fresh, a perfect balance to the warm heat of the beef masala uttapam — about the only thing on the menu with any real kick to it, so this is a friendly enough spot if chilli is a concern.

Lime leaf roasted chicken arrives blackened but perfectly moist, sliced into slivers for easier dunking into the accompanying pineapple chutney. About the only real disappointment among the openers are the okra fries, which are fine but forgettable; you won’t hear me say this often, but Dishoom does them better.

Among the large plates, the £35 half-rack of four robata lamb chops is the only order that really pushes the boat out (we drank and ate well for a hair over £50 a head, which is a rarity these days), but I’m afraid you really shouldn’t skip them. These are meaty enough chops to justify the price tag, and carefully grilled: crisp enough to get stuck in your teeth, tender enough for the juice to run down your chin when you inevitably turn to gnawing at the bone.

The range of curries are far more moderately priced, and all impress. Dull carnivore that I am, I found myself drawn back to the Thanjavur chicken and Chettinad lamb, but the coconut-infused prawn moilee was probably the table’s favourite. I also fell for the aubergine, cooked soft until it melts into its own thick sauce, though was a little less enamoured with the mango sambar, which nailed the flavour but was undone by the texture of the tough lumps of fresh fruit. Rice is on-hand as a side, but don’t skip the flaky roti — head chef Prince Durairaj earned his stripes at Roti King, so it’s no real surprise that these are a strength.

Perhaps The Tamil Crown’s pub pitch is a victim of its own popularity — when bookings must be made a few weeks ahead of time and every table is packed tight with diners, this is never going to feel like somewhere you’d pop down to for a weeknight pint, no matter how many beer lines they squeeze in. But I’m afraid that when you cook this well, and price it fairly, you’re liable to pack the house, no matter what you call it.