RESTAURANTS

Michael Gove

FOR the English, argues Richard Littlejohn, multiculturalism means always having to say you're sorry. For the Londoner, especially in Notting Hill, multiculturalism means always having venison with your curry.

Since as far back as 1983, when the only 'Movement' Norman Tebbit had to worry about was the trade union one, the Malabar Indian restaurant in Uxbridge Street has shown west Londoners that there's more to south Asian cuisine than spicy chicken in yoghurt and tomato sauce. One of the first Indian restaurants to offer a level of choice, service, cuisine and even wines that elevated it beyond the realm of the curry house, Malabar has since been joined by the excellent Cinnamon Club, the superb Tamarind and the enduringly popular Red Fort.

Although south Asian food has been overtaken by Thai as the nation's favourite 'ethnic' cuisine, the Indian restaurant enjoys a special place in our national life as the symbol of happily domesticated exoticism, our most potent multicultural metaphor. Robin Cook argued before the last election that the truest symbol of modern Britain was the chicken tikka masala, a fusion of south Asian technique and indigenous taste; the meat from the tandoor given a new version of the gravy that has always tickled English palates.

In making that point Mr Cook, although undeniably well intentioned, committed two grave errors. Not only did he lavish praise on what is one of the ugliest hybrids ever to pass itself off as ethnic food; he also betrayed the quintessential weakness in the New Left vision of multiculturalism.

The chicken-tikka-masala model of multiculturalism isn't multicultural at all — it's a soupy metropolitan monoculturalism in which all the individual differences, inherited traditions and discrete charms of varied cultures are boiled down to the lowest common denominator. It's the multiculturalism of the Defender of Faith, incapable of standing up for one religion and thus demeaning respect for faith itself; of British Airways tailfins in which historic artistic traditions become inter changeable splodges of colour for a corpora tion without terrestrial loyalties; and of Hollywood action pica, such as Mission Impossible or xXx, in which any subtlety of dialogue or character is subordinated to creating a spectacle that can be enjoyed by children of all ages from Singapore to Salford.

Multiculturalism should be about taking pleasure in difference, celebrating variety, encouraging cultures to learn from one anoth er while keeping their cherishable distinctness. As it is in the Malabar. Its south Asian cuisine is not of the dumbed-down, afraid-of-our-own traditions, Robin Cook variety but authentically true to its roots. The spices are identifiable, the meat chosen with care and cooked to established patterns, the pickles and bread cleanly and authentically flavoured. The Malabar's nods to other cultures are subtle accommodations — respectful genuflections rather than submissive kowtows of surrender. The wine list, while not exten sive, is designed to cater for brasserie-going Bridget Joneses, and the decor is pleasingly of a piece with most understated modern British establishments. Unlike many Indians, this is a place you can safely take a woman in whom you have a romantic inter est. So I went there with my wife. But respect for ancient cultures meant that I had to prevail upon Mrs Gove to accept one curious, traditional quirk. As a Scot I couldn't go for a curry, however elevated the restaurant, without three of my mates also in attendance.

One of the principal features of the Malabar menu — another respectful nod to Not ting Hill sensibilities — is the presence of game among the starters. Hiran, to be exact: venison marinated in garlic and tamarind.

While well worth a try, and appreciated by the Aberdonian contingent as the tribute of one hill people to another, it is not to my mind the most successful dish that Malabar offers, with greater pleasures coming from the more conspicuously traditional options.

Among the starters the favourites were a simple dal soup — subtle, yet rich and deli cious — as well as the prawn philouries, deli cately fried and spiced yet far from insubstantial. The main dishes that excited the most appreciative comment were a duck curry in which the quality of the meat stood out thanks to careful spicing and, more than anything, the Karahi murg and gosht in which strong, clear flavours excited jaded diplomatic and banking palates.

Vegetables, which were ordered in profusion, were promiscuously sampled and, again, tradition seemed to find most favour, with simply prepared aubergine and okra securing the most fork-hits. Those who ordered rice made no complaint; as an inveterate avoider of rice and advocate of bread to accompany Indian food, I certainly found no reason to repent my choice of the excellent roti. Although our party of five arrived ravenous, we left ourselves no appetite for pudding and ended the dinner simply with tea. But still, after sharing three bottles of wine between five, the meal came to only £120. Which would just about get you dinner for two round the corner at Kensington Place. The Malabar is, in that respect, an advert for what the best sort of multiculturalism can do: show up the host culture by respecting your roots.

At the other end of Notting Hill from the Malabar, but close to it in price range and even more conspicuous in its cleaving to tradition, is west London's finest Spanish restaurant, Galicia. While the Malabar sits in Uxbridge Street as an outpost of Indian cooking in an area of London with relatively few south Asian residents, Galicia reclines at the foot of the Golborne Road in a part of Notting Hill that is heavily Iberian-influenced.

Just along the road are two excellent Por tuguese cafés — the Lisboa and Oporto — much favoured by recovering trustafarians, and just down from Galicia on Portobello Road is an excellent Spanish deli. Although the Golborne Road area's fastest growing new community is Moroccan, and their culinary influence is becoming well established, it is the Iberian population, and Galicia restaurant in particular, that still gives this corner of north Kensington its definable character.

The special charm of Galicia lies in the complete absence of that quality in its waiting staff, who are possessed of a CeIto-Iberian hauteur and dreaminess that infuses the place. Service comes dropping-slow in this beer-loud glade. But it's worth waiting for. Whether meandering in for tapas early in the evening, or for lunch or dinner, you'll find it difficult to locate better seafood or meat anywhere on the Hill. If you want vegetables, then you obviously don't want authentic Spanish cooking, and the waiters at Galicia manifestly don't want you here. Which is just as well for the rest of us who wish to enjoy their superb prawns, squid, octopus and hake, or their excellent beef and veal. Paella, if you must, is glutinously satisfying, but better by far to stick to the generously fatted protein.

Galicia's decor is pleasingly faded and tobacco-stained, like most of the customers, and the wine is generally of that Spanish kind well suited to wintry evenings. Sherry and cerveza are both excellent, too. Galicia is uncompromisingly and unapologetically itself, an authentic cultural jewel amid the gap-year confusion of north Notting Hill. Like Santiago de Compostela, Galicia is an ideal place of pilgrimage for traditionalists.

Malabar, 27 Uxbridge Street, London W8; tel: 020 7727 8800. Galicia, 323 Portobello Road, London W10; teL 020 8969 3539.

The author is assistant editor of the Times,