In my final year of university, in what now seems an inexplicable situation, I lived in a wonderful flat up in Clifton. Two doors down is Nutmeg, a once-Michelin-rated Indian restaurant, the kind I could never have imagined going to at the time. I’m delighted by the presence of a Kerala Colada mocktail (still being Dry January at this point) on the menu, and off we go. It’s perhaps an unfair generalisation that we don’t particularly imagine the idea of “fancy” Indian food, but yet I’d almost suggest that’s because there’s an effort in decor and ambience in many Indian restaurants that aims for that opulence even with, not diminutively, bog standard food. To see it in the presentation of the food, the haute cuisine stylings applied to those fundamental classics like onion bhajis or peshwari naan, is odd. Good, but odd. A duck chettinadu, from the Tamil Nadu region, is perhaps a tad over-sauced, but is otherwise so delicious that you don’t feel bad for leaving some behind. I am, as ever, over optimistic as to my ability to enjoy both rice and a naan, but on the flip side, there is nothing in the way of desserts really - a short term shame, a long term benefit.