A V good meal with Norton

Refreshing: Mint Leaf has transformed the dull end of Haymarket

I love working on television - obviously, I'm never off it - but it does make pursuing certain other careers a bit difficult. It is unlikely that my ambition to be a town planner will ever be fulfilled. Equally, people may never experience the delights of my bereavement counselling. And now I find that the job of restaurant reviewer may also be beyond my grasp.

I headed off to MINT LEAF, a posh new Indian at the dull end of Haymarket, full of good intentions. If you have been to Hakkasan on Hanway Place you will recognise the influences on the design of this place - opulent style, low lighting, subtle music, long bar, squashy furnishings, and screens surrounding the formal dining areas.

I took two companions - one business, one pleasure - and resolved to order adventurously. I would make no mention of my new role as reviewer.

Sadly, all I'm able to tell anyone is that if you are "off the telly" you'll have a fantastic time. You'll be treated like a lord, everyone who works there will give you their business card, the owner's mother will come by to chat, Lulu will blow kisses from across the room and, at the end of the night, they will insist on you not paying because you missed the free preview night. Bliss.

Perhaps now would be a good time also to mention that this review is hampered not just by my being off the telly, but also by a profound lack of knowledge about Indian food. Of course, this ignorance leads to a lack of experience - why pay good money to be intimidated and possibly make fatal errors when ordering?

Happily, the menu at Mint Leaf is very accessible. The layout is all about starters and main courses and, although everything is given its traditional name, the descriptions in English render it both readable and edible. Sorry if this makes me sound very lazy, but I want my dinner, not a degree.

My pleasure companion was first to arrive and, knowing that I was going to review the place, he ordered a bellini, believing, for no obvious reason, that this would be the true test of a smart Indian restaurant. For what it's worth, the cocktail passed the test.

When my business companion and I arrived, a small platoon from the vast army of staff showed us to our table through a cavernous basement space, beautifully transformed into a series of chic, dark-wooden dining areas. My business companion, a West Coast American visiting London, immediately declared that he felt very comfortable in his club chair in the rich gloom.

The table next door was smoking - I worried about how long it would take him to feel very uncomfortable.

Because I was eating after the recording of the show, I wasn't really boozing. Water was ordered and when our lovely waiter (strange moustache ... hopefully grown for a role in some fringe production) delivered it he proudly showed us the smart bottle and told us where it was from. I have to admit I wasn't really listening, so I can only hope he didn't say "tap".

The wine was not such a happy experience. The list looked fine and had a good choice of reasonably priced bottles. I would have chosen a South African white but, to be frank, they weren't expensive enough.

This was before I knew the whole night was on the house, but I still assumed the Evening Standard would foot the bill. I selected a Mersault for about £40. Great. Sadly, my pleasure companion, full of bellini and wine-list confidence, said "no". A Pouilly-Fumé was selected. It came, he tasted, it went back.

Not corked, he explained, but oxidised. Our waiter agreed. I was offered a taste, but why would I want to put something in my mouth when two people have just told me it was off. We went back to the Mersault.

Feeling very smug, I tasted it. Good nose, nice temperature but there was an odd aftertaste of long-forgotten damp towel. I should have sent it back but couldn't bear it. My pleasure companion and myself understood and just got it down.

The American started doing a great deal of grumbling about France. One war may be over, but that one rumbles on.

The food was terrific. We set the waiter the task of selecting our starters to share. Lasuni Murg consists of small pieces of garlicinfused chicken and was as delicious but ordinary as it sounds; far better was a subtle lamb dish that I didn't recognise off the menu and Mahi Kaliyan, pieces of cod in a mysterious but delicious green marinade.

We ordered individual main courses. Sharing is all very well for nibbling, but at some point I want to wolf down a plate of food not worrying about others. I had a Meen curry, actually not very hot; it's red snapper with coconut milk. The flavour of the snapper wasn't lost in the sauce but it had enough bite to cheer up the rice.

My pleasure companion had Jhinga Kali Mirch or jumbo prawns in a roast peppercorn and coriander seed sauce. I didn't taste it but my friend scoffed the lot and said it was "good".

Business companion went for a roast lamb shank with "sub-continent spices", which sounds like an Indian version of those jars of Mediterranean herbs you can get in the supermarket. However, it looked, and smelt, delicious. I hoped it might prove too much for a West Coast appetite and I could finish it, but he attacked it with the relish of a man on death row.

Still taking the job very seriously, I was the only one to order dessert. I deliberately opted for something that sounded vile - Gajar Halwa, a "classic" pud of carrot and condensed milk in crispy puff pastry. Well, it couldn't taste as bad as it sounded, and so it proved. Delicious - a dull, over-used word here, but true, nonetheless.

My "bloke off the telly" dining experience was truly complete when we left to find two childlike members of the paparazzi waiting outside. Bless.

They were so young and the hour so late, I felt they were only taking pictures because the flashes kept them awake.

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