The Argee Bhajee, 88-90 George Street, Walford

Nothing says fine Indian cuisine like blue wrought-iron lattice

Before I begin, I would like to apologise to you all for my three day hiatus. I know many of you have come to depend on this blog as a mini-guide to understanding the World around you, and for that you have nothing but my unreserved pity and a vague feeling of disgust. However, I have in my absence prepared for you a delectable review of one of England's least understood and oft-forgotten stalwarts of Indian culinary delights; The Argee Bhajee.

Firstly, a brief history of this fine establishment. Originally owned by the Di Marco family and operating as an Italian pizzaria under the name 'Giuseppe's', it was eventually taken over in 2000 by an elusive restaurateur who refuses to disclose any information as to his or her personal life. In late 2010 Walford's leading Indian restaurant briefly became the subject of much debate between rivalling entrepreneurs when it mysteriously appeared on the market, resulting in a fierce auctioning war eventually won by a local family known as the Masoods. Is it possible that these previous market stall traders have the ability to maintain and preserve the Argee Bhajee's reputation? Let's tighten our napkins, ask politely for a jug of tap water and prepare to delve into this three course meal of a review. I hope you've saved room, because this one's super-sized.

My excitement at being one of the first people to experience the newly revamped Argee Bhajee was immediately quelled on walking through the door. Part of the secret to delivering the perfect evening to one's customers as a restaurateur is to create an ambience which not only makes your guests feel relaxed and at ease, but also displays the restaurants own character, which should be instantly recognisable through the decorations and layout. It was obvious that the new owners were in a rush to open as soon as possible, because on walking in I was greeted with what I can best describe as a half finished building, in the most literal of senses. 

You're right Sir, she does look like a tandoori chicken

There was only three walls in the building, leaving a gaping hole in one side which led to what appeared to be a local production company. This sharing of workspace was obviously not working fairly in the Masood's favour, as what appeared to be an entire film crew had spilled through the wall and were taking up most of the paltry space in the restaurant. I noticed there was only one other couple in the entire place, who for good reason seemed slightly agitated with the various cameramen and sound people who for some reason had clustered around them. 

Unnoticed by any apparent Maitre d' I decided to quietly seat myself in a far corner and wait to see how long it would take to be served. After a final glance at the couple in the centre of the room continuing to argue with each other amidst the bizarre collection of production crew around them I decided to see what the menu had to offer. I could not believe it when I picked up the orange backed laminate only to discover a single shet of A4 inside it with absolutely nothing printed on it. As I reached for another menu to see if this was just a single mistake, a piercing shriek wailed out from the middle of the room; "RICKAAAAAAAY", and I turned to see the flame-haired female, understandably upset with her boyfriend for taking her to this bombshell of a restaurant, dousing the spade-faced cretin with her glass of Pinot Grigio.

At this point I decided I had had enough, and stood up to seek out someone who would be able to provide me with some sort of menu, that I could finally eat something, anything. I went over to one of the crew and asked him if he knew where the waiter was, as I was absolutley starving. "Waiter's not in this scene mate" came his gruff reply, "buffet's over there if you're hungry, but I didn't think we had any extras in this scene." Ignoring his other comments as he seemed a bit simple, I noticed the buffet he had pointed out laid out on the other side, comprising of some poorly slapped together triangular sandwiches, minature pork pies and a few bowls of crisps. I nibbled on what I thought was a breaded onion bhajii, doubtless part of the nouveau-cuisine style I expected the Masoods were going for, but immediatly spat it out when I realised it was nothing more than a scotch-egg.

You can almost see those smiles melting off their faces

Having been subjected to enough unpleasantness, I prepared to leave but was stopped as I approached the door by a man with a clipboard. "Hey, where are you going? Extras are supposd to wait in the room back there." "Sir," I replied with as much dignity as I could muster at this point "I assure you I have no idea to what you are talking about, but you can be certain I will not be staying here a moment longer. I came here expecting to have my taste-buds tantalised and my senses overloaded with East London's premier Indian culinary prowess. Instead I have witnessed a third rate circus act performed by shouting monkeys which seems to be being filmed for some unexplained reason by an inept crew in one of the most unconvincing excuses for a restaurant setting." "Shit," he said, "that's probably the best review Eastenders has ever had."

A tasteless 2 out of 10, because they at least had cheese and Marmite sandwiches, and I love cheese and Marmite sandwiches.