1 /5 Hassan: Gandhi’s, Kennington: Delivering Disappointment, One Cold Box at a Time
There are nights when the thought of cooking feels unbearable, when the lure of a takeaway is almost romantic. The promise of spice, of warmth, of something that says, “Relax, we’ve got dinner sorted.” Gandhi’s of Kennington offered a different message: “Abandon hope, all who click ‘Order Now.’”The lamb chops arrived looking as if they’d been through a difficult divorce. Thin, grey, and joyless, they clung to the memory of flavour in the way a budget airline clings to punctuality. Each chew was met with resistance that felt personal. Somewhere, a lamb had made the ultimate sacrifice for this, and frankly, it deserved better.Then came the chicken curry, a dish with an identity crisis. The chicken itself was suspiciously familiar — most likely yesterday’s tikka, revived by some misguided act of culinary necromancy. The sauce was a fever dream: oddly sour, faintly metallic, and bearing no resemblance to anything found on the Indian subcontinent. It tasted like a dare.The naan, too, were an event. Flat in every sense of the word, they had that uniform smoothness that only comes from an industrial production line. Warm, yes, but so is a radiator, and you wouldn’t eat one of those either.And yet, there was a saving grace. The poppadoms were genuinely delightful — crisp, golden, and reassuringly familiar. A reminder that even in the bleakest meal, there’s hope hiding in the crumbs.In the end, Gandhi’s didn’t so much deliver food as deliver a cautionary tale. The kind of meal that makes you grateful for cereal, toast, and the gentle mercy of hunger. If this is what enlightenment tastes like, I’ll happily remain in the dark.
