Deus_Code Where do we even start? It is the most important landmark in central London. It calls to me like a sirens song across Victoria. I hand over £5 for the Mr tandoor box and it feels like I’ve committed a robbery.
The chicken? Consistently perfect, soft and tender like a mother’s kiss. The peri salted fries? They should be regulated as a class A substance. They’re ‘basic’ in the same way the sun is ‘basic’: essential for life and glowing with power. But when combined with their signature sauces, it transcends simply ‘chicken and chips’ and becomes a spiritual awakening of your third culinary eye.
I tell you now: if I am ever on death row, do not bring me a steak. Do not bring me a lobster. Go to Victoria, find bossman, and bring me the Tandoor box. I will go out with a smile and peri-salt on my lips. While the politicians argue down the road at Westminster, bossman simply serves the people. Long live the Mr Tandoor box, a king’s feast for a pauper’s coin.
