The Railway Inn is an old pub in Oldbury that has been appropriated as a curry house. It sits next to a Quick-Fit garage opposite the Sandwell and Dudley train station on a depressing stretch of Midlands tarmac. Had the food not been highly-recommended by a man well-versed in such fare I doubt I would have ever walked through its narrow doorway.
My misgivings were cleansed by the fragrant smoke billowing from the swinging door behind the bar. Charcoaled meat and desi spices. My stomach grumbled as if I’d just finished a forty-day pilgrimage. I had been hungry since I inhaled from the hose of my vaporiser just before my chariot -a black Ford Fiesta erratically driven by a friend with a newly-minted pink license- arrived at my door half an hour before. The aromatic assault and the journey across town had combined to convince me I might die if I didn’t eat soon.
Sitting at the corner table with Sky Sports football highlights from years ago on the big screen, the food seemed to take an awfully long time to arrive. Only when one of my companions told me we’d been waiting about five minutes, did I realise the extent of my impatience. The food soon arrived. And then more food. And more still.
Three Mega Mix-Grills, three saag aloo, four pilau rice, two peshwari naan, one garlic and herb naan, one chicken madras, one chicken korma. No partridge in a pear tree, unfortunately, but if one arrived still chirping I would have plucked the fucker and slathered it in sauce.
The sizzling meat platters came on a bed of onions and were unexpectedly topped with tender, battered fish pakoras. Lamb, chicken and fish, all heartily seasoned but not to an unreasonable extent. I’m not one of those diners who revels in excessive levels of spice. I find no satisfaction in either the act or the brag of scorching my own taste buds before wanting to soil myself at the table. The Railway Inn’s mixed-grill was a generous, restrained dish that satisfied my hunger and my delicate tongue. It was I who ordered the korma, if you haven’t already deduced it. The rice was soft and fragrant but not mushy. The naans were soft and sweetly flavourful. I could have sat there stripping meat from bone and mopping sauce with bread for hours. I did, come to think of it. But a few more hours wouldn’t have gone amiss.
The Railway Inn remains notable not only for the distance we travelled to reach it or the tremendous quality of the food. It was the first time I can recall sitting down to eat with three friends with only one of us ordering alcohol. Rarer than this; I wasn’t the one ordering it. Most surprising of all was the standard of conversation and the boisterousness with which we are used to conducting ourselves remained unchanged. The only difference was that I realised just how loud we were. For a moment I felt sorry for the couple closest to us but I didn’t have time to give them my full consideration, as I was folded over on my side, crying laughing at the stories the other three were telling from their time spent in The Philippines.
If I visited The Railway Inn alone I would have been satisfied. I arrived in the company of old friends, was served heaps of succulent food, felt no pressure to drink alcohol, and listened to disgusting stories that took place thousands of miles away. Last night will stay with me as a very fond memory. And by the way, lemonade and lime is actually a banging drink.
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