Back in 1979, I took my grandmother and her friend Frances to Monty’s in Ealing. Monty’s was one of the early Indian restaurants in London. My nan was in her 90s, and it was her first curry. We ordered the usual array of dishes – the sizzling tandoori, the Bombay aloo, the dal. My nan and her friend, both Eastenders, tucked in. They wondered why it had taken so long to go for an Indian.
In the curry house, we are somewhere different, somewhere with a bit of glamour even
Midway through the meal, a door at the side of the restaurant opened and in came Old Mr Monty, the patriarch of this establishment, about the same age as the people at our table. One of the waiters had told him that this was my grandmother’s first curry and that she was very old. Mr Monty didn’t speak much English, but he sat with us and ordered some extra dishes and refused to let us pay at the end.
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