I’ve found the only gastropub worth eating at

The gastropub, an invention of the early 1990s, is a terrible idea. They burst on to the scene when breweries were made to sell off many of their pubs for a song to make way for competition, encouraging Marco Pierre White wannabes to snap them up and replace cheese sandwiches and pork scratchings with kidneys on toast and anything that could be put together in a kitchen the size of a shoebox.

Many of them have food prepared off-premises but charge restaurant prices. There are no proper tablecloths, the glasses are made to survive if dropped on concrete floors and it all feels a bit like going round to your friend’s house for a substandard dinner party. The times I have reluctantly ended up in one, at the behest of friends with the bad taste to live in the countryside, I have found myself having to queue at the bar to be served drinks to accompany my meal, which put me in mind of Nando’s.

Even the term ‘gastropub’ is pretentious and ridiculous, encouraging foodies to talk about their local being ‘the best kept secret in North London’ because the chef travels to Italy every year to pick his own mushrooms during porcini season. ‘Oh, you must come and try the Dog and Duck at the top of our road – they do the best fishcakes and sticky toffee pudding.’ Venison scotch eggs are still scotch eggs, and the pretentious twists on British food, such as truffle chips, don’t cut the mustard for me.

But I would eat the food at the Tamil Prince – a boozer off the Caledonian Road, Islington – in a disused warehouse in an industrial estate, let alone a pub. Run by a chef called Prince, who hails from Tamil Nadu in south-east India, this particular pub serves food so damn good I will forgive it of its location.

I visited for a midweek lunch and was pleasantly surprised at how bright and nicely decorated it is. With room for only 40-odd covers, there are lots of plants, wooden tables and an absence of a TV blaring out Sky Sports. The loos are scented with incense.

There are a handful of seats for snacks at the impressively stocked bar, run by a dude looking like an 18th century carpenter, churning out pints of Kingfisher, bottles of decently priced wine and house cocktails. So far, so un-pubby – but one look at the shortish menu and I would have endured a piano rendition of the ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush’.

I am not up for this ‘small plates/large plate’ schtick that seems to have become de rigueur: there are appetisers and main courses. The food is perfectly proportioned, and I left feeling satisfied rather than overfull, despite trying my best to eat absolutely everything on the menu. I almost dragged a couple of youngsters playing football nearby to help me with my endeavours.

I ordered okra fries while perusing the menu and sipping an expertly made negroni. These crispy fingers had a crunch and tang that beat cheesy Wotsits any day. I toyed with the idea of the spiced chicken lollipops with various chutneys but had been told I must try the onion bhaji. Most I have eaten, anywhere from bog-standard curry houses through to Michelin-starred joints, are variations on soggy clumps that could be hiding a dead mouse. This one was a triumph, the tempura-light batter covering onion tentacles that spread out like a starfish across the gold oval platter on which it was served, nudging against a small pot of sharp mint and yoghurt sauce.

The grilled garlic prawns, heavily flavoured with garlic masala, were the size of langoustine. Several portions of these monsters flew out of the kitchen to be greeted with many ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhhhhs’. Then there was the chickpea curry served with a giant, spherical fried bread alongside thick raita.

I could have ordered the dhal makhani, having eyed it up on an adjacent table (space is not in abundance but nor is it elbows at dawn), delivered wobbling with butter to my neighbour by our friendly though overstretched waiter. But it was the Thanjavur chicken curry that ended up in front of me, and it was faultless. Bursting with flavour, the boneless thigh meat was melting in the rich, unctuous sauce; I tasted ginger, chilli, black pepper and a hint of tomato. I was in heaven.

A desi salad of carrot slivers, radish discs and pomegranate seeds was colourful and sharp/sweet, and helped counter the richness of the curry and its accompanying roti, a flaky, buttery and elastic bread, hot from the oven.

The Tamil Prince is not cheap (you’re looking at about £40 per person without drinks), and there are no tablecloths, but so what? With food this good I would eat it with a side order of football on the telly and a sticky carpet under my feet. But don’t try to persuade me that gastropubs are a good idea – this one is a top-rate restaurant that just happens to be in a pub.

The Tamil Prince, 115 Hemingford Road, London N1 1BZ.