There are perks to this job, I'm not going to deny it. Eating out in lovely restaurants is wonderful, although forming cogent thoughts about them afterwards? Not so much. I do consider myself lucky – as does Mr M, and he doesn't even have to do the writing afterwards. I sometimes even let him choose his own main course. But one of the paybacks of the position is that I get asked for recommendations all the time. I'm expected to be a walking Harden's guide – which I don't mind, I just wish I actually had an encyclopaedic knowledge of delicious places to eat.
The other day, I was asked, via Twitter, to suggest a good Persian in London. Ah, I thought, I know this one. "Behesht on Harrow Road," I typed. And clicked "send". Then I remembered my so-called recommendation was based on one takeaway, a decade ago. Some expert.
So I thought I'd better eat at Behesht, just to make sure I hadn't sent an unsuspecting soul to a real dive. I've driven past the place hundreds of times on my way to the M4 – all illuminated and with cars packed along the kerb. Decoratively, it's very, er, bold.
We're shown into one of several ante-rooms – past the parrot, the babbling water features, the cabinets stuffed with slightly dusty nicknacks – and to a table with six chairs crammed around it. Ambience and elbow room are not priorities. There are mournful tapestry portraits of Middle Eastern ladies and layers of rugs and throws dotted around – as though the years have brought more decorating ideas, laid on top of past ones. It's eccentric, but somehow it works – and it gives the children something to gawp at while they wait.
Read more at http://www.independent.co.uk
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