Lily’s, Greater Manchester – restaurant review

Buoyed by the palate-startling fun I had at Siam Smiles, I’m starting to think that perhaps the way to go with Manchester is away from the chilly concrete gullies of Spinningfields, with its bouncers and orange tans and shouty look-at-mes, away from the lairiness of the Northern Quarter, or the neon importunity of the Curry Mile, and towards the roads less travelled.

And the track doesn’t get more unbeaten than this: a strip mall on a trading estate in Ashton-under-Lyne, sandwiched between ring roads, one-way systems, and branches of Lidl and Ikea. As we drive along miles of dual carriageway, I wonder if we’re even still in the city (for those as geographically challenged as I am, it is indeed Greater Manchester).

Our destination is the sort of place to make me curse the internet wisdom that sent me there: attached to a sprawling (and, it transpires, bewitching) cash-and-carry owned by the same family, it’s a sketchy-looking joint that appears to be two or three caffs randomly glued together. The joy.

But our surroundings take on an altogether rosier glow as the polite older chap who serves us starts piling up the food. There are loads of wonderful chaats (farsan in Gujarati, or snacks): kachori, “cutlet”, dhokra, wada, a riot of “chips”. There are thick, earthy dalls (all spellings are theirs), and vegetable curries humming with freshly-tempered spices.

That it’s vegetarian almost doesn’t register. They cater for vegans, and the stringent dietary rules of Jainism on request; but if you don’t have to forgo onions and garlic – the pain of Jain! - the food is voluptuous: butter melting into chilli-spiked, tandoor-toasted bread and pooling over creamy dall makhani, fragrant with curry leaves and star anise; fresh paneer Jaipuri-style, enriched with cashew nuts and dried fruit; dosas as light and crisp as Quavers, but entirely more delicious.

So it’s not pretty. Not pretty at all. The seating is scuffed, bursting red pleather, like a downtrodden 80s disco. Decor is a selection of posters advertising their specials. But if pretty is what you care about, you can always go to Artisan in Spinningfields and have a pizza that tastes as though a very fat man has sat on it for a very long time.

And I’m not sure how “authentic” it is – although ostensibly Gujarati, the vast menu wanders around the subcontinent, chomping its merry way through south Indian dosas and uttapams (the tomato one is like a gloriously exotic pizza). There are Sino-Indian dishes such as “dry veg Manchurian” (fried balls of spiced veg given a sultry, soy-rich, sweetish glaze) or paneer-fried rice. But then I’m not sure I care, especially when I’m working on a huge pile of potato bhajia, slices of potato dredged in spiced gram flour and fried until they’re a memorable combination of crisp and fluffy, served with a minty, yoghurty, rather fluorescent green dip. This is truly one of the finest things man has ever done to tuber.

Yes, there are weak spots: the sambar that accompanies both dosas, and a pillowy, fermented rice idli that’s thin and underpowered, a lentil soup that’s been to Chennai on a day trip (but it does contain those curious vegetable “drumsticks”, so points for that, and the sultry, rich coconut chutney more than makes up for it). A hotplate dish comes out sizzling so ferociously, spewing charred spice fumes in its wake, that everyone takes to watery-eyed coughing and my dress smells of singed flesh the next day – quite a feat, given there’s not a sinew of meat in the place. There’s a lot of deep-frying, too: I’ve heard rumours of a sauce-dripping “chipnaan”. Chip. Naan. I don’t know whether to be aghast or in awe.

But then there’s the bill… Lily’s may not offer the most sophisticated Indian food you’ve ever eaten, but it’s wonderfully, heroically cheap. Our order is so greedy that we’re gently reprimanded by our waiter, and it’s still under £50. A beautifully boxed selection of their freshly-made sweets, as acid-hued and sugary as an episode of Tweenies, costs two quid. With the bill comes a lurid orange coil of jalebi, warm from the fryer, crisp and oozing sugar syrup. It’s smile-inducingly sweet, a bit like everything else here.

Tamesiders – and those willing to brave the one-way system – rejoice: Lily’s is a piquant little pleasure.

Lily’s, 75-83 Oldham Road, Ashton-under-Lyne, Greater Manchester, 0161-339 4774. Open Weds-Mon, 11am-8pm (7pm Sun).

Food 6/10
Value for money 9/10
Atmosphere 3/10

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