I needn't remind anyone that in Blighty, the rain lashes sideways, the trains go on strike, and the economy seems to wobble like a blancmange in an earthquake. But somewhere, in every single town from Aberdeen to Penzance, a glowing neon “Taj Mahal Tandoori” sign promises spicy salvation. And more often than not, it really does deliver.

Now, here I am in the glorious Algarve. A place of golden beaches, charming, cobbled streets and seafood so fresh it practically introduces itself with a friendly “Boa tarde". But, still, I don't half miss a decent curry whenever I'm over here. However, if we visit an Indian restaurant in Portugal, what often arrives is somewhat confusing. Not always bad, you understand, and not at all inedible. Just wrong. It's like ordering a brand-new Jaguar and receiving something that looks vaguely similar but turns out to be powered by a three-cylinder EcoBoost engine that smells faintly of coconut.

So, what exactly is going on over here? Why does Indian cuisine, that glorious, spice-laden, life-affirming British staple, taste like it’s come through Portuguese customs and had all its flavour confiscated?

A glorious hybrid

Let’s start with the bleedin’ obvious. Britain didn’t just adopt curry; it practically annexed it. During the days of the British Empire, the UK absorbed influences from the Indian subcontinent and, in true British fashion, we said, “We’ll have a bit of that mate, but we’ll tweak it slightly.” Thus, the good old British curry house was born. It's a glorious hybrid that's nowhere near being in any way authentically Indian, but it is nevertheless every inch as British as Fish & Chips or an overpriced bacon butty at a drab motorway service station.

In the UK, there are dishes like the venerable chicken tikka masala. Ohh yes, NOW we're talking! This is the famous British staple that's widely believed to have been born in good old Blighty itself. Basically, it’s Indianesque food that's been extensively re-engineered to satisfy British taste buds. It's rich, it's creamy, it's rather sweet, and it's all about the sauce. Nope, it isn't even vaguely subtle, nor is it remotely delicate. It's an absolute culinary sledgehammer. But, because it's ours, we British totally adore it.

Photocopy of a photocopy

Portugal has a completely different relationship with India. Its colonial history is tied to Goa, not the vast, spice-diverse regions that influenced British curry culture. Goan cuisine is amazing. It's fiery, it's tangy, and it's often vinegar-based. It’s very different from what we’d call “BIR” (British Indian Restaurant) offerings. It’s leaner, sharper and far less inclined to smother everything in a velvety, cardiologist-bothering gravy. So when we order a curry in Portugal, we often get something closer to a European interpretation of Goan Indian food. It’s like a photocopy of a photocopy, but somewhere along the way, the ink ran out.

Then there’s the small matter of ingredients. In the UK, decades of demand have created a supply chain so finely tuned that it could probably deliver a fresh batch of garam masala to a remote Scottish island during a week-long force-ten gale. In the UK, we can easily get properly fresh Indian spices as well as all the other correct ingredients (and equipment) needed to create decent “BIR” curries.

In Portugal? Not so much. The country excels at what it knows best. Seafood, olive oil, grilled meats and sweet pastries that can make people weep with sheer joy. But the infrastructure for preparing Indian food simply isn’t as well developed here as it has become in Britain. Spices tend to be milder, less fresh or just different. Therefore, in a cuisine where the difference between brilliance and blandness can hinge on something as infinitesimal as a teaspoon of cumin, small details really do matter.

And then we come to the chefs. In the UK, Indian restaurants are often run by families with roots in Bangladesh, Pakistan as well as India itself. These are people who have grown up with very different palates. They instinctively understand how long onions should be fried, how spices should bloom, how a sauce should cling to the back of a spoon like it’s literally afraid of falling off. In Portugal, many Indian restaurants are run by, how shall I put this diplomatically? Enthusiasts, perhaps? Perfectly well-meaning, often extremely hardworking enthusiasts. But sometimes they lack that deep, generational knowledge that has been honed in Britain. The result is food that looks right, even smells vaguely right but tastes like it’s been assembled using an instruction manual translated into Portuguese via Google. It just lacks something.

The curryhouse experience

We must also consider the audience. British diners expect boldness. We want spiciness and heat, richness and ridiculous excesses all piled into one gloriously ornate balti dish. If a curry doesn’t make us Brits sweat slightly and question our life choices the following morning, it’s considered a failure. Portuguese diners, by contrast, tend to favour simplicity and balance. Here, national dishes are things like grilled sardines, bacalhau, delicate cataplanas and piri-piri chicken. These dishes are all about letting the ingredients shine, not burying them under a whole mound of spices. So, here in Portugal, Indian food is often toned down to suit local palates. This is a bit like taking a heavy metal concert and asking the band to play acoustically in a library. Technically impressive, perhaps. But, entirely missing the point.

And then there's the atmosphere. In Britain, a curryhouse is a full-on experience. It’s a Friday night ritual. It’s lager, poppadoms, chutney trays, arguments about whether to share a naan and someone ordering something that's far too spicy; only to pretend they’re fine whilst secretly hallucinating. Here in Portugal, the same sense of occasion just isn’t there. Indian restaurants can feel like add-ons. Novelties. Something to try between feasts of fresh seafood. Without that cultural weight we have in Britain, the whole experience feels slightly hollow.

Now, hang on. Before anyone reading this starts metaphorically sharpening knives (or tongues), let me be 100% clear. This isn’t in any way a criticism of Portuguese food. Absolutely not. Quite the opposite. We all know that Portuguese fare is renowned as among the finest in the world. A perfectly grilled sea bass eaten somewhere along the Algarvian coast will do things to your soul that no curry ever can. But, as for Indian food? Sorry, really chaps. In the European context, curry is definitely Britain’s domain. It’s been adopted, adapted and elevated into something that's uniquely ours. Of course, it’s not authentic. Of course, it’s not even traditional, and it would probably confuse the hell out of someone from Mumbai. But that's beside the point, because for us Brits, it absolutely works. Spectacularly.

So, here we are in Portugal. We might end up staring at an Indian restaurant menu in Albufeira that promises a “chicken tikka masala” for €9.50, complete with chips. At this juncture, perhaps we should collectively take a moment, look around, smell the sea air as well as the proverbial coffee and just order the sardines instead?