10am
Brunch.
The long Indian breakfast. Aloo paratha with butter and pickle. Masala eggs. Bottomless chai if you settle in.
Picture an old bungalow somewhere in India. Thirty-five degrees outside. The verandah catches whatever breeze is going. A ceiling fan does its best. Lemon water on the table. A bowl of cashews. Chai arrives without anyone asking.
Someone comes back from the market and the cook sends out something small and hot. By four, the bar opens — a gin and tonic with curry leaf, a cold beer for the man who's just come in from the heat. Mid-afternoon, a plate of fried fish with a lime. By six, onions are frying and people are coming home. Dinner is a curry, rice, dal, another beer. After dinner, chai. Nobody rushes. Nobody is sent away. The kitchen runs all day because the day runs all day.
That's what we wanted to bring to High Street. Not a curry house, not fine dining, not a chain. An Indian bistro — open from twelve, running through till late, the same kitchen and the same bar running through the long afternoon. Cocktails before. A bottle of beer or a glass of wine with the food. Chai after. Thali at lunch. Small plates in between. A proper dinner in the evening. The Chai Flight if that's all you want.
Some of what we cook came from streets — Mumbai's vada pav carts, Kolkata's kathi roll wallahs, Old Delhi's chole bhature counters. Some came from home kitchens — grandma's chicken, dal that cooks for a day, the rogan josh you could only get if you knew someone's mother. Some came from the regional traditions — Rajasthan's laal maas, Tamil Chettinad, Kashmir's rogan josh, Kerala's coastal kitchens. The dishes have lineage. The bistro has time.
The address came to us with a history we take seriously. Mint & Mustard put 15 High Street on the map — the Michelin Guide's best Indian restaurant in Wales. The kitchen has not forgotten. The same family. The same hands on the pots. A different table.
Same kitchen. New table. Open from twelve, every day.
