Knife and Fork Cafe, Bedminster: 'It reminds Charles of his grandmother’s potatoes'

A good Sri Lankan restaurant in the unlikeliest of guises

Oct 26, 2025

I first heard rumours of a good Sri Lankan joint in deepest darkest Bedminster over a year ago; a greasy-spoon-turned-purveyor-of-dosa-and-daal. It seems a Knife and Fork Cafe review was worth the subsequent wait, and these are exactly the kind of neighbourhood restaurants I want to shine a light on with The Bristol Sauce. If you too want these off-the-beaten-track places unearthed, please consider supporting our work. Thank you! Meg x

Just as you think you can go no further, the borderlands of Bristol rise up on the horizon.

It’s true that we travel for the promise of authenticity. Bidding my friend farewell before her imminent journey, by sea and then land, to the mountains south of Granada where she lives — it’s a good excuse for a journey of a different kind.

As seekers and eaters, we once looked for a certain pageantry in eating out. Dining tables in a sea of motorik to-ing and fro-ing, islands of white linen promising new worlds, food our bounty. Time, like water, reshapes our world view, the bitter taste left in our mouths by empire, which those of us in the West with any sense left now seek to leave behind. Our stomachs still have a want for feeding just the same. But I sense a stripping back of the walls, of these frills that used to have us so entertained.

And so, we find ourselves in unknown waters. Diving right down to the very depths of Bedminster to find, peering up at us out of the autumnal gloom, a neon-fronted Sri Lankan eatery by the name of Knife & Fork Café. As Cairo was born from the ruins of the pyramids, so does this place seem to have risen, phoenix-like, from the bones of a defunct greasy spoon. Vestiges not only survive but continue to thrive on the blackboard menu, which dominates an entire wall. Breakfasts are familiar, fried and served with beans.

It would be easy here to pass judgement: are they one or the other? White bread and eggs, one of four ways? Or a ‘true’ representation of Sri Lankan cuisine? Or is it that the owners are simply maintaining ties with a local, long-standing, non-Sri Lankan demographic? One thing empirically true is that times are hard for anyone in Britain endeavouring to eke out a living in hospitality; a touch of diversification can’t hurt.

We are seated graciously by the sole charge waiter as a party of four, sharing the living-room-sized dining area with an adjacent table of two. Between them is stacked enough food to sustain a small army, which bodes well as we are famished. Our arrival is taken as the cue to switch on a large, wall-mounted TV, positioned so close to the side of my head and set to a volume so rattling, it’s as if it shares the table with us uninvited. I’m startled by the occasional advert for toothpaste between every third or fourth love ballad.

Starting small, we order some short eats. Short eats are a variety of snack foods, usually fried, designed to be eaten on the move. They make up a large part of the culinary fabric of Sri Lanka and are reflective of the myriad cultures that inhabit the island nation. The urid dhal vada (£1.50 for two) or ulundu vadai are the first to arrive. Effectively a savoury doughnut, black lentils are soaked, ground, shaped into small rings, and fried. These ones are as light as air and inhaled as such, served with a cooling coconut sambal.

Ketchup is not Sri Lankan, it actually originated in South East Asia

Next comes the mutton roll (£0.99 each): potato-heavy and overcooked, with very little actual mutton inside. This breaded spring roll thankfully comes paired with ketchup, which I uncharacteristically lean on in the hopes of bringing some moisture back into the fold (read: my mouth). This is ordinarily one of my favourite short eats but sadly, in this instance it brings little excitement.

With the aforementioned breakfast menu looming over us, we decide to order breakfast for dinner. Though not the breakfast you might be thinking of. In Sri Lanka, like here, though typically savoury, various forms of pancake are eaten earlier in the day. We are presented with two forms, the first being oothappam (£7.49 for two). About as thick as a Scotch pancake, spongy, and made from a batter of fermented rice and black lentils, ours come topped with onion, green chilli, and curry leaves. These work wonderfully again, as a vessel for sambal and/or sambar, a thin stew based on a tamarind broth cooked with vegetables.

The second is the masala dosa (£7.99). Enormous, perfectly cylindrical, so thin the structure of it seems to defy physics, and with a spiced potato filling so pitch perfect we are all momentarily transmuted into a state of, well, muteness. It reminds Charles (whose family are from Goa) of his grandmother’s potatoes. High praise. Heady with mustard seeds and curry leaf aromas, we all contemplate ordering another as soon as it is gone. But more is on the way, and the space in my stomach is becoming valuable real estate.

We’ve ordered gobi Manchurian (£7.49) as it’s a table favourite. This is a semi-dry curry of deep-fried cauliflower, hit with a sticky sweet-and-sour sauce of soy and chilli, with a prevailing flavour of blackened onion. A prime example of Indo-Chinese cuisine and it goes down very well.

There’s nothing quite as devilish as potatoes prepared well. We are thusly lured into temptation by the devil potato (£7.49). The ones presented here are crunchy, sweet and have a similar flavour profile to the gobi. Which as memory of the gobi is still fresh in our minds, in the wash it comes out a tad samey. I’ll concede that our increasing fullness may have taken some of the joy out. Carbs make Jason a very dull boy.

Lastly, coming in a small bowl but with so much flavour you’d hardly need more, is the kudal (£10.99): lamb intestine, braised slowly and rich with spices. None of my fellow diners has the nerve to try it, so I get this all to myself; using the communal parotha and chapati to mop every last bit of it up. A first for me, this is an absolute highlight.

Do not come here expecting swagger or any amount of spectacle. With only two staff members in total, the service is humble; the food is left to stand on its own. The dishes come piecemeal, each one arriving as we finish the one before it; the waiter regularly disappearing to help in the kitchen. As a result, the meal is drawn out to a lengthy affair, which could annoy some, but for those who are patient and willing to make the journey, I promise, there are good things awaiting you.