The Pukka Peacock, Brislington: 'Any misgivings I might’ve had become immaterial'
Jamie Oliver strikes again
Merry Twixtmas Saucers. I hope you’re all suitably recovered from festive feasting and thus hungry enough to tuck into these words from Jason about an unlikely Indian restaurant in Brislington. I’ll also take this opportunity to wish you a very cheery new year — may 2026 bring you health, happiness and lots of good food. Until then! ~ Meg x
There are some British cultural phenomena that I will never understand.
I was born too out of time and place to get the ‘why’ of Gavin & Stacey. The Kiwi shores from which I hail were a leap too far for the TOWIEs and the Made in Chelseas of the noughties. And I still don’t really know who Claudia Winkelman is (so shoot me and, no, I won’t Google it). My lasting impression of the United Kingdom pre-my 2013 arrival consisted primarily of two things. Coronation Street (which I have mentioned on this platform before. Thanks Mum, thanks Dad). And Jamie Oliver.
I was young; impressionable. And before you judge me, dear reader, cast your mind back if you can, to the desertified food television landscape that was the 1990s. Words like ‘Mockney’ hadn’t yet entered my vocabulary, and this young, brash, proto-influencer had enough charisma to keep a family entertained for half an hour on any given evening. It would do.
Another word that had yet to hit my tiny, naive ears was ‘pukka’.
For those of you who don’t remember or who are wilfully amnesiac around such things, this was one of Mr. Oliver’s most prominent catchphrases, used to denote good in all its myriad forms.
Time has not treated The Naked Chef particularly well. And so, it was with this (not altogether positive) association rattling around the dusty filing cabinet of my memory that I was first tipped onto the small but buzzing Brislington-based Indian eatery, The Pukka Peacock.
I couldn’t help but think of Jamie. Or Pukka Pies. Or Pukka Teas. My naivety (read: ignorance) had me wondering: how and why had they settled on such a name? In an effort to perform the most base level of due diligence, I did some (light) digging. The word pukka, from Hindi, means first rate, finished, proper, or cooked. So, a word reclaimed and thus reframed in the mind of this newly humbled reviewer.
It’s a brisk evening when we find ourselves on Sandy Park Road, already dark but still bustling with winter shoppers. And as we cross the threshold, being greeted warmly by the chef, Dhayalan Paul, the name and any misgivings I might’ve had become immaterial.
Our waiter, suitably battle-worn after what I assume to be a good few weeks of the usual Christmas party onslaught, is gracious enough to seat the three of us even though I only booked for two. Oops.
Atypically booze-free (okay, booze-light) this holiday season, we’re plied with two ‘eastern inspired’ Bodha sodas after being seated, one cardamom and rose, the other a chilli lemonade (£3.95 each). I have to say that I am not easily pleased when it comes to sweets flavoured with rose and, although the cardamom could’ve been a touch stronger, I found this drink to be very refreshing. The chilli lemonade was a table favourite, surprising us with a genuine but gentle heat.
In between the pulling of Christmas crackers and the re-telling of the same festive jokes you’ve heard a thousand times, our starters arrive. The plates and the plating are, in equal measure, beautiful.
The beetroot salad (£7) is roasted beetroot, ruby red and set into a turmeric pachadi coconut yoghurt; garnished with chutney and pumpkin seeds. Pachadi is the South Indian equivalent to what many of us would know as a raita, sometimes a touch thicker and/or sweeter. In this case it is both. Still light enough as to not over-indulge, it prepares us wonderfully for what is to come.
The oyster mushroom varuval (£8) appears as a mountain and is paired with a well rounded and velvet-smooth tomato chutney. Not fried to the point of oblivion as can often be the case with oyster mushrooms, these retain their forest floor aroma and are still plenty juicy. Rejoice!
The roast sweet potato salad (£7), which comes as deep fried ribbons interspersed with thicker-cut chips, is the weaker of the three. Still as crisp as you’d hope, we are left in want of something to cut through and elevate the humble root vegetable beyond the smattering of tamarind and coconut yoghurt.
With one of our initial choices, the seafood hotpot (£19), being scratched from the menu (dreams dashed) we’re informed that it has been replaced with an indeterminate prawn curry. Caution thrown to the proverbial wind, we order it. It arrives. We are wowed. The depth of flavour on show here betrays the amount of time Dhayalan has spent honing his craft in kitchens everywhere from his native Tamil Nadu to London to Newcastle’s Khai Khai (favourably reviewed by none other than Grace Dent in 2023). Simultaneously sweet, savoury, rich, and refined. Inherently maximalist in scope, this is precisely what I want but know I’ll never get from my neighbourhood curry house.
The ‘pukka’ fried chicken (£16.50), exhibited katsu-esque, atop sautéed cabbage and a pool of Keralan curry sauce, boasts a similar kind of effortless, homespun harmony. Piquancy takes a backseat, favoured here instead is the warm-hug of slowly tempered spice usually reserved, in my experience, for more domestic provision. Resisting the urge to lick the plate clean, the job of mopping up falls to a bowl of quite delicious, thick-cut chips (£3.50) and an unfortunately quite average plate of chapati (£2). You can’t win ‘em all and, honestly, the oversight is quickly forgotten.
The Keralan classic, ishtu (£14.50), a vegetable stew (in this case pumpkin and crispy cauliflower) prepared with coconut cream and curry leaves is authentically mild and comforting. Almost white in colour, quietly confident in its subtlety, this dish will more than likely satisfy the more heat-averse diners out there.
Between us, we also share a stir-fried green bean and shredded coconut poriyal (£3.50), a staple dish from Tamil Nadu. It at once marries together and acts as foil to the rest of the meal, bringing all the wonderful flavours together and refreshing the palate between each bite. Quite simply, marvellous.
I’m hesitant to make this review all about how we can’t let TV chefs drive or dictate our view of culture or of language, although there could be worse takeaways (pun intended). But maybe if you have any lasting notion of what I’ve written here at all, it could be this: that to go out and inform ourselves, engage in the discourse face-to-face (or rather face-to-plate) rather than rely solely on the testimony of others, is our prerogative, especially in the case of The Pukka Peacock.
All words and photos by Jason Jay Pridham, edited by Meg Houghton-Gilmour
The Pukka Peacock, 65 Sandy Park Rd, Brislington, BS4 3PQ
The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.
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