Eric’s, Dubai: ‘A capsule of Goa that belongs entirely to Karama’ – restaurant review

It feels homely, admirably so, warmed by something countrified and maternal, almost grandmotherly. Glossy dark furniture, and lacy white curtains filtering the incoming summer sun that peeks through cottage-like windows. Cobalt blue walls throw the room a splash of liveliness as rows of patterned tiles nod towards Goa’s Portuguese heritage.

The team is humble and personable in a way that cannot be trained but, at times, moves at the glacial pace of leisure. In Trinidad, where I’m from, we say there are two speeds: slow and slower. Eric’s clock oscillates between the two as the gaps between plates run longer than I would patiently tolerate elsewhere. It feels organic, part of the charm, and I would not have it otherwise, but groups, be warned.

Goan cuisine leans heavily on tang (vinegar, kokum), wood spices (clove, cinnamon) and the heat of red chillies. We begin with mutton potato chops, a small frothing sol kadi and a ros omelette, off-menu, which the kitchen charitably indulges at friend Sanjay Varman’s request. 

Our sol kadi is punchy, spiced with a clear point of view. Three browned potato chops arrive like a trio of cricket balls, looking as though each could do real damage if thrown, but they are remarkably light: a suave potato exterior gives to the touch of a spoon, revealing spiced ground mutton, addictive enough to be classed as a drug. The puffy ros omelette folds like a napkin into a gratin dish, smothered in a coconut and green chilli sauce that could nurse a hangover.

A pan-fried kingfish steak (substituted at request) arrives crusted in a sandy semolina crumb over firm, still-moist flesh, spiced with that sweet and sour tang. The pomfret recheado is stuffed rather than merely marinated, the paste sweet and hot at once, pan-fried and served whole on the bone. Fussy eaters won’t enjoy dissecting it. 

Then the vindalo, which, like the prawns balchão, sings with a spice that does not reveal itself at first but knocks on the door, making it clear it intends to come in. The vindaloo’s crimson broth and tender beef lean on its intense woody clove, though the ground spice still feels pasty in the mouth, wanting further tempering.

Dessert is a departure, however. There are eight and not a Goan sweet in sight: no bebinca, no dodol, serradura or patoleo. Instead, trifle pudding, crème caramel and gulab jamun. The Goan sweet tooth has changed rooms. It sits in the glass cabinet by the door, chest-high and stocked with ghee cake, date and walnut, chicken pies and cafreal rolls, in the way the Goan poder, the village baker, sells bread, puffs, cake and the like to whoever walks past.

We waddle next door to Cintafresh, who churn Kerala’s palada payasam into a soft serve. I cannot recommend it enough, as both pudding and antacid.

Between asking for the bill and paying it, I count three generations. Sons rock newborns while grandparents beam and coo, watching their children enter a phase they know too well. 

Eric’s is a capsule of Goa that belongs entirely to Karama, and should still belong to it in twenty years from now.