Can you judge a takeaway curry by the same criteria as you would a sit-down meal? Well, when it’s as impressive as this, why ever not?

I’ve been hemming and hawing for a while about whether to write about this week’s restaurant. That’s not because it’s a gem so secret that I don’t want to draw anyone’s attention to it; or because it’s so nasty that it defies description; or because it’s impossible to find; or because I forgot to take notes, so can’t remember what I ate (though all of the above except the first have happened to me in the past). My hesitations have been because of something more primeval: I had a takeaway. Is a takeaway the same as a restaurant meal? You obviously can’t judge many aspects of the restaurant, but can you hold the cooking to the same standard?

The answer, I think, is yes, though it doesn’t apply to all cooking equally. Fancy European cooking needs a formal, sit-down setting to be appreciated: you can’t take away pasta or French bistro cooking. But we Brits are an exception to European norms. Our favourite foods – Indian, Chinese, fish and chips, burgers – adapt well to being taken away. Or perhaps it’s the other way round and we like them because we like takeaways. The most recent set of figures I’ve seen has us eating more than twice as many takeaways as the Germans and more than three times as many as the French. Why? Nobody knows. We just really like takeaways. And we’re right to, since when you’re in the mood for it – can’t be arsed to cook, can’t be arsed to go out – there’s nothing that hits the spot like a good takeaway.

Since this kind of cooking tends not to get reviewed or guidebookified, you’re more than usually reliant on word-of-mouth advice. I was in Sheffield, and my first plan had been to go to the once-famous Kashmir Curry Centre, but that closed late last year, a victim of its own success in sparking competition. So I took counsel and was sent to Mangla, the city’s current standard bearer in Kashmiri cooking. It’s in Spital Hill where, once I’d got out of the car and looked around a bit, I did find myself wondering about the probability of getting stabbed. My local sources tell me it’s not as rough as it looks, and I’m happy to believe them, but there is quite a contrast between the more genteelly terraced, Nick Clegg-voting bits of the city and this tatty urban part.

Mangla is a bright, clean, modern space without fancy accoutrements – like an upmarket canteen, say. It’s not licensed, though there’s an offy across the road if you want to bring your own, and they do make a famously good lassi. My first plan had been to eat in, but my eight-year-old son had spent the whole day in the car, and since we were staying only about half a mile away, I moved to takeaway plan B.

The meal had one duff component, a chicken pokora starter. This was deep-fried chicken bits, but the deep fryer is not the glory of the subcontinental kitchen, as the batters are often too heavy; so heavy, at times, that they seem to attract extra gravitational power. This one was like that. Masala fish was better, a dense piece of white fish spicily marinaded and served in a batter that was both less heavy and detachable. The fish was better without it.

The chef’s speciality main courses and the breads, however, are where it’s really at. Chicken karahi was chicken in smallish pieces, on the bone, in a tomato-based sauce with lots of coriander to lighten it and spicing so complex I couldn’t identify one specific dominant note – which is one way of identifying a really good masala. Bruchi lamb was a new one for me, a dense mutton (I think) curry that was half-dry and cooked with crunchy potatoes and fried onions. This was chewy and strong-flavoured, a real no-faint-hearts Kashmiri special. Saag paneer was more puréed than I like my spinach and seemed heavy on the ghee, which I’d have to say is an issue at Mangla. Luckily, a garlic nan was on hand to cut the richness and/or mop up the sauce. Paratha, another of the region’s world-class breads, was another hit.

Mangla doesn’t just do takeaway, they also deliver, and free for orders over £7 and within three miles. I wish that were more common. Takeaways that deliver often aren’t as good as ones that don’t; Mangla is a happy exception to that rule.

Unlike their Spanish counterparts, most UK tapas bars aren’t bars at all. They’re restaurants that serve tapas. But this place is much more like the real thing

Most British tapas bars aren’t bars at all. They’re restaurants that specialise in tapas. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s a bit different from the Spanish way of doing things, in which tapas is an adjunct to the drinks and the general vibe. The adjunct can be so important that the tapas are the bar’s raison d’être, but they don’t prevent it from being a bar, a place where people sit or stand around, having a drink and a natter, with or without food.

José Pizarro is a Spanish chef whose new bar in Bermondsey, José, is actually a bar. It’s by far the most bar-like new tapas bar I’ve come across in the current wave of Hispanic places. It is a single small room, and it gets full pretty fast; when it’s packed, getting to the loo is – what’s the word? – eventful. Most of the customers are standing up, putting their plates on strategically placed barrels. In recommending José, which I’m about to do, I need to be unequivocally clear about the fact that if you go when it’s busy, you’re likely to spend your visit standing up; if you’re not braced for that, go when it’s quiet or don’t go. As for when, well, Pizarro’s website says it’s open from noon until 10.30pm weekdays and on Saturday, and noon to 5.30pm on Sunday. I tried to check these times, but they didn’t answer the phone (then again, they don’t take reservations, either); you’ll have to hope the website is accurate.

Pizarro was the head chef at Tapas Brindisa, the much-admired restaurant that spun off from the fabulously good Spanish food importer Brindisa and then turned into a mini-chain of three places, all in London. He’s from Extremadura, which is one of the centres of not just the Ibérico ham industry, but the acorn-fed (“bellota”) Ibérico ham. This ham is made from the poshest pigs in the world. If they were British, they’d probably be in the cabinet. The acorn-fed stuff is aged for years, costs twice as much as the already uncheap next level down, and is thought by its admirers to be more than twice as good. Everyone with an interest in food should give it a go at least once; a portion at José, beautifully sliced, will set you back £9, more than anything else on the menu. But the depth and complexity of the flavour-texture – with this ham, the two blend into each other – are extraordinary. Every time I go to Spain, I promise myself I’ll buy some, then at the last minute find myself balking at the price. Solemn vow: next time, no balking. Only ham.

Another positive thing about José is the chalked-up list of daily specials. We tried a few of these, with an emphasis on things cooked on the plancha, the flat grill that nobody on earth puts to use as well as the Spanish. Razor clams with chorizo, squid with allioli and salad (the body served whole, the tentacles chopped), prawns with chilli and garlic, and clams with fino sherry and bacon were all outstanding. When it’s very fresh and perfectly cooked, high-grade seafood is distinguished by a subtle sweetness below the initial savoury impact. That was present here, and beautifully drawn out by the saucing and seasoning. All these dishes were around the £6 mark.

Everyone who has ever been to Spain has eaten a dodgy tortilla. The lucky visitor has also eaten tortilla so good they wonder how something so simple as a tepid stuffed omelette can scale such heights. The plain tortilla at José, filled with caramelised onions, is this second type of tortilla, resembling a highly evolved quiche. Anchovies can also go wrong: too sharp, too acidic or even too anchovy-ish. The ones here were sweet and soft – impeccable. A duck egg came on top of a sweated vegetable stew called pisto (a bit like ratatouille). There’s a lot of good cooking going on here, much of it by Pizarro himself, who was right there at the stove at 6pm on a Monday.

The other reason for going to José, apart from the food, is the sherry. José makes a big thing of its list, and the bar staff will suggest food matches for you. Sherry is in my view the most underrated great wine in the world, and maybe the only one that’s underpriced for what it is. José is a proper bar with proper tapas and proper sherry – all good.