Shabab, 163-165 Ladypool Road, Sparkbrook. T: 0121 440 2893

Al Frash 186 Ladypool Road. T: 0121 753 3120

Welcome to the first of this year’s “toofers”: two reviews for the price of one.

After too long an absence, I revisited Birmingham’s much imitated, never bettered, Balti Triangle to run the rule over a couple of its leading practitioners.

Why now? Well, if all goes to plan, Birmingham will have a new food festival in the autumn to replace what was Taste of Birmingham.

I won’t say anything else about “T of B” (RIP) because when I do I upset people. I’ve vowed not to discuss it publicly. Not now. Not ever.

But the fact remains that something is set to replace “the unmentionable” and the balti – as well as high-end dining and high street restaurants and fish and chips and traditional cheeses and artisan beer and cider and baking and cafes and fresh farm produce and food-based educational opportunities and general all round good fun – has got to be represented.

This Pakistani dish with a Brummie twang is part of the city’s culinary heritage. The balti has been there for us, through thick and thin and tornado hits, like the one that struck in 2005.

Some people are sniffy about baltis. These people are peasants.

Baltis, properly done, represent some of the best value dining you will find in the British Isles. Paninis are for pigeons.

So I find myself at a window table inside Shabab, one of Sparkbrook’s powerhouse 100 per cent original balti restaurants, and am transfixed by the lilting movement of the esteemed player-manager of nothing less than the Birmingham-formed England over-50s football team.

He’s got some nifty footwork, Ronaldo-esque steps overs, shimmies, the lot. And he needs it.

AM is positively floating over Ladypool Road, dodging the fully-pimped BMWs, Mercs and Ford Escorts that bomb along the highway and smash over the mini-roundabouts that are as effective at traffic calming as Polo mints.

There’s a good reason why I am so concerned about AM’s safe passage.

In his hands is liquid treasure: a glass of John Smith’s bitter. Shabab doesn’t have an alcohol licence and AM is re- enacting an ancient rite, skipping over the road to The George pub to collect a pint and deliver it to our table, with the restaurant’s blessing.

It’s a first for me but AM informs me that the Indian entrepreneurs who run the boozer must have got wind of my visit.

On the bar flap there is a sign saying: “VIP section.” You don’t get that at a gastropub in Harborne.

Shabab has reopened following a refurbishment. Traditionalists may mourn the loss of the varnished stripped pine, living-room style lighting and puce carpet but they’ll be in a minority.

Shabab is now the picture of relaxed, cafe-style, post-flock eating modernity. There’s even a banquette. Crucially, the owners have retained the glass-topped tables that house the menus, which are printed in black and white and don’t give you a headache to read.

To start, we have sheekh kebabs, which are well spiced, juicy and freshly cooked, not a hint of rubberiness, and as good as you’ll find.