The Painted Heron, London

I have lived my life by three universal truths: 1) Old men with mobile phones look wrong. 2) Old ladies eat more than you think. And 3) When it comes to curry, Nigel is tough and best. I am prepared to consider that 4) Everyone has an uncle who tries to steal their nose might be a universal truth. But I will need to see the pie-charts to prove it.

Oh, the happy hours I have spent listening to Nigel's curry adventures in the sub-continent. By his second Cobra beer he will, without fail, be describing the vindaloo he once ate in Bombay – while the sun balanced on the rim of the world, and 5,000 civil servants drifted homeward on a river of bicycles. I've never met a man who knows so many funny stories about asafoetida.

So when I heard that manager Albert Ray and chef Yogesh Datta had left Tabla, the Docklands Indian restaurant that spun off into the even grander but more central Cinnamon Club in Westminster, and opened The Painted Heron, I telephoned Nigel immediately. When you're faced with a menu like The Painted Heron's – which features a "mackerel in Keralan boatman's curry" – it helps to take along somebody who is on first-name terms with the boatman.

The Painted Heron is in Chelsea – but only just. It backs on to the World's End council estate, and the only passing trade is boys who spend their money on BMXs and skateboards. So The Painted Heron needs to be very, very good if it's going to attract the customers it will need to survive.

The interior is unremarkable, with pale floorboards and well-dressed tables. But there is an air of serenity about the place – or rather there was, until Sam, who belonged to one of the staff, saw fit to shout for 10 minutes. And Sam sounds extra loud in an empty restaurant. I was also going to complain about the techno on the sound system until I realised it was the air-conditioning. So I'll complain about the air-conditioning instead and about not realising until too late that there is a garden at the back.

The Painted Heron isn't High Street Indian. So there's no extra charge for the mango chutney. In fact, there isn't any mango chutney – there's plum, white radish and garlic instead. And the poppadoms are baked in a tandoor. When I told Nigel that I prefer my poppadoms deep-fried, he scoffed. "Looks like you've lost the keys to the clue-mobile," he said. In his defence, he had just been to see Scooby Doo with his sons.

The menu is not specifically from northern or southern India – it's not even specifically Indian. It takes its inspiration from all over, including Pakistan. The result is honest, affordable food (£5 for starters and £10 for main courses) that tastes simple enough to be home-made – if you happen to know the secret of herbs and spices, that is, and have the imagination to strike out and create something radically different with them.

The mint in the mint paratha wasn't as odd as it might have been. It actually freed up my sense of smell, and allowed me to enjoy the foods as they mixed and melded at the table. The sweetness of the apricot pilau was an unexpected surprise in my mouth full of duck breast with hot and sour Goan spices. It's not often Nigel dots from dish to dish, but he did at The Painted Heron. The food made him excited.

I love paneer. But I can't stand curd cheese. I know they're the same thing, but there's something about the process of "curdling". According to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, not one person executed in that state has asked for a final meal with curd cheese in it. And I can't say I'm surprised. But if a resident of death row had tried my full-flavoured paneer cheese tikka with coriander and mint chutney, I think it would be a different story.

Even the dosa pancake stuffed with crab meat and chilli managed to take me – pleasantly – from behind. And I don't even like chilli. But then Nigel told me there are 1,600 varieties of chilli to choose from. They range from the bell pepper to the naga jolokia. And that is used to make tear gas. One of the components of chilli is a natural antibiotic, and it has been found to possess anti-fungal properties – that's something to bear in mind if you're stuck choosing between side dishes.

I still haven't found a restaurant brave enough to stock Sandia Shadows Red – a wine from New Mexico that's matured with a purée of roasted chillies. Apparently, it's a pleasing balance of sweetness and spice – a pale orange in colour, with just a hint of smoky chilli. They also make a chilli-saturated Chile Cabernet. After one second, the depth and body of the Cabernet begin to temper the burn. After my experience with the dosa pancake, I'll consider trying it.

I don't know what happened with The Painted Heron's puddings. The coconut and pistachio kulfi was bland, and arrived on shocking pink vermicelli. I remember something similar years ago – but that was back in the days of Vesta curries. Why no rasmali? Or gulab jamun? So we ended our evening at the more expensive Cinnamon Club, which has one major advantage over The Painted Heron – the sound system does play techno. You can only take so many Bombay sunset stories. E

The Painted Heron, 112 Cheyne Walk, London SW10 (020-7351 5232). To contact Richard Johnson, visit richardjohnsononline.co.uk