On 18 January 1973, a horde of self-described ‘long-haired stoners’ descended on Bradford. Braving freezing weather, they thronged the streets around St George’s Hall, waiting for its doors to be flung open.
Led Zeppelin were arriving two weeks later than planned, after Robert Plant had suffered a heavy bout of flu, but few were put off by the late postponement. This, after all, was the biggest concert in Bradford since The Beatles had played The Gaumont nine years earlier. Fans clutched tickets for the original date, having paid a pound each for the opportunity to see their idols.
The newly anointed UK City of Culture for 2025 has always attracted a steady stream of discerning touring bands. Yet few had expected to see Bradford on the schedule for Led Zeppelin’s homecoming tour. And for those of us concerned with the folklore of the city’s restaurants, it carries particular significance. Legend has it that Led Zep visited The Kashmir – our oldest curry house – before the show, and that the band’s progressive epic of the same name, released in 1975, is named after it.
But did that really happen? As a matter of personal and civic pride, I was determined to find out.
In the second half of the 20th century, the gastronomic gifts of Bradford’s Kashmiri, Gujarati and Punjabi communities changed perceptions of the city forever. On his own homecoming in 1934, JB Priestley had described a backwater, devoid of charm, offering visitors only a handful of boozers filled with unsavoury street-walkers. It’s not much of an endorsement from one of our most famous sons – if only Priestley had waited a few more years – as by the ’50s, the city’s first curry houses had been established, first as social clubs for migrant workers from the subcontinent and later as fully-fledged restaurants providing the perfect foil for those dubious pubs (which thankfully remain). The result is a city which punches well above its weight in culinary terms. It has been crowned the nation’s Curry Capital a record six times.
The centre of Bradford’s curry scene is Great Horton – an assortment of back-to-back terraces, cloth houses and disused woollen mills on the edge of town, where the Seabrook crisp factory still belches clouds of vinegared steam into the atmosphere. The Karachi now offers a ‘Rick Stein Special’ after the chef, who, having agreed to leave Cornwall briefly, visited for a documentary series. Diners at The Mumtaz are greeted by a sun-bleached photograph as proof of the Queen’s meal there. The area has even garnered transatlantic approval, confirmed in the small hours of a cold Saturday in March 2017, when Bradford socials were flooded with blurry images of Floyd Mayweather’s inexplicable presence at Mr T’s.
It can be jarring when celebrities parachute in for a photo opportunity, but these restaurants understandably are keen to capitalise on the limelight afforded by their famous guests. They benefit from the endorsement which we, in turn, rely on when trying to convince friends in London that they should actually come and visit. The only trouble is the most iconic dinner in the city annals remains shrouded in mystery. Where the tale of Led Zeppelin’s visit elicits a knowing nod at home, outside the city walls it is met with scepticism.
Granted, there is a paucity of evidence. But then, The Kashmir has always been a unique proposition. The café remains arguably the most important in the city; on its recent 70th anniversary, owner Mohammed Latif declared that ‘Bradford is the UK capital of curry, and The Kashmir is the curry capital of Bradford’. While some might argue with that assessment, it can often appear as if nobody has ever visited – there are no framed photographs of guests, no commemorative menus and certainly no special treatment. The upper level of the restaurant is often quiet, and on one trip I was joined by only a handful of other customers, two of whom were asleep in front of their meals. But it retains a loyal following of those in the know, and in the basement canteen the place throbs with life.
