At first glance, the problem seemed simple. We had all reached the sixth form, which felt like a significant achievement. We reveled in the small luxuries, like being allowed to drink Nescafé during free periods. So it was only fitting to elevate our Friday nights to a more sophisticated level. The question was, how?
Clubbing was an obvious choice. We loved going dancing in town twice a week, dressed in our retro shoulder pads and uncomfortable white shoes. But the real dilemma was deciding where to go first. The local pub was no longer appealing. Slowly sipping Cinzano and lemonades was no longer exciting, as we tried to pace ourselves for the night ahead (though I often failed and conked out early).
A restaurant didn’t cross our minds initially. We were broke teenagers living in 1980s Sheffield. The options on the affordable side included curry or Chinese food, which lacked the glam factor we were seeking. Pizza Hut was a decent choice, but the fact that it was situated next to Tesco in a dull shopping precinct ruined the atmosphere for our stylish outfits and bold makeup.
Beyond these options, which left much to be desired, there were only two more appealing choices—Mr Kite’s, a wine bar where we could enjoy quiche and possibly spot a celebrity from the Human League, or Hanrahan’s, an American-style restaurant frequented by well-to-do clientele. Hanrahan’s was especially enticing. It required saving up, but it was worth it for the celebrations of birthdays and other significant events in our teenage lives. I even used the money I earned from my weekend job at Boots to afford it. Located in a converted Georgian building near the university, Hanrahan’s felt cool and sophisticated. Even though we giggled as we ordered ridiculous cocktails like “A Slow Comfortable Screw Against The Wall,” we didn’t turn our noses up at the experience. We also loved the trendy menu offerings, such as club sandwiches and barbecue ribs. Those sticky, sweet ribs were a personal battleground for me. Ordering them was a risky move, especially when I wore my best white, sleeveless polo neck. But not ordering them felt like a punishment.
Hanrahan’s eventually closed in 2008, replaced by a Loch Fyne restaurant, and it seems the building will now be converted into flats. Looking back, I realize that Hanrahan’s was not particularly original, even in its heyday. Many similar establishments popped up around the country during that time, influenced by movies like “Desperately Seeking Susan,” “St Elmo’s Fire,” and “Cocktail.” If I were to taste their menu now, I’m sure I would find flaws in everything (all that iceberg lettuce and bottled thousand island dressing). However, my love for Hanrahan’s remains strong in my memory, and I cherish those evenings out. They were filled with the promise of something exciting, even if it was just a hangover. Back then, we were so close and relatively innocent, able to enjoy things without any complications. I see shades of my future self in those nights, a woman who would always choose to be in a restaurant with loved ones rather than doing anything else (well, almost anything else). Hanrahan’s played a role, no matter how small, in shaping me into who I am today—a person who isn’t afraid to eat with her fingers, even if it means getting food on her freshly laundered clothes.
Switching gears, let me transport you to 2006—the year I started my undergraduate studies in Oxford. On my very first day in college, my parents helped me settle into my tiny single bedroom with its brown carpet and university-issued bedlinen. Before they left, my dad slipped me a £20 note. “Treat yourself to a Bangladeshi takeaway for dinner,” he instructed, trying to hold back tears. And then they drove the 200 miles back to West Yorkshire, leaving me feeling homesick and alone.
I didn’t order a Bangladeshi takeaway that night. Instead, I decided to join my fellow freshers in the dining hall. But as I navigated my way through my time at university, the South Asian restaurants in Oxford became a source of comfort. Chutneys in the city center, Mirch Masala on Cowley Road, and above all, Aziz Pandesia. This whitewashed, glass-fronted restaurant stood elegantly on Folly Bridge in south Oxford. Diners sat on the decked pontoon, watching boats and swans glide by, while indulging in the refined Bangladeshi and pan-Asian menu.
What made Aziz Pandesia special was its proximity to my college accommodation in my second and third years. It was where I went when I craved a taste of home. The Bangladeshi dishes were familiar, and the waitstaff became familiar faces. I visited not only for the food but for the warmth and hospitality I felt there. Since I was on a student budget, dining at Aziz Pandesia was a treat. But when I traveled back home, my dad would slip me another £20 before I boarded the return train, and I would delight in having dinner from Aziz Pandesia that evening.
My love for Aziz Pandesia rubbed off on my housemates. We still remember each other’s go-to orders: mine was a fiery and sweet chicken pathia, while Leah ordered the same but with prawns. Mary opted for the lamb bhuna and a mishti naan, and Rosie favored the lamb rogan josh. To save money, we would get the mains as takeaways and cook our own rice in the college kitchen.
We celebrated Anne’s 21st birthday and the end of our final exams at Aziz Pandesia. The restaurant felt posh with its white tablecloths, weighty cutlery, and endless refills of tap water in glass jugs. Though I was too shy to speak to the staff in Bangla, I now wish I had tried. I wish I had been able to communicate just how much that place meant to me throughout the years.
After I graduated, I moved away and never had the chance to visit Aziz Pandesia again. It transformed into a Mediterranean restaurant called Riviera not long after I left. A dispute with the council over opening hours for the pontoon led to a new restaurateur taking over the space. Aziz Pandesia’s sister restaurant on Cowley Road, simply named Aziz, later relocated to Headington. Nowadays, The Folly occupies 1 Folly Bridge, offering river cruises alongside a modern British menu featuring dishes like salt-baked cauliflower and lamb pavé.
During a recent visit to Oxford, I contemplated making a pilgrimage down Abingdon Road, over Folly Bridge, and revisiting my student halls—the place where I formed lifelong friendships and eventually met the person I would marry. I imagined seeing myself in the common room, watching Neighbours or cooking with friends on the limited kitchen appliances we had. Perhaps I would even bump into my past self walking back from Aziz Pandesia, clutching a white plastic bag containing a piping hot takeaway, worried that the bag might melt onto the container. But I decided against it…
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