A couple of Mondays back I was on the train home from work and Zoë and I had the “can’t be arsed to cook” conversation where gradually, one or the other of you oh-so-casually floats the topic of scrapping whatever’s in the weekly meal plan and doing something more interesting instead. Do you ever do this, either with a partner or just with yourself?

In my case, I always have to at least try and make it look like it’s Zoë’s idea, every bit as much as she’s trying to make it appear to be mine. I would say I’m more successful when I know it’s Zoë’s turn to cook: she no doubt would dispute that. But I usually get an impression, in those exploratory messages, that there’s potential to chuck the plans and structure out of the window and live a little. You have to celebrate these small wins, especially as the world continues to go from bad to worse.

In the olden days, by which I mean this time last year, the options were plentiful on a Can’t Be Arsed To Cook Day. Town was on my doorstep, and Zoë worked in the centre, and even more crucially to get home both of us had to walk past the Lyndhurst, God rest its soul, and – and this was the difficult part – not go in. So a year ago, the “can’t be arsed to cook” conversation was more straightforward, and often ended on Watlington Street with a Korean chicken burger, or some monkfish tacos.

Nowadays, in that strange no-man’s land that isn’t Katesgrove, isn’t Whitley and isn’t quite the university area, life is trickier. And it’s especially compounded by the fact that my poor wife is stuck at home again with a fractured bone in her foot – different bone, same foot – and so leaving the house together is a vanishingly rare occurrence, even with her immensely fetching moon boot on. Some of the gastronomic opportunities presented by our new neighbourhood, like Curry Rasoi down the way or Meme’s Kitchen down the hill on the Basingstoke Road, remain unexplored.

That means we have to resort, in the most part, to takeaways. And living further out from the centre we have, after a process of trial and error, got this down to something approaching a fine art. I’ve been disappointed by enough orders from the wrong side of the town centre to abandon those as options, because even if Google Maps says something is a nine minute drive away it can be far longer, and more painful, when Deliveroo in its infinite wisdom chooses to lump your order in with someone else’s and deliver theirs, halfway across town, first.

No, with the exception of sushi, which does not go cold – Iro Sushi and You Me Sushi have both done pretty well out of me since I moved house – we tend to keep it relatively local. That means the piping hot wonders of Dough Bros, just round the corner, or Gooi Nara, whose takeaway is so good I gave them an award. It means Bakery House or Hala Lebanese when hot grilled meat or baby chicken are the subject of the hankering, or Kungfu Kitchen if we’re really treating ourselves.

And on the nights when we want something spicy, it means a delivery from Deccan House on the junction, whose chicken pakora and chicken biryani make me very happy indeed, badly in need of a glass of milk and, for a few minutes at least, unable to see clearly through my watering eyes. Sometimes I miss the myriad of opportunities presented by town centre life, but actually having fewer options is fine provided you like them and you have enough. Besides, it’s a first world problem.

Anyway, that Monday could have been a Can’t Be Arsed To Cook Night like any other, but as I was standing on the platform waiting for my train home I had an idea and texted Zoë. How about you hop on the bus and meet me halfway at Ephesus Grill? I’d had good reports of the Turkish place on Whitley Street – I seem to remember somebody told me about it when I reviewed Shawarma earlier in the year – and it had been on my to do list for a while.

A few weeks back Zoë looked it up, found it had a good hygiene rating from the council and told me that if I ever reviewed it, she would like to join me. And I picked a good night to make my entreaty, because she took little or no persuading. I can’t remember whether it was her turn to cook, mind you.

Whitley Street is a funny little run, with plenty of places that would serve you food but not ones you would necessarily choose to use. It has one restaurant I very much like, Gooi Nara, but the rest is mostly permutations of takeaway food: Golden Rice for Chinese, a peri peri chicken restaurant, a Mr Cod, a burger spot called Grilla Kitchen and two pizza places called Presto and Uptown, for when you either feel in a hurry or, I guess, sophisticated.

At the top of that stretch sits the empty shell of Vel, which mysteriously closed after a fire last August, a month before a man was convicted of the murder of its former manager earlier that year. I guess we’ll never know whether those two events have any relationship to one another: Google says the restaurant is temporarily closed, but it feels like that ship has sailed.

Close to the bottom of Whitley Street, where the road forks into Southampton Street and Mount Pleasant, Ephesus Grill looks unprepossessing. The shop front randomly advertises KEBABS, BURGERS, PIZZAS, STEAKS and STEWS, possibly the only time I’ve seen a restaurant lead with those five. You can barely see in through the windows for the posters for funfairs and circuses, the ads for meal deals stuck up against the glass, prices updated with a Sharpie.

Yet when I stepped inside it seemed like something somewhere between a takeaway and a restaurant – more space than, say, the likes of Kings Grill but more transient in feel than somewhere such as Bakery House. The tables and chairs were basic but far from skanky, the overall effect of the wood panelling and exposed brickwork was nicer than I’d expected. A piece of artwork on one wall talked you through “The History Of Kebab”, various random stringed instruments were mounted around it. I rather liked it, and as my moonbooted beloved clomped through the door I was already checking out the menu above the counter.

It’s quite a big menu, and it was all over the place in more ways than one. I had a sneaking feeling, from looking at it, that not all of it would be good. That might have been a hunch, it might have come from feeling they were spreading themselves too thin or it might have just been a suspicion that came from reading items like the “Big Boy Burger” and “Mozerrela (sic) Sticks”.

Maybe I like an underdog, but I found that sloppiness strangely endearing. Besides, you had to slightly love the fact that the section marked Chicken & Fish listed a quarter of roast chicken and chips, chicken nuggets and chips or chicken wings and chips and literally nothing else. I don’t think that this is a place for vegetarians and vegans, even if they have curly fries – a blast from the past – on the menu.

But the place is called Ephesus Grill, so we decided to take it on face value and look at the Turkish dishes and those making use of the grill. The restaurant offers a dizzying array of different mixes of shish, doner and kofta, in wraps or without, and they tend to max out at fifteen pounds. It’s a little confusing what they do or don’t come with – in fact, they don’t seem to come with anything so chips are extra. There was also a small selection of starters – less than a dozen, hot and cold mezze – none of which cost more than a fiver, and a handful of other Turkish dishes, lamb shank, moussaka and the like.

They didn’t have my first choice of starter, sigara boregi, little crispy rolls filled with feta, so instead we picked a few other things, along with what the menu referred to as “Turkish Bread”. First to turn up were our halloumi and falafel, plonked on the counter for us to come up and collect. It was a glorious early evening, one of the first truly sunny days we’ve had, and diagonal rays of light illuminated the plate in front of us.

“This is like being on holiday” said Zoë, and as I sipped my Pepsi Max I could see what she meant. Later on, one of the staff would pop out the door and pull out the awning. I knew that beyond the window and those funfair posters was just Whitley Street and a couple of massive bins out on the pavement, but for a moment Ephesus Grill had that feeling of transportative otherness that always makes restaurants a tiny bit magical.

It wasn’t the okacbasi I went to in Kalkan once, where they served up crispy doner meat by weight and you sat in baking heat by the roadside, gasping for a cold Efe and feeling like you’d gone to heaven, but for a Monday evening at the tail end of March, it was close enough to be getting on with.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, possibly because I don’t want to report that the halloumi and falafel slightly shattered the illusion. I rather liked the halloumi, in thick hunks with that familiar almost-rubbery texture, but it felt like the grill hadn’t quite been the finishing school I’d hoped for. But I was dubious about the falafel full stop. There was no crisp exterior, no beautiful shell such as you’d encounter further down the hill on London Street.

Worse still, cutting one open I could see sweetcorn in it. This felt like something that had been shop bought, from a bad shop. I told Zoë she could have the rest of those with absolutely no regret. I did quite like the salad though, boasting both pickles and chillies, things Zoë was happy to leave to me in return for those slightly dodgy falafel.

The point is, shop bought doesn’t have to be a bad thing, provided you buy well. Ephesus Grill’s houmous was a good example of this. I have no idea whether they make it on site, and they may well not, but it was still really good stuff. Even if you do buy it in, there’s nothing stopping you drizzling it with a slick of reddy-orange chilli oil and sprinkling it with spices, as Ephesus did, and if you do someone like me will turn up, eat it and thoroughly enjoy it.

The Turkish bread, by the way, was two huge round things that I thought, originally, would be like the balloons you used to get at La’De Kitchen. They were not, because they weren’t hollow bubbles. Tearing into one, it was dense, decidedly solid and very substantial. And actually, that made it miles more useful for scooping up houmous and chilli oil than any pitta could have been. It was a happy accident, but I was very glad of it.

Zoë’s main course was the “Ephesus Mixed”, a showcase of almost every meat the restaurant did. Again, a not ungenerous portion of lamb doner, both kinds of shish and a kofte. She really liked most of it, and the bits I tried were decent. I don’t remember getting any lamb shish, although she spoke highly of it, but the ribbons of doner had been shaved and crisped up nicely. The kofte was in an unusual shape – discs, rather than long cylinders – but none the worse for it. It was all thoroughly agreeable, especially with Ephesus Grill’s garlic sauce, which I found somewhat light on the garlic, but still not half bad.

This wasn’t bad value for thirteen pounds – although if you want a great analogy for how the last four years has royally shafted us, here it is: I did a little research online and this dish used to cost eight pounds fifty back then. Just imagine.

Another illustration that buying in really isn’t a crime was Ephesus’ fries. I didn’t take a photo, because fries nearly all look the same, but these were great – crispy, light, clearly fried there and then to order and plentifully scattered with salt. You can have them in cheese, or with a pitta (although really, why would you?) or you could have those oh so Nineties curly fries. But there was no point: these were unimprovable just as they were.

This doesn’t always happen, but I was the one who ordered best. I think I’d seen some reports somewhere that chicken shish was the thing to go for, so that’s what I did – an extra large, probably something like three skewers. And if you wanted proof that there are some good things you can’t get enough of, you couldn’t find better. Really big, gnarly bits of chicken, clearly well marinated and striped from the grill, packed with textural contrast and a sheer delight.

So often chicken shish, even at places I like, feels like a succession of factory assembled protein cuboids, but at Ephesus it was absolutely the real deal. I offered a couple to Zoë, because I felt bad that her choice hadn’t been 100% chicken shish as mine was. I think I had maybe been right about my reading of Ephesus’ menu – it offered too many things. The steaks, burgers and stews might be incredible, but eating this and planning a repeat occurrence, I already knew I’d probably never find out.

Ditto the dish a chap was having at the table next to ours that I couldn’t see on the menu, seemingly two bits of roasted chicken with what looked like slow-cooked potatoes. It might have been gorgeous, but to have it one day I would have to pass on the chicken shish. I know myself well enough to know that was unlikely to happen.

If you miss our direct bus home you either go round the houses or wait a while for the next one, so I sent Zoë rushing off to catch the imminent one stopping right outside and, taking my time, I soaked up the atmosphere, finished my drink and paid my bill. I saw quite a few people coming in to collect takeaways, and I think I also saw takeaways going out the door for delivery. It was a Monday night, but it was far from dead.

Service was brisk, no nonsense but far from unfriendly, and I did wonder whether a lot of their customer base might be Turkish. When I asked to pay up the lady I spoke to said, in limited English, that her colleague would have to do that. He called me “boss”, which just went to show how little he knew me. My meal for two, and you can safely say we over-ordered, cost just over forty-three pounds, and the chap waved away my attempts to add a tip to my card payment. I’ll have to carry some cash for that next time.

This week’s review is a proper study in contrasts. Last week I was at Orwell’s, which is about as different a restaurant from Ephesus Grill as you could hope to find: the amount I spent at Orwell’s on alcohol alone would buy you three big meals for two at Ephesus.

But the happy buzz you get from finding somewhere you like, believe it or not, is more universal than you might think. Ephesus is unpretentious, a million miles from fancy and you need to pick carefully and forego some of the whistles and bells of eating out in other places. But you are rewarded for all that with something that is, in its fashion, a quiet joy.

I should add one last thing: Ephesus’ shopfront advertises that it offers free delivery. I’m not sure that is entirely true, but I do know that later that week, when I was out with a friend, Zoë hopped on their website and ordered one of those chicken shishes. I don’t think it was because she couldn’t be arsed to cook, I think it was because she’d been hankering for that dish since she saw me eat it.

She took great pleasure in telling me when I got home that it was so big that she couldn’t finish it. She’s taken to calling the restaurant Oesophagus Grill, because that’s where that shish was heading. Apparently delivery costs a quid, the restaurant handles it itself without you having to give delivery apps a penny and it took less than fifteen minutes door to door before Zoë was reunited with the kebab of dreams.

So that’s made life easier and losing weight harder: the list of places who can feed me when I really can’t face toiling at the hob just got one restaurant bigger. But I do think that, even though their deliveries are excellent, I can see myself eating in that room again. I hope this persuades at least somebody to do the same. Besides, I am nobody’s boss – some days I’m not even sure I’m the boss of me – but it’s nice to be served by someone who’s happy to pretend.

Ephesus Grill – 7.3
19 Whitley Street, Reading, RG2 0EG
0118 9871890

https://ephesusreading.co.uk

As of January 2025, Edible Reading is partly supported by subscribers – click here if you want to read more about that, or click below to subscribe. Whether you’re a subscriber or not, thanks for reading.