In these days of Cool Britannia, it’s all become a mite more complicated. The British curry house has evolved into a range of concepts.

D’ya fancy, scribble the restaurant critics, a slice of something buzzin’ an’ happenin’ an’ spicy? Or would you rather an oh-so-minimalist, oh-so-exclusive, oh-so-expensive treat fit for a maharajah? Perhaps a taste of the last days of the French Raj? Or how about some Indo-Thai? Some Bison Vindaloo? Kangaroo Tikka? Haggis Pakora?

You have to go back to the Indian restaurant sector's early days to understand this, the curry house rush to go upmarket, the desire to brush off the fits-one-gob, fits-all image.

As recently as the 1960s, Indian restaurants were a rare sight, outnumbered by greasy spoons and fish ‘n’ chip shops. In 1960, there were only about 500 Indian restaurants in Britain, mainly in London, with at most a couple in each of the larger cities. The food stayed exotic, not the ‘norm’, not what mam cooked for tea.

By 1970, as immigration from the Indian subcontinent reached a peak, the number of Indian restaurants had increased to 1,200. With their sharp business skills going waste, new arrivals, particularly those from Bangladesh, picked up pots and pans and karahis and set to work. By 1980, the number had gone up to 3,000.

The all-singing, all-dancing curry house experience that emerged wasn’t exactly planned. The average Indian restaurant found itself hosting a gut-level playground for th’lads each weekend. Lager - loads an’ loadsa lager - and ordering too much and macho-masochism assumed a far greater importance than any food.

The staff were completely bewildered. It wasn't what they wanted. Really, they didn't want you to be a right vindaloonatic, a bit of a masala maniac.

The concept took off because curry house grub was so much better than anything else around at the time. It beat traditional meat and two veg to a pulp. It was cheap. It gave a first lesson in eating out to today’s fastidious foodies. It was additive - chillies gave an adrenaline rush.

But early chefs knew that what they produced bore little resemblance to real Indian food. Restaurateurs generally worked to tight budgets. As a result, the food was often formulaic. The ‘one-pot-masala’, a large vat of basic onion gravy, supplied the base for a variety of dishes. By switching ingredients and varying the amount of chilli powder, chefs were able to turn out Dhansak, Rogan Josh and Korma at low cost and high speed.

The recession of the early 1990s proved a hiccup. As it turned out, a welcome one. Indian curry houses run by cowboys ran into receivership.

Those restaurateurs with business nous and, perhaps most importantly, marketing skills, prospered. They polished their offer, introducing recipes from India and a wider range of ingredients and cooking techniques. Gaining increased revenue and media attention, they acted as role models for others in the sector.

The sector became quite proud, quite rightly, about its achievements. It saw the chance to do what it had always wanted - ditch the balti boozers and go upmarket.

Curry house punters - some of them - had changed too. Discerning customers who reckoned they knew a thing or two about curries demanded something new, something different.

According to a recent Mintel survey, today’s Indian restaurant customer is likely to be a youngish ABC1 professional. A recent Marketpower survey finds that out of the 60 per cent of British adults who visit ethnic restaurants, 66 per cent will travel up to 10 miles for a good Indian restaurant. And 32 per cent will go as far as 20 miles.

Demand stimulates supply. Today, there are over 8,000 Indian restaurants in Britain. They serve over 2.5 million customers a year and generate an annual turnover of about £2 billion. England’s footballing anthem during France 98 was Vindaloo. Tourist boards push their local curry zones. The Indian restaurant sector is a great British success.

With their increased skills and confidence, Indian restaurateurs have interpreted this as a sign to turn posh. Every other mid-market Indian restaurant serves up sun-dried tomatoes with its CTM. Which it probably calls Tikka Poulet Rouge. And which it’s now about to replace with "something more authentic", something first dreamt up by the chef’s forebears for a hungry maharaja. Or, more cynically, brainstormed by a marketing department hungry for new markets.

What hasn’t changed is that the traditional curry house serving good food is still doing extraordinarily well. Its cheap ‘n’ cheerful offer continues to outsell any other kind of ethnic food. As well as fish ‘n’ chips.

The big breweries know this. Which is why they’re currently scrambling to cross the British curry house with that other British institution, the pub. Regent Inn’s recently opened its first Pukkabar in Sydenham, London.

With batch-cooked curries and interior design by the team responsible for Marco Pierre White’s Mirabelle, the aim is to provide a stylish Indian drinking - Cobra Beer is on tap - as well as eating experience. If the concept works, it plans to rollout several more Pukkabars by the end of the century. Average cost per head there is between £10 and £20.

Punch Tavern’s has plans to open 60 Pele’s Balti Pubs over the next three years. Again, the decor is stylish; the prices are cheap; the emphasis is on accessibility.

An integral part of British culture, the curry house won’t disappear. If anything, as the Indian restaurant sector fractures into different restaurant styles aimed at different micro-markets - vegetarian, regional, authentic, fusion, the basic curry house concept, with a nineties twist, will regain its importance.

Up-market Indian restaurants will continue to do well. But wrapped up in good business practice and rolled out as a chain of standardised outlets, the McIndian will do even better.