Jeffrey A Brick
Google
Now, it was a Wednesday evening of some distinction, not by weather nor society, but by the simple fact that I found myself—post-yoga, soul cleansed and stomach empty—ambling toward the end of Judah Street, where the mighty ocean hums lullabies to weary cityfolk.
I was hunting supper. Not a banquet, mind you, but something honest, warm, and preferably involving potatoes. The city had gone quiet, the stars blinked over the Sunset, and there—like a lighthouse to the hungry—I spotted Golden Gate Indian Cuisine & Pizza, its modest sign glowing like the answer to a question I didn’t know I’d asked.
They had a table out front. Just one. It sat lonely and noble, like a sheriff on night patrol. I claimed it.
I ordered as follows:
— Two samosas, firm and golden, filled with mashed potato and what I suspect was the exact pea from Eden.
— A Flying Horse Royal Lager, tall and cold, and brewed with the kind of discipline I wish more men possessed.
— And the crowning glory: a Vegetarian Masala Pizza. A creation I could only describe as what would happen if Naples and New Delhi had a love child and raised it in the California sun.
The pizza was not spicy—not fiery, not arrogant—but gentle and fragrant, a kind of masala lullaby. The crust was proper, not a chewy affair, and the toppings fresh as if they’d been plucked from a garden behind the kitchen. For those who desire more heat (and I do), they’ll kindly provide a tray of extra spices with the gravity of a spice bazaar in miniature.
Service? Friendly and sincere. None of your slick nonsense. Just warm folks who care if you’re fed.
And here’s the part most don’t mention: they’re open late. That’s a kindness rare in these parts. If your yoga ends after nine, or you’ve just stared at the sea wondering where your life went sideways, they’ll still serve you—with a smile, a samosa, and a seat beneath the stars.
For couples: maybe grab takeout and charm each other over Netflix. But if you’re solo—an adventurer, a wanderer, or a humble storyteller—this little table by the wall is perfect. The kind of table where stories begin and indigestion never follows.
Highly recommended. And that’s no small praise from a man who’s dined with generals, fools, and the occasional ghost.
