Jeff S.
Google
Do not let the weary facade deceive you, nor the modest strip mall walls that seem to whisper of age and anonymity. The humble surroundings melt away, replaced by a sensory landscape of spice and fire.
The Butter Chicken was a river of velvet, a rich, crimson tide that sings of cream and fenugreek. It is not merely a curry; it is a warm embrace in a bowl, exquisite and soulful.
The Tandoori Kabobs, these morsels bear the memory of the fire. Tender testaments to the clay oven, smoky char kissed edges yet tender within, spiced with the wisdom of generations.
The Naan, to speak of the bread is to speak of clouds tethered to the earth. Pillowy, warm, and blistered to perfection, it is the perfect vessel to carry the heavy riches of the curries to your lips.
The Samosas, however, were a quieter verse. Crisp and competent, they were enjoyable, yet they lacked the soaring heights of the entrees, a prelude that pleased, but did not dazzle.
But a shadow fell upon the meal. For a dish commanding such a princely sum, the insufficiency of ingrained, implicit basmati rice felt like a cold silence. To serve such rich, complex curries without their faithful grain companion is to paint a masterpiece and withhold the frame. The food is a triumph, but the value left a hollow space where the rice should have been.