Friday, May 09, 2003

The burning question I couldn’t get out of my head Thursday morning was this: what do New Yorkers do for hangovers, without a good goopy Mexican breakfast to be found? The answer might very well be “Indian Food,” if only I could get my head around eating Indian food for breakfast.  As it was I had to wait until after nine at night to apply some get Indian food to the job, by which time the job had done itself.  But I think there is possibility here.  More experimentation must be done. So, we took Brother-In-Law Ethan out for Ethnic on the 7 Train, which we ourselves, shamefully, have done very little of.  The trip was not without its snafus.  First of all, Ethan, being a baby man these days, and raised by a family who had dinner on the table at six to boot, walked in the door at 7 ready to eat instantly.  I, on the other hand, raised by a bunch of vampiric sybarites who never in my entire life fed me before 9 at night, and a six-month Julie/Julia-er to boot, was still luxuriating in the delicious pleasure – new-found since I turned the thirty mark, of taking off my shoes.  God, I love taking off my shoes – some days, it’s the most pleasurable thing I do.  Anyway, we got going.  I had two places in mind, both gleaned off Chowhound, a scary website where hardened foodies refer to people as “newbies,” where I feel very intimidated and unsure.  First we tried for a place called Sajna, mostly because I had read from someone who posted back in April that the restaurant was putting in a full bar, and god knows we had to have a bar.  Well, that bar seems to have sunk Sajna – the place was shuttered up.  So we got back on the train – in the wrong direction initially, but that was soon rectified, because there is always a seven train, because the seven line runs among the Lands of the Little People, who are extremely numerous – and got off at the Woodside stop. You know, I bitch and moan about the semis rumbling down Jackson Avenue, and it is certainly far from an ideal situation, but Jaysus H. Kee-rist, the noise pollution in Woodside is unbe-fucking-lievable.  Oh.  My.  God. Between the elevated 7 train, the LIRR, the planes landing at La Guardia three blocks away, and your average bit of horrific Queens traffic, I swear to God you cannot hold a conversation on the street.  It’s appalling.  Oh, and Woodside liquor stores suck, unless you want Night Train, or some scary barley liquor called “Jinhro” or something that comes in a lime green plastic bottle like a two-liter bottle of off-brand lemon/lime soda.  But we got a big bottle of wine, on the assumption that the place we were going, Rajdhani, would not have a liquor license, and would thus be BYOB. Rajdhani is what you might call “unassuming,” if you were feeling generous.  It’s run by a Bangladeshi man who was chef at a swanky Manhattan joint called Tabla, and he’s incredibly nice.  When we walked in he came up to us, smiling, and God help my black soul, I initially feared it was one of those situations a woman gets herself into sometimes in Indian restaurants.  But no, he didn’t want to feel me up, he just wanted to give us lots and lots of very cheap food.  He didn’t, however, want us to open our bottle of wine.  He was very nice about it, but firm.  “Gosh, sir, that’s really too bad, because you see, we’re practicing alcoholics.”  But then Julie had the brilliant idea to order everything to go.  Problem solved!  We ordered: 3 things that weren’t samosas exactly, but other fried stuffed things Palak Paneer (spinach and cheese) Chicken Tandoori Chicken Mikhani Goat Curry Beef with spinach Fish Depozia (I think it was called) Vegetable Biriyani Puri Nan Keema Nan This cost us forty bucks.  It took three of us to carry the stuff home, and that was after we ate the 3 things that weren’t samosas exactly at the restaurant while we were waiting for the rest.  The whole time that the chef wasn’t cooking our food, he was apologizing, for how long the food took (approximately 15 minutes), for not letting us drink alcohol and offend his devout patrons on whom he depends for the little money he might make.  We took it home.  We ate it.  It was very, very, very good.  Especially with wine. I would like to take this moment to thank a very special woman.  Her name is April, and she has given me the most amazing care package I have ever received.  Yes, the check is nice, of course, but I’m moved more or less to tears by the blocks of amazing chocolate, the ancho chile jalapeno mustard, the Italian coffee in the fucking adorable tin, this great can of artichoke bottoms, perfect marriage of camp and convenience, the hot sauce, the groovy-ass messenger back that is exactly what I need now that my purse has fallen apart under the strain of carrying my high heel shoes and my copy of MtAoFC.  And a little pink ball for the cats, who fucking LOVE it.  April, I thank you.  Your generosity, quite seriously, is almost scary – I don’t understand it, but I love it.    8:04:02 AM    comment []