|collection of james reisen|
after we picked up my craigslisted valentine's day present, a table loom, from some nice folks in the parking lot of northgate mall, we went searching for dinner along northgate way. we accidentally happened upon indian food, hidden away in a nondescript trashy-looking strip mall. we decided to risk it, entered, sat, and scoped the scene. the richness of the east indian textiles and decor, gold and burgundy, cut-out dome windows, ornamental beaded lights and tassels, effectively masked the crappy stained acoustic ceiling tiles and all-american plainness of the strip mall. we felt a little bit like tourists in a far away land. the menu was an overwhelming array of long descriptives, so we opted for the chef's choice platter. while we waited, we were passed by plate after plate of sizzling steaming aromatic delicacy. there was an obvious amount of loving care put into the meals and their presentation, which were both simple and elaborate at once, and filling in their earthy wholesomeness. i've never before had better chickpeas. or spinach. or rice pudding.
something about that food, that place, and those people, tucked away safely, making their own little east indian island in the middle of white-trash mall-style consumer-urbanity, gave us hope for humanity, and made us feel a little safer in this weird world.