Pretty much the only Indian food I still regularly eat is yoghurt. Oh, and hot chilies. Can't forget the pep. But this is hardly a fully balanced meal, and makes for a Spartan and severely Calvinist sort of thali.
I haven't made an achar in a long time. And I never go to Indian restaurants anymore.
No, it isn't that I have developed a distaste for any of it; it's that I no longer have anyone to eat with. The person who accompanied me to so many fine feeds is not my co-conspiratorial fellow diner anymore.
Often we would trek across the hill-hump to Fillmore to indulge in murgh makhni, lamb korma, roghan josh, murghi kabab, bhunna gosht, paya da shorba, rajma ka malai, chole bathura, saag paneer, alu gobi, methi gajar, nimboo achar, raita, lauki masala, bhindi masala, bajee, papdi, adraki jhinga, sarsonwalli maach, bagarellu bhaat, goshtaba, raan, sirkawalli piyaaj, safrani pilao, kulcha, naan, sheermal, makki di roti, parotha, lucha, kabuli naan, puri, biryani, maddur pullao, laddoo, bundi, rasgolla, sondesh, doodhpak, seviyan ki kheer, pista kulfi...........
Yes yes, very standard Indian restaurant fare. But perfect for the freezing fog and windy weather of a San Francisco summer.
Ghee in nearly everything. Scads of ghee.
Bahut tasty!
We had every dabba and tandoori hut for miles around pegged, and knew where the best juicy murghi or flaky bread could be found, who had the oiliest sabji, and which place used the dark-toast cumin.
Oh waiter ji, could we have MORE ghee?
Thank you so much.
SINCE DISSOLUTION
On the minus side, I miss eating rich greasy food with a sweet companion.
On the plus side, I've lost weight. Over twenty years of scarfing down rich greasy roti-shoti have melted away, and I look positively years younger.
Hot dang dawg I'm looking good.
I am the lean beast of Nob Hill, I am the savage hungering hyena howling in the wastelands beyond Polk Street; like the jackdaw, the raven, and the vulture, I wait patiently for that juicy red red tandoori chicken to expire (preferably on a bed of fine porcelain).
Lithe and wiry, I stalk the field of sarson, waiting for the tel walla. Like a giant pink weevil, I roll in the jowhar and the bajra; cover me with besan, and let us pretend that I am the scrawny pakora of lonewolfness.
A little dusting of amchur, kala namak, and lal mirch, and I'll be fine.
Better shape than I've been for a very long time.
Indian food does make one a bit pudgy.
You'd never know I ever ate it.
The evidence is gone.
I should probably celebrate that.
Hot masala chai and a laddoo.
Something sweet, with ghee.
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