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Night 4: Passage to India
If you go to Cordell Avenue, as I did, looking for Heritage
India, you'll be out of luck. It's gone. In its place
is Passage to India, owned by a Heritage partner who
broke off to be on his own. You might pass knickknack
shops and parking lots on your way; but once you enter,
you're back in the raj.
The room is lovely, the staff is accommodating and
immaculate. (In fact, later, when the chef comes out
to say hello, he is starched and spotless. Just who
had been stirring those pungent, perfumed sauces?) The
collection of paintings, prints, archival photographs
of long-dead child princes and portraits of Brahmin
families are transporting. We're far away, and we haven't
even seen the menu.
"We" in this case is female Michael and,
for some cross-generational intrigue, our teenage kids — her daughter, my son. They are magnificent children,
if children is the word. Juliana drove us here. Sam
is cleanly shaved. They are old enough to handle a menu
that does not offer supersizing.
But can they handle the embarrassment of being with
their mothers? It is an established truth that I am
the most embarrassing mother in the developed world.
Basic human decency this evening requires that these
two sit in public with their mothers, but every gesture
of ours provokes a reaction. Eeee, I'm taking notes;
well, OK, I explain to the waiter why. Aaiii, Michael
has her hair held up by two small clips instead of one.
The payoff of the evening comes when I try to drink
my iced tea through the inserted straw, which is wrapped
in cellophane.
No, I'm wrong. The payoff of the evening comes with
the food. There are doilies of lacy pappadum and saucers
of fragrant dips. We dunk and daub and eat our way through
— from curry to tandoori to a basket filled with
wonderful breads to soothing rice pudding.
The check is presented, but I am reluctant to leave
the raj. My only question at this point in my eating
odyssey is: am I the maharani or the elephant? Back to restaurant list
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