look at the stars, look how they shine for you
I have been to the same South Indian restaurant in the city twice now, and it’s been open for all of a week and a half. Dosa makes solid South Indian food. It isn’t the kind of South Indian food that will have people raving that it’s the best in the country, but it is straight ahead and authentic enough. The dosas are a little greasy, but not intolerably so. The consistency is right. The sambar is flavorful and spicy enough without destroying my wimpy Guju tongue. They still need to work out a lot of kinks though. The first time I went, we waited for 45 minutes to be seated, even after having made reservations in advance. Last night, we were seated on time, but there were still service errors. Five people got their drinks, while one didn’t get hers until after the meal had been served. The appetizers arrived, but the little dishes that would have been useful did not appear until after everyone was served their entrees. But you find that you don’t make a big deal out of such things when you stumble upon the only real South Indian restaurant in the city.
I inevitably recount stories of my mother in the kitchen at 5 o’clock in the morning, when the topic of Indian cooking comes up. Trying to sleep late on a Saturday morning was impossible in our house, because as early as my mother could, she would have the blender cranked at its highest setting. I suppose she figured, if I’m awake this early, I’m sure as sin going to take everyone else down with me.
One of my mother’s closest friends is a South Indian woman- she taught my mother how to make decent South Indian fare. What I recall most about it was the preparation involved. The process was an art, and a test of patience. Rice and other things were ground and soaked for hours. Then everything was blended. The resulting concoction had to sit again for hours to allow for fermentation. And even if you managed your way through all of that, there was still the matter of perfecting the technique of properly pouring the mixture onto the perfectly-heated skillet that must be wrought iron.
My mother has never taught me to cook anything really. She lacks the patience for teaching, and, especially in the case of South Indian food, is not confident enough with the technique to explain it to someone else. I always remark that the labor-intensive nature of Indian cooking is what keeps me away from it. This is, of course, nonsense, because I spend hours in true bliss working my way through baking experiments.
Saturday, the rain was starting to settle in. As Maria and the Captain were wondering if they had done something good during their miserable youth, I was packaging sugar cookie dough into wax parcels for chilling. When the Captain choked up while crooning Edelweiss, I was mixing chopped pistachios into a separate batch of cookies. The methodical nature of it all is like a metronome, and the process is like the steps of a dance. Perhaps that’s why, so often, I find myself attached to my iPod when undertaking these tasks.
The next morning, there was an unusual tornado warning in the city. I sat perched on my bay window, watching sheets of rain pour down my window pane as the sugar cookie dough warmed to room temperature. Sirens and car alarms in a block’s radius went off as the thunder and lightning coincided in frightening unison. I was not really scared, instead rather fascinated. While the cookies were baking, I made royal icing, which required another quick waltz with egg whites and confectioner’s sugar. Some would find this all a ridiculous waste of time. Buying cookies is not all that difficult. Fine ones are to be found all over San Francisco. But this was how I wanted to spend the appointed 24 hours. As much as I rail against my mother’s ways, something of hers must have seeped into me.
Your reward for wading through all this babble? Have a hand in my next experiment (write-in suggestions also welcome):
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