“So this is what it’s supposed to taste like,” Ms. Martini said through crumb-dusted lips, a smile spreading across her face Terence and Philip-style. And this from nothing more than a bite of humble papadam.
But that’s the kind of thing that’s likely to happen throughout a meal at Ekta, the brainchild of chef Raju Bhattari, formerly of Tiffin. For though the space itself looks more like it should house a takeout joint—two tables are marooned off to the left as soon as you walk in; the rest of the space is taken up by a large open kitchen—don’t be fooled. There’s some serious Indian cooking happening here, and eating there is half the fun.
Truth be told, the fact that such marvelous food is being served in such humble surroundings makes its deliciousity even better somehow. Not that it needs the help.
Because this is the kind of place that serves food of such layered precision, such finely filigreed detailing that you really need nothing else than what’s on the plate in front of you to make for a serious eating experience.
| DINING TIP |
Wine may not be
the first thing you
think of to pair with
Indian food,
but I absolutely loved
a bottle of Gancia's P.
Rosé sparkling pinot
noir from the Lombardy
region of Italy. Its berry-
fruit character on the
palate worked beautifully
with the food.
|
Samosa chat was like the ultimate Indian version of nachos grande, but a million times more interesting than that standard-issue pile of industrially produced chips and even industriallier-tasting accoutrements. What made this Technicolor mound of onion, mint, chick peas and shiny tamarind sauce such a success was the highwire balance of flavors. None of the individual components lorded over any of the others, and the result was an uncommon sense of harmonious complexity.
Kali mirch ka machhli—which sounds a lot more interesting than the fried pieces of tilapia that it refers to—sang with
the earthy tang of black pepper and the higher-toned notes of green chili. In fact, the seasoning on these two-bite-size pieces was so exact that they really didn’t even need the aid of the accompanying mint and tamarind chutneys. But, of course, they weren’t hurt by them either, especially the mint, which brought a bright sense of life and completeness to each bite.
Entrees can be ordered at any of three levels of heat. Ms. M., pepper-head that she is, requested the goan shrimp curry very hot, which she received…and then some. But what set the coconut-flecked sauce—and the snappy-tender shrimp hiding just beneath the surface—apart was the fact that the heat was not derived from the addition of hot sauce or an offhanded spiking of chilies. Rather, it was the result of a complex blend of spices (cumin, cardamom, etc.) that rendered the finished product every bit as interesting as it was hot.
Murg badami tikka, on the other hand, found its sweet spot at the opposite end of the flavor spectrum. These rather innocuous-looking chunks of white-meat chicken had been marinated with sour cream, eggs and almond before being cooked in the tandoor, which lent a subtle creaminess to each bite that was far more interesting than is generally afforded this typically innocuous meat. The accompanying onions and red and green bell peppers added to the effect without overwhelming the chicken’s delicacy.
That tandoor was also the birthplace of some of the best naan in the city. I tasted the green chili one (searingly hot, and beautiful for it) and the mint (less inspired). What set them both apart from so many others in town was their freshness and the chewy, light-as-air texture they had achieved.
By the end of the meal, my tongue was doing some sort of strange subcontinental river dance; the mango lassi (unabashedly lactic and just sweet enough) set it right once again. But the truth is that I would have been happy to walk out of there without the first aid of that yogurty poultice. Because food like this, flavors this layered and honest, deserve to be mulled over. This is not eating for the uninquisitive.
Throughout the meal, a constant stream of people filed by to pick up orders they had called in. Most of them seemed to be repeat customers, and on more than friendly terms with the proud, charming team that works there. But as tasty as I’m sure their food was back home, I couldn’t help but think that they were missing out on an integral part of the experience by not eating it there.
It may not be pretty—heck, it may not even really be decorated—but that plastic blue and white tablecloth, and those bare walls, and the unflattering fluorescent lighting somehow made the experience even richer than it otherwise would have been. Sometimes, focusing exclusively on the food is more than enough. And at Ekta, the rewards of having done so are abundantly clear, right there on the plate in front of you.
