Masala Dosa

Masala Dosa

Yesterday evening, I went to the ParDesi Restaurant & Bar near Harvard Square to reward myself for completing a big project: FedEx had just picked up my revised research proposal for overnight delivery to a federal health agency.  I went alone, afraid that thoughts about the success of the proposal would distract me from being good company.  I was wrong.

“Bhabi kither?” asked Salim, the owner, at the foyer.  This Indian custom of making total strangers into close relatives had always annoyed me.  Accordingly, Caroline, my girlfriend for the last five years become his sister-in-law, one of many such relatives of his, I presume.

 “Thanks for asking, Salim bhai, she is visiting her mom.” I reciprocated. Sometimes, one has no choice but to give in to age-old traditions.  “How is business?” I asked.  

“Picking up,” he replied, “city has lifted pandemic restrictions about eating in.”

“What is that?” a soft female voice inquired, as I was about to start eating my just served food.

“Masla Dosa,” I replied. It was a reflex response, as if to no one. My mind at the moment was focused on the fact that this was my last try to get the proposal funded.  I continued to fork a piece of dosa towards my mouth, and met her steely blue eyes as I fully raised my head.  I smiled back.  Her curiosity about what was on my plate did not surprise me: At Pardesi’s, this popular Indian delicacy, especially in the south of the country, fits the following  description: It more than a foot long, golden brown, almost double-concentric and tubular like a sheet of rolled up thick, shiny, golden brown crepe, bulging in the middle, with its unstuffed flat ends extending an inch or two over the long dimension of the oval stainless steel plate on which it is served.  

“Um?” she responded, mildly frustrated, but maintaining her smile; but her eyebrows were almost gracing the low ceiling of the restaurant.  These slender, waltzing arcs reminded me those of Senator Sam Ervin during the Senate hearings on the Watergate break-in. His were of course much thicker and undulated with a higher amplitude.

“I always wanted to try one of these” she added. She didn’t have to say why, because I understood her fears.

“I know the feeling. It took me a few years in this country before I dared to eat spaghetti in public.” These words appeared to set at her at ease.

“Not to be rude, but dosas are best eaten hot. Would you like to join me?”

“Sure, I won’t be disturbing?” 

“Too late for that,” I replied, but quickly added with a reassuring smile, “No, really.”

“Thanks much. I’m Helen.” She extended her hand as she settled into the booth, across from me.

“You are welcome. Vik.” I replied.  Our extending hands barely touched.

“You come here often, I asked?” We both laughed.

“My first visit to an Indian restaurant.  I’m turning vegetarian and a friend told to ‘try Indian’, as she put it.”

“Good advice. You will find a variety of vegetarian dishes, if you can stomach the spices.”

“Pardon the pun,” I responded to her “Really?” look.

“Unintentional, I’m sure,” she grinned.

She ordered the dosa, lightly spiced, as I had recommended.

“You are being very kind,” she repeated her appreciation.

 “Not at all.  I should be thanking you for your interest. I want to educate Americans about India, no matter what the subject. I have become a self-appointed ambassador of sorts, you may say.”

“Why do you feel that way, if I may ask?”

“Giving back, so to speak. Taxpayers of this country paid for my graduate school.” She was pleased, even impressed.     

“On any subject?”, she teased.

“No, wrong choice of words. That would be tough, given our five-thousand-year-old civilization. To complicate matters, India is sort of like Europe in that everything changes over short distances: language, history, food, culture, customs and terrain.”

“Are you then tempted to wing it?

“Often,” and added “but almost never.”

“You are an honest man.”

“Full disclosure, that sort of thing.” Her style reminded me of the Q&A sessions that followed my yearly research presentations to departmental faculty and fellow graduate students, where even a minor slip could put you under the microscope.  

“Saved by the “dosa”,” she exclaimed when it arrived with its three customary dipping sauces, in small stainless dishes.

“I guess so.”

“The lesson begins now I presume,” she smiled. “Delightful fragrance,” she added.

“It’s the saffron, coming from the rice-lentil batter cooked on a hot plate.”

She inquired about the sauces with her eyes.

I continued, “You can start at the flat ends, easier that way.  Dip a piece in the coconut chutney, the container to your right, with creamy white with a touch of green and mustard seeds, or sambar, the brown soupy liquid with vegetables, in the middle.”

“What about with reddish stuff, to the right?”

“Hot mango pickles. Fast sinus-opener.”

“That spicy hot, eh?”

  “Yes, think jalapenos, for reference. Make sure you have a large glass of water ready, before you try it.”

“Or a cup of sugar,” she added. “What’s the stuffing in the middle made of?”

“Sauteed onions, red pepper and mustard seeds, mixed with boiled potatoes.”

“How hot?”

“It should be mild, as you ordered.”

“I really enjoyed the dosa,” she said after finishing

“That’s nice.”

“May I ask you something?” I nodded.

“Is it true that people eat with their hands in India?”

“Yes, as I did till coming over to this country.”

“Was it difficult to learn to eat with cutlery?”

“Somewhat, but one learns quickly. You want to hear a related joke, a dig, really, about the British?”  She nodded.

“Is a cannibal civilized just because he eats with a knife and fork?”

“Why the British?”

“Like America, India too was once a British colony.”

“I didn’t know that. Any hard feelings?”

“No, that was a long time ago.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m on the faculty at Harvard. You?”

“I go to school there.”

“Perhaps, we will run into each other on campus,” she said, as she got ready to leave. Would you like to learn to eat with chopsticks?”

“I hope so, too. Yes, I would like that.”