Last Friday I had the most delicious chicken, served in a red sweet spicy sauce I can't remember the name of. Some foodie. Delhi Palace, Indian cuisine. An $8 buffet 11 a.m. - 3 p.m. daily to boot. Chicken. Meat. Preparation seems to be everything. The sauce. Endless samosas washed down with mango lassi were such magical golden linings in the middle of a workday afternoon. Food coma followed by visions of a sleeping bag under my desk ensued. Every now and again visit, you'll enjoy a meal with slightly watery eyes and the sniffles since the seasonings can make their way into the dining room air. Calm down; it adds to the experience.
And remember to pass over the boring peppermints and grab a pinch, just a pinch, of autumn-colored seeds from the glass bowl on your way out. A hint of black licorice will see you to your car.
The teenager in me made me make this piece of swallowable art with the dessert. Gulab Jamun. Or as I like to call them, blue balls. They taste like really sweet, cold pancakes. Like I said, swallowable. What's more shocking is that swallowable is a word.
Speaking of dessert. My dad sent me this photo of my first summer job's establishment in downtown Vancouver, Washington state. A Dairy Queen not owned by Brazier foods and therefore unique in every sense of the word. We kept the ice cream curly 'Q' and opted for bigger burger patties, special recipes, quirked condiments, and retired desserts. Roger. My boss. A sweet and generous man almost to his detriment who took a chance on a 15-year-old employee for three months. After all that training (I mean, it's like Starbucks on steroids learning how to make all those blizzards and sundaes and malts and Mr. Mistys let alone operate the register and navigate the store room)--it seems three years would have been a more fair commitment.
I ate a free burger and fries for lunch either surrounded in smoke at the break counter or out on one of the shaded picnic tables, maybe meeting a friend or the slacker boyfriend who preempted junior year, or took a Peanut Buster Parfait to my big brother working in my dad's orthodontic office down the street. We shared bites surrounded by the freshly painted walls of the dental lab where retainers are made.