You might be familiar with the seven wonders of the world, but what if I told you that you could taste them, right here in Kingston! I’ve chosen seven restaurants located in the Kingston Emporium, and I’m going to take you along with me this semester to understand the food, stories and people who are essential to these weeknight wonders. Each week, we’ll uncover the history and heritage of a restaurant; we’ll examine the ecosystem of chefs, cooks and servers behind each plate; and we’ll savor the flavors that provide the cultural nuance and meaning to a meal. Part food review, part restaurant profile, this series examines the relationship between community and cuisine on our campus. Hopefully, it also encourages you to use your palate as a culinary passport and experience more of the world. Let’s think beyond our borders. Welcome to “Weeknight Wonders.”
While some of the wonders of the world live in Kingston, the best love affairs are immortalized with a thaali (or the Taj Mahal). One plate, myriad tastes. One bite, and I just might be home again. We’ve arrived at the midpoint of this column; I’d like to take you on a short adventure. I hope you’ll join me.
I spent this past weekend in Pawtucket, visiting a small Indian grocery store called Not Enough Spices. I fell in love with its red brick exterior, cerulean blue sign and prime spot on Hope Street. On that bright, sunny Saturday, I could almost pretend I was back home in California.
They say scent can transport you into a memory. All it took was the aroma of chaat masala and wafting rose incense for the tears to fall. Oh, how I missed it, running through the aisles, reliving my childhood!
Across the street at Not Enough Snacks, a taste of home was served on a steel plate: freshly made roti still warm to the touch, chopped okra bathed in sambar, aloo gobi as vivid as a freshly unearthed turmeric root, salad with grated carrot as sweet as halwa, green mango pickle forcing puckered lips and kaju katli, my favorite rhombus cashew sweet.
My roommate, Lois, and I stared at our thaalis with opposing expressions. The abundance overwhelmed her. The hunger in my heart grew bigger. Home.
The Indian thaali is much like the Lebanese mezza in its structural composition. The goal is balance within diversity: a staple carb such as rice or a flatbread becomes the center of the meal as bowls of lentils, wet and dry vegetable dishes, aromatics and accompaniments, condiments and dessert line the edges of the plate. There’s rarely any negative space, and if done right, each bite carries the six tastes of the Ayurvedic principle Shadrasa: sweet, sour, savory, bitter, pungent and astringent.
Throughout my childhood, grocery shopping was incomplete without a trip to the Indian store. Special occasions like my grandparents’ wedding anniversary were marked by a dinner out at an Indian restaurant. The thaali existed in equal parts as a weekend wonder with complementary ambience and as a weekday wonder in my mom’s kitchen, a spread I was well-acquainted with and used to savor on a typical Thursday night.
Basmati rice waiting in the rice cooker, a sabzi made out of eggplant or okra or snake gourd or whichever vegetable we bought at the Indian grocery store that week, dal garnished with kasoori methi and fresh cilantro and spoons of lemon pickle waking my senses. As I waited impatiently, licking the chili bath like it was cake batter, the existence of the thaali became an afterthought. It was just dinner my mom made. And of course, I would note that the dal was perfectly salted for her and way too salty for me.
It was a weekend wonder when the entire family would drive out to a Gujarati restaurant specializing in the thaalis my grandparents shared as newlyweds in Delhi. My grandfather would begin planning out his meal days before their wedding anniversary, his excitement about the thaali reigning over the completion of over 54 years of marriage.
It was endearing, to say the least, watching him scan the menu and recommend dishes that sounded so much more exciting in his words. My grandmother would then join in, sharing stories of their initial years of marriage, the arrival of the thaali inciting a captivated audience out of my mom and me.
We hungered with our hearts as a family. The thaali was cause for joy, celebration, maybe even a little extravagance. As I began to show Lois the rubric for the perfect bite, I couldn’t help but borrow the sensations of being overwhelmed. Where were my grandparents, the first ones to teach me? Where was my mom to trade the kaju katli for gulab jamun? Where was home for me now?
A short departure from the Kingston Emporium led me back to my roots. The first taste of Indian food I’ve had in months, prepared by hands as close as I can get to my mother’s. Humbled yet hopeful, I can no longer take the thaali for granted.
It’s been incredibly fulfilling to reminisce with you, and I can’t wait to return to the Emporium next week with this perspective. I hope you’re excited as well. May we all taste home in every bite.
