I know I’m in for a delightful dining experience when an ornate plate, topped with four palm-sized saucers loaded with a puzzling array of colorful goop, arrives at my table. I’ve had this goop before at Indian restaurants, but never has the goop been so colorful. Never has it been so goopy. The green goop is a neon-er color than the previous green goops I’ve been served. The orange one has more orange clumps of opaque gummies, and what’s this? I’ve never been served this before. It’s a saucer full of mysterious vegetable balls, deep red and firm to the touch.
No hesitation. I appetize with the mystery balls, and I’ve curiously consumed them all before I identify them as some variant of onion - perhaps a distant cousin? Perhaps the scrotal portion of a male onion? Whatever it is, it’s delightful, and especially so when topped with the goopy orange gummies.
“Abu Dhabi’s most renowned Indian Cuisine.” That’s how Maharaja Palace is billed on its website. Having eaten Indian at least four times since my arrival in the Middle East, and having christened myself a bit of a connoisseurs, I’ve decided to try this renowned cuisine, and write my first ever food review.
Although I have zero negative feedback for the foodstuffs, I must, regrettably, decry the “renowned” portion of the restaurant’s slogan unless, of course, by renowned we mean: Your-INDIAN-cab driver-will-only-be-able-to-pinpoint-the-restaurant’s-location-by-taking-you-to-every-other-Indian-restaurant-in-the-city-first-and-he’s-Indian-for-God’s-sake! If Maharaja is the most renowned Indian restaurant in the city, an Indian cab driver should be able to find it without using the process of elimination.
I spend 20 minutes, prior to calling a taxi, preparing to properly pronounce the restaurant’s moniker to my cab driver. Moo. Ha. Jar. Uh. Moo. Ha! Jar. Uh? Over and over again, I recited the name, only to have my articulation returned by a deeply meaningless Indian-cab-driver stare, and a broken-English retort of, “No hear of Moo. Ha. Jar. Uh.”
I tell him it is up there on the right and point my finger to a startlingly accurate up and right direction. We take off in an up-there-and-on-the-right direction. Two hours later, my enormous cab fare makes my wallet look ghastly thin, and I’m ready to fatten my belly.
Upon first glance, The Maharaja Palace décor is just as we Indian-Cuisine connoisseurs have come to expect – cheap wood painted to look deep and rich, gaudy golden trinkets pinned to the wall, ornate red tablecloths. A trickling fountain that was surely purchased with the utmost care from the Lawn and Garden section at Lowes rounds out the ambience.
The true attention to ambient detail, however, is in the centerpieces. A lighted tea candle that sits on a small red flower riding on a bigger yellow flower that floats on dyed red water in a golden bowl is sure to wow even the most skeptical eaters. The architectural engineering it must have taken to create this kind of floating splendor is humbling. It reminds me of the song Hole in the Bottom of the Sea. “There’s a candle on a flower on another flower in the water in the bowl in the center of the table. There’s a candle on a flower…”
The only gripe I have with the atmosphere is the sole plasma TV on the wall. ESPN2 seems as out of place at this restaurant as my blonde hair and distinct lack of body odor. A Strongest Man Competition is airing, and a Swedish man, who has traded his neck in for the ability to bench press a Redwood, is heaving beer kegs over his square head. This distracts me from what I should be looking at, which is the food that’s been brought out in dishes and then scooped out onto my plate.
Makhni nann, vegetable biryani, and chana masala! Just like Grandma used to make.
Now, I’ve had vegetable biryani before, but this biryani is in a class all its own. The vegetables are much wetter, and the occasional bite of tree bark seems more intentional at Maharaja Palace – less like the result of a careless cook. The aesthetic value of The Palace’s biryani must also be acknowledged. When my waiter shovels it on to my plate with a ice cream scoop, all of the rice grains - be the red, white, yellow, or orange - stick together in their globular mass. In appearance it looks rather like a day-old baseball after being batted, fielded, and slobbered on by little leaguers. My mouth waters just looking at it.
The nann is fluffy and buttery. Just like I like it. It is served to me piping hot and when I dip it into my bowl of yogurt before I eat it, I am reminded that I still haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to do with the bowl of yogurt. I’ve already eaten more food than even the Redwood-pressing, keg-tosser could, and I haven’t even dug into the masala yet.
The chana masala is a spicy vegetarian dish made of chickpeas, according to the menu. And who knew you could serve chickpeas on a bed of spicy mashed chickpea? It’s brilliant really. “You know,” I can imagine myself saying, “These chickpeas aren’t really chickpea-y enough…” That is, I might have said that had the chickpeas not been properly basted in chickpea and served on a soft bed of spiced chickpea.
“Mmmm..Chickpea,” I say aloud, amidst my culinary excitement. My waiter, without hesitation, brings me my check and places it gently on the table, which I find odd considering the mountain of food I’ve yet to devour.
I take a few more bites and nod at the waiter, who eyes me from an eerily close proximity, waiting for something it seems. I smile, chew, and point my fork approvingly at my plate. “The chickpeas,” I say again, to indicate my endorsement of chana masala. He is still way too close to my table, and what is he waiting for?
He looks at me and thoroughly furrows his brow. Does he not understand me? I retry my dish endorsement and point to the Chana Masala again. “Mmm. Chick. Pea. ” I annunciate with slow deliberation.
“Yes sir, I put check on de table, sir. Already sir.” He points at the ticket on my table, and it is only then that I realize that words chickpea and check please are perfect homonyms to a non-native speaker.
To avoid further confusion, I go ahead and pay my tab only 3 bites into my main course while my disappointed waiter walks away with my chana masala, grumbling I suppose, about how wasteful westerners are.
Maharaja Palace. It’s a great restaurant. And I’ll go back, if for no other reason than to have more than 3 bites of the main course.
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