An Ode to Aloo

            It crosses my consciousness more frequently than Chad and his transgressions which, if you’ve picked my brain in the past 8 months, can grasp the gravity of this feat.  I revolve my day around it, attending yoga classes based on when my stomach will empty its exquisiteness.   Savoring aloo paratha is a (near daily) ritual that’s become as sacred as morning meditation. 

In my dash to the restaurant, I worry that it will be closed, the couple called away for a mid-week wedding and unable to cook for my addicted personality and dependent gut biome.  I scurry past the Nepalese women churning out mo:mos (dumplings) in time to techno under black lit, psychedelic tapestries, Chi Chi the Chinese pug touting his BOY London sweater, the cute Tibetan security guard posted outside the ATM.  As I pass my final landmark, the reggae CD shop, I slow my roll, quelling the palpable keenness bubbling from my soul. 

            I glean wafts of charred roti (flatbread).  It rises and falls above an open flame, matching my reassured breathing.  I greet the husband-wife tag team, filling and frying samosas and whichever friend on their rotation has called, posted against the doorway.  We exchange warm smiles and greetings.  Rather than order, I mutter incomprehensible self-deprecating explanations for my gluttony in English, and my thanks in Nepalese. 

            By my third visit they know to hold the side of ketchup.  Instead I am served sixteen slices of fried potato pita, stacked neatly four by four in a semi-circle.  Curd and curried chickpeas standby in separate bowls, my moon and sun, respectively.  The first time I enjoyed the North Indian breakfast dish, I dunked the triangles at random, the yogurt a salve for my burned, impatient tongue.  I’ve since refined my technique, removing one piece from its stack, setting it upon a blank stage.  I dress it with a few chickpeas (ideally four: 3 beige and a grittier, mud brown bean), and a measured drops of the curry’s liquid as too much will result in messy spillage.  A dollop of white curd follows, an iris, and subsequently an orange pupil of spicy sauce.  I fold it NYC pizza style, the pool of piled juices coating the surface evenly, finish in two and a half bites, repeat a variation of the process 15 times.  Sometimes I use the last half bite to wipe spilled sauce from the plate.  Sometimes I lick my spoon between bowls, preventing cross contamination.  Although I don’t  mindfully chew each bite 20 times, it is a meal for which I am entirely present. 

            A patron disappears behind the cluster of tables and returns with dripping hands.  I never squander the opportunity to wash in Nepal as food is consumed intimately with the right hand.  Following her trail, I peek behind a plywood door at the back of the restaurant, expecting to find a toilet.  My eyes register a made bed, TV, and an altar, ubiquitous in Nepalese houses.  Quickly I shut the door, embarrassed… but not for their simple life, their home kitchen opened to the public.  It’s a slightly sour shame for my own privileged ignorance.  

            I pay 180 rupee ($1.60), bid bowli beto lah (see you tomorrow) and they chuckle at my clumsy Nepalese.  In the languid pace of my digestive departure, I realize that it’s the comfort of both their food and reassuring presence that I crave.  I am well fed and welcomed, soul wholly satiated by a simple delight.