A Much-Needed Delight

Personal Yummy #67

I am getting ready to transfer to the 6 line, but the subway is a mess—with many delays, and with hordes of people waiting on the platform—so I escape up the concrete steps and out onto 59th Street. It’s a warm summer evening, and it feels so good to no longer be sitting at my desk in the office.

I head uptown on Lexington Avenue, and I enjoy admiring the abundance of interesting shops and restaurants that line it. At about 75th Street, however, I decide to go east toward York Avenue. And at this point, after a full day’s work, and after my many blocks of walking, I really start to get a serious craving for some spicy Indian food, one of my favorites.

Not quite sure where an Indian restaurant is in this area, I keep walking uptown on the west side of York, figuring that there’s a pretty good chance that I’ll spot an Indian establishment before I get home.

My prediction comes true.

Across the street, between 83rd and 84th, “Mumtaz Indian Cuisine”—in a fancy white script against a bright red scallop-edged awning—jumps out at me.

Wonderful.

I cross the street and go inside.

Beautiful. Candlelit and intimate. Quiet. No one there yet for dinner. Just the owner (I assume) standing behind the small podium next to the elegant, diminutive bar of dark wood and high stools—as well as a young Indian male waiter setting up the tables and preparing the dining room for the dinner crowd.

I say hello to the owner, and he hands me an expansive menu. I look it over for a while, having a difficult time choosing, but I eventually order a mixed salad, the chana bhaji (chickpeas cooked with onions, green pepper, and spices; served with puffed bread), and the chicken vindaloo (highly spiced chicken and potatoes in a tangy, sharp sauce).

“I’ll get this ready for you,” the owner says, an endearing smile upon his face. “And please, please, have a seat at the bar while you wait.”

So I sit atop a fancy stool with an ornate iron back, and I relax and examine all of the gorgeous liquor bottles shining brightly in all of the individual square shelves embellishing the wall.

Shortly, the owner appears again, but this time behind the bar. He gently takes a tiny, delicate, thin glass off of one of the shelves, dips a sleek metal saucer with an extremely long handle into what looks like black tea, and fills the little glass about three-quarters full. He then proceeds to lift an unusually shaped black bottle off of another shelf, unscrews the unique gold top, and then pours a bit of its contents on top of the liquid in the glass. He does all of this with such precision and charm, that I begin to wonder if he is some magical being from another realm.

The lovely concoction is then placed directly in front of me.

“For you, miss, while you wait… Enjoy.”

And I just have to smile at him, because I immediately feel special and important.

“Thank you so much,” I say.

So I sit there—glad that I dressed well that day, with my hair slicked back in a low ponytail, my ears adorned with glistening red teardrops, and my body in a sleeveless, black mesh dress with a ribbon-like collar—sipping my delicious drink and feeling cared for and acknowledged.

“What is this?” I ask in due time, taking another sip. “It is so unusual and delicious.”

“Ah, miss… Tea with spices…,” he answers, “…and a bit of sambuca cognac…”

Such a sweet and classy gesture, I can’t help thinking, and certainly a generous one.

After a busy day, a crowded subway, and a long walk, I am grateful for his intuitive kindness, all mixed up with spice, tea, and the perfect touch of anise.