Spinach
The glass and chrome Indian restaurant, named for a musical instrument, is lit by the glare from automobiles outside. Overhead a Bollywood soundtrack drones, “Hare Krishna, hare Rama, Rama Krishna, Rama Rama…” or something to that effect. The air is spiced only very slightly with curry. Diners are segregated, Anglos planted in the far corner and Indian couples perched at a center strip of tables. This is deliberate, as patrons are not allowed to seat themselves. After the waiter tops our glasses with water, we fill our plates from an ample buffet. We eat a variety of things, most of them vegetarian, all of them delicious — and very hot. In particular, a spinach dish elicits my companion’s vocal approval. Through tears she says, “This is wonderful. I wish I had the recipe.”
“I know it,” I respond.
“Yes?”
“They cream the spinach with milk taken from sinful cows roasting in hell,” I say in a parched voice.
“Shush!” she commands, glancing up to see whether I have been overheard by others at nearby tables. “I can’t take you anywhere.”
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