After putting my grandson down for his nap, I scurried out for a haircut, where I met a charming, athletic, young man also waiting his turn. I’m always envious of the young, with their full heads of glorious hair. Neil turned out to be a former football player from Campbell University, who had emigrated from India with his family at age five. Currently he was studying to become a physical therapist. Such manners, such poise. Such a haircut! When we talked Indian cuisine, he told me about this great restaurant, Swad Indian Cuisine, which was owned by his friend.
The small storefront restaurant, though comfortably furnished, seemed disconnected from its ethnic cuisine. We learned later that the décor was unchanged from the previous owner, right down to the pictures on the wall, landscape photographs more reminiscent of Lawrence’s Arabia than the Jewel of the British Crown.
A smiling gentlemen greeted us warmly at the door and helped us select a table. At my request, so that I could share Neil’s praise and recommendation, the owner promptly appeared. His dark complexion and heavily accented commanding presence, underscored Neil’s claim of Swad’s authenticity.
We ordered our drinks: a malbec for my wife and a gin and bitters for me. The waiter’s blank face uttered, “What is bitters?” So much for the allure of those old British Raj movies. So on to my usual: a gin martini, straight up. Doubting my ability to express through our limited shared lexicon the intricacies of my ice ritual, I settled on a drink, but with no ice. Half a glass of martini arrived; Raleigh bar customs, capitalizing on juice flavored “-tinis”, re-defined one drink as two ounces of liquor. Sprung across the top were three olives; with the reservoir so low, however, they dangled helplessly mid-air, unable to embrace the gin and bestow the final olive kiss. My martini lacked the proper classic and passionate pas-de-deux.
Minutes after receiving our menus, well before we could read
their entirety, the owner returned. “You
must let me make you something special. You like shrimp? Lobster? Cheese? What do you like? I make it special just for
you as a friend of Neil.” We were
helpless to say no. Who doesn’t accept a personal gift from the kitchen? We split the appetizer which turned out to be
four jumbo breaded shrimp, bathed in a wonderfully balanced Indian sauce, laced
liberally with sautéed diced vegetables.
So good; so very good.
The fawning owner returned to take our entrée, ”How did you like our shrimp? It was special, just for you.” I selected goat off the menu – nothing made-to-order. My wife paused to glance at her menu; into the gap gushed the owner beguilingly, even flirting with her taste buds. Again he paraded a panoply of possibilities “cooked special” for her. She settled on more shrimp, no cream, no batter, scant oil. Both orders arrived almost immediately, accompanied by basmati rice and naan bread.
The meal was excellent. The service was prompt and congenial. The waiter was friendly, even giving us his email listing. We delighted in our savorings. The timing of the service was, however, strangely awkward. The traditional Indian restaurant of cracker-bread and dipping sauces arrived immediately – our drinks took much longer to arrive. The first sense that something was wrong came with this reversal of the accustomed order: cocktails first then the nibbles.
Generally a long lull in service, if only to allow time for
cooking, allows patrons the opportunity to linger over drinks and glide
gracefully from first taste into relaxed, mellow conversation. The wine or cocktail
is its own course; water is the beverage.
Some would argue with this reasoning; they only go to eat, not to
experience. Though I managed to quick-sip through three mini martinis, we were
finished in slightly more than an hour.
We did not feel particularly rushed, but we did feel robbed of the delight
of lingering, the enjoyable leisure time between courses. Per our request, the
meal came “medium” spiced. It was aromatic, gentle to the palette and so well
balanced that I could feel and savor each spice’s contribution to the whole.
Our waiter, a short, young, fine looking man, uniformed in a wide, happy smile, appeared bowing at our table so often, chatting, commenting, and asking after us, that we felt luxuriously singled out. Could we be his only customer? Not so. Two waiters and the owner worked the dining room. We later met the chef. Both he and our waiter enjoyed warm, full smiles despite being far away husbands and fathers, here to make some money for their families back in India.
Our happy evening amidst smiles, decadently fine aromas and really tasteful food ended with the bill.
The final accounting, always the least pleasant aspect of an
evening, rarely comes as a surprise. This
bill for two, however, shocked us; with tip it fell just shy of $150
dollars. The martinis alone came to $42,
that’s fourteen dollars each, seven dollars an ounce. Both of the made-for-you-because-you-know-Neil were $20 each. Goat, one of
priciest items on the menu, cost only $18.
The owner did indeed get our goat. The old adage about no such thing as a free meal hit our pocket hard. Neil’s esteem for the food was justly deserved. But beware, his “special-just-for-you” comes at a great cost, stick to the menu. When I complained about the price of the drinks, the owner assured me that “next time” they would cost much less.
Next time? Yeah right!
www.swadindiannc.com
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