I first fell in love with Indian food while working at a company in
West Hollywood and my boss, who was a true asshole with excellent taste
in food, always ordered lunches from Anarkali. I would drive to pick
up the large order for practically everyone in the office, and savored
the few minutes I spent inside there while waiting for the food.
Anarkali's low ceilings and uber-decorative booths offered a sweet
escape from my days at work. And they always gave me free beer, which
I would give to the head of the company because I was still 18 and not quite ready to drink on the job.
The array of foods on the table in the center of the office would bring everyone together and I slipped in and out of taste bud sensations. I had never liked Indian food, until Anarkali. Then I started eating it all the time. It worked perfectly for my family because now they didn't have to wait until I wasn't home for dinner before ordering Indian. I still remember the styrofoam platters (a rare allowance for my mother) lined up across the kitchen counter as everyone served themselves buffet style.
It’s Sunday morning, and the last thing I want to hear is a discrete ringing sound, calling out from my computer, to alert me that I have mail. I ignore my computer, throw on my jeans, and catch the train into the city. The first and only thing on my mind, on this day, is an Upper West Side brunch that comes with a wonderful, delectable, cappuccino – I hope.