A little (scratch that, BIG) taste of heaven

While I was visiting my friend Quinn in Pittsburgh we made a completely-out-of-the-way-from-anything trip to Udipi Café, an amazingly fabulous South Indian restaurant reminiscent of a New Jersey diner. Except with less smoking. And New Jersey accents. And more Indian people. And…Good. Food.

It’s not every day you get to go to a South Indian restaurant (unless…you…live…near…a South Indian Restaurant. Or...in…South…India). I love the Indian restaurant we have in Ithaca (which is North India, as are most Indian restaurants unless stated otherwise), but being able to get fresh dosa and poori is enough to make me consider pitching a tent in that sketchy part of Pittsburgh and calling it home in order to be that much closer to the greasy, doughy goodness of the best food on earth.

As an aside, the fact that I spent time in South India with a family that cooked massive feasts for us three times a day may or may not have to do with my orgasmic-like glee at the thought of a South Indian restaurant. The down side to having this amazing experience is that no restaurant can compare to the food I had when I was there. I once, in one sitting, ate 13 pieces of poori – the thin, puffy, fried bread – because it was that good. I have yet to eat poori in the US that even comes close to being that good. I’m sure those 13 pieces of poori and three days of feasting directly contributed to the fact that I could hardly fit into any of my pants by the end of the trip. But it was worth it, damnit (and thankfully I thought ahead and brought plenty of wrap-skirts and elastic pants on my trip. Just kidding about the elastic pants part, though I did think, as I was looking through the maternity pants on the clearance rack at the Gap in Pittsburgh, that if they were a little cheaper I might consider buying a pair exclusively for trips to Indian restaurants because of how well they would accommodate the abdominal expansion I experience after shoving my face with – did I mention? – the best food on earth).

So we’re sitting in the restaurant drooling over the menu, completely unable to narrow it down when we have the brilliant idea of getting three entrees instead of “just two” like we were planning. We pick out the three we want, add two pieces of poori to our order and assure the waiter that we’re really hungry when he gives us that do-you-realize-how-much-
food-you’re-ordering-there’s-no-way-you’re-going-to-be-able-to-eat-all-that look. And, truth be told, we realized it was a ridiculous amount of food: One masala dosa that was at least a foot and a half long, one utthapam (Indian pancake), and one coconut curry with rice and a side of poori. But we decided to take advantage of our limited access to South Indian food and agreed that we would be having our leftovers for breakfast the next morning.

You may already see where this is going: There were no leftovers.

I had planned on taking pictures of each of our entrees to post here, so you could get a sense of the deliciousness I’m talking about. But as soon as that dosa came out of the kitchen I lost all sense of time and space. Maybe it was the glimmer of the oil on the lightly browned pancake, or the intoxicating smell of curry. But before I knew it we were half way through that dosa and there was no way I had the willpower to interrupt the process of shoving my face with (incase you haven’t realized) the most delicious food on earth just to take a damn picture, which was suddenly seeming completely insignificant. Priorities people.

So we guzzled water, loosened our pants, cleaned our plates, and at the end licked our fingers clean and leaned back in our chairs, both recognizing the drunken glaze of two very full and satisfied people. We giggled at ourselves, our full bellies, and the unwavering speed with which we devoured our food as we reminisced about our time in India with the smells of curry and jasmine floating through the air around us.