Today I went out for lunch to a well-reviewed hole in the wall called Punjabi Grocery & Deli. I skateboarded to the edge of the East Village, down a short flight of stairs into a long air conditioned hallway with a food-filled counter under four microwaves. A Sikh man with a thick black beard, waxed mustache ends and long eyelashes asked, “What can I get you, brother?” I recalled the kindnesses of his turbaned kin when I visited Amritsar, already more than two years ago. I asked him what he recommended. He asked me what I wanted. I ordered chickpeas.
I stared at the holograms of dead Gurus on the wall, shifting my gaze to the various foreign snacks and candies: cake husk, chickpea mix, butter cake. A plate with dal and peppers and chickpeas came onto the counter. For someone else, he said. Too bad, I replied.
When my styrofoam bowl of chickpeas arrived, I added sweet and hot sauce and the man shook me some masala powder when I nodded to his offer. After looking up what masala powder is on the internet, I discover it is a spice mix, the same used in chai tea and chicken tikka masala. At the time I was excited to try something to its full extent, totally new, irrespective of its taste.
I remembered eating the same dish served in a banana leaf with a wooden spoon, the same kind you would use for ice cream, this in a village once sacred. For three dinners straight I ate those delicious chickpeas. One night after dinner, the fourteen-year-old friend I had made led me to the river to bathe. Below desolate ruins and over lime boulders we walked into the river in our underwear and swam beneath the bridge. My friend told me that he had made love to a boy once on the riverbanks, and I didn’t pay it any mind. It seemed like something he had done out of boredom, or as some kind of dare. He didn’t say if he liked it or not, and I didn’t ask. Before the sun set, we dried off and walked back across the bridge, past the village crazy woman, who squatted facing us, shitting on the side of the road. She was a lunatic who made a living whoring herself to the village’s lowest men. Then my friend and I bought hair oil and slicked our hair back and felt our scalps burn. The next day I left Orcha and went on with my journey.
Even while I ate the chickpeas were uninspiring. Yet I wolfed down the stew and skated back along Houston. At the corner of Chrystie, I admired the heavy foliage of the park across the street from the Whole Foods. For a moment I was reminded of how it feels to explore a foreign city. I imagined coming to the East Village for the first time, because in a way I was there for the first time. At least, it had been my first time at Punjab Deli.
I must have eaten the black chickpeas too fast, or maybe it was the wrong weather for that food, especially before skating the fifteen blocks back to work, because by the time I returned to my office, sweaty and full, the chickpeas sat heavily in my stomach and I regretted my choice of lunch. I had tried to make something great out of it. But despite the good reviews and the beautiful weather, the chickpea bowl left me feeling repentant and gross. I wished that instead of exploring and trying to re-create how I used to feel, I were just back there, living it over again.
The post Memories and Desire at Punjabi Grocery & Deli appeared first on Daniel Ryan Adler.