Heritage India

Last night's dinner at Heritage India was the first solo dinner I've had since March; thankfully, my luck is improving because instead of a ticket and flat tire, I just got a blister. Gussied up in a sun dress, $2 Middle Eastern, blinged-out sunglasses, and shiny sandals (that apparently have forgotten how they used to comfortably mold to my feet), I walked the two miles from Rosslyn metro to Heritage India, a charming second-floor restaurant in Glover Park.

It's a perfect solo diner restaurant, even on a dreaded Saturday night: the service is attentive, the clientele responsibly eccentric (lots of families and seemingly normal couples, but also anomalies like the lady with the bad bangs, eye makeup and bright red silk dress), and the servers have opinions.

The hostess, charming and surprisingly enthusiastic, went through and poetically described the specials, adjective by adjective. Abandoning my pride and haughty ordering independence, I ordered everything she recommended and was delighted with it all.

I began with the guava cocktail, with pieces of ginger and mint, ginger ale, vodka and a maraschino cherry crowning it. It was girly, to be sure, but solid enough to be my only drink for the night.


Next I had the gobi kulcha (it's quite possible I'm mixing up the names, but I did have this at some point in the evening), a clever combination of naan and curried cauliflower. It's successful like stuffed crust pizza: a soft doughy exterior belies a flavorful squish on the inside. I stole that from the hostess, who enthusiastically reminded me that my appetizer had a double squish: the bread and the interior. At that point I was tempted to ask if she wanted to sit across the table and write this up herself.


For dinner, I had the shorshay mach, which she described as "a dish from Bengal that, upon the first taste on your tongue, is buttery and creamy from the coconut milk, then a few bites later" [with a dramatic pause that I've usually only heard in fairy tales when some manner of wolf is about to take the stage] "the flavors become exhilarating and challenging from the spice of the dish."

She was right: it was a flavorful, rich dish that's not tomato-based but derived from mustard seeds woven into coconut milk, with a smooth, sweet beginning and spicy finish, with substantive fish pieces soaking up both flavors.


I did a photo study of rice:


And the full, plated ensemble:


And then raita, because it's pretty.


My charming waitress (I presume one of the owners) advised me on my dessert, rasmalai, two simple chilled cream cheese and milk puffs served in a light milky pistachio flavored sauce. And there was cardamom, which I think is requisite to any Indian dessert (I was sort of appalled because I thought there was an egregious amount of foil on my dessert, but it was some sort of edible leafing).


The warm interior was smart: not too much sequin and bright color; instead, the walls were adorned with interesting photos, paintings, and prints of India's history. The staff clearly readily volunteered opinions on dishes and the quick food preparation and water refills made everything expedient while the atmosphere encouraged excessive lingering. I loitered, was exhilarated (not my word), and knocked out the 58th restaurant.