Indique Heights

Tonight was an Indian food night. Maybe I can be convinced, but a person has to be in a particular mood to subject herself to Indian, by which I mean four types of carbohydrates and liquid yogurt. I had spent a a long (good) weekend at home (and thus, was reticent to return), was drenched on two occasions this morning, and crushed by a deluge of work e-mail and all manner of Virginia bills in my mailbox. The likelihood good conversation could be safely had over wine and greasy food seemed small to my friends and me; our proclivities toward excess (ie, too much wine coupled with greasy food) was the primary fear, in addition to the general diceyness of eating ethnic foods far from home. So I forged ahead alone.

But why the Ganeshing of teeth? (sorry, couldn't think of anything more clever or less offensive). It might have been most immediately because I had a weekend full of Oklahoma-delicacy eating, then turned around to have a dehydrated packet of oatmeal for my first meal back. Or the fact that I wasn't able to drink beer before noon, like it was game day in Norman. Let's pick up here: the morning of Oklahoma's second win, we visited Blackbird gastropub, a new bar on Campus Corner.













Over beers, we had blue corn tortilla chips with guacamole and roast beef sliders...













...and (a food that maybe explains why Oklahoma is number 1 in the nation), deviled eggs on fried black eyed peas and jalapeno cornbread. It's lite time travel to have beers with your parents in the same building where you bought your first professional clothes (it used to be Harold's), where your mom bought text books before that, and where your dad understood, from others, that it had also been an establishment that served Norman's gentlemen.


Even the banal was beautiful in Oklahoma, from the mural in a parking lot where cars are repeatedly vandalized to neon red light gently illuminating fried okra at Earl's Rib Palace.













Anyway, that's all a dramatic introduction to a normal top 100 night, this time at Indique Heights, a beautiful gem in the lobby of a very oddly situated business building (the metro is immediately below and streets surround the triangular property on all sides). I sat next to an indoor fountain on a chair that made me feel like a Kipling-esque raja, plus had chutney with my wine.



















It was the chair, rather than the service, that inspired the Kim-ness, though. My waiter was charming and provided great suggestions, but provided the same level of service I used to get upon ordering a hot dog at the public swimming pool (I got a lot of thumb's up rather than verbal inquiries, the table bussing was spotty, and the descriptions sometimes incomplete, all of which he made up for with a grin). He was quirky but got everything right and had good taste: I started with the fractured vegetable samosa atop a bed of chickpeas, a smooth and crunchy delight.


He also recommended a dosa, a crêpe made with a fermented batter of lentils and rice, stuffed with chicken, and served with five different chutneys, including cranberry, coconut, and spicy coconut, and was spicy, stewed, and delicious.


For good measure, I got shrimp varuval, with onions, tomatoes, curry leaves, and spices and a side of lemon rice, perked up with crunchy lentils. My waiter thankfully disassauded me from the tandoori shrimp, one huge super tandoored crustacean, and steered me here.


I was too far from home for another glass of wine but felt entitled to a full evening, so had a mango lassi (another good waiter pick, a mix of mango juice and yogurt). Plus, the excruciating (maybe only to me) first date at the neighboring table made me enjoy my pleasant company to myself that much more (I didn't brag to myself about my study abroad experience in Italy, dedication to life-long learning, or try to take myself seriously while sporting a pink tie). I'd ask me out to a top 100 again.