“Listen, Sister,” the Squeeze said to me, waggling a piece of spice-crusted beef in creamy fenugreek sauce on his fork, “I’m not saying I don’t wish this was A-1.” My face must have fallen, just a little (but what did I expect, really?). He continued, smiling, “But it’s good.” Ah,I thought, thank goodness for that.

We’d already enjoyed our poppadoms (those most-delicious spiced and crispy wafers that often appear before a meal at an Indian restaurant) and our pakoras (vegetable fritters with coriander chutney)—both served with perfect accompaniments, full of flavor and not too, too spicy and The Squeeze appeared content as he tucked into his tandoor culotte steak. Across the table, I was a happy little clam. Though we were seated in the middle of the restaurant and right next to the kitchen, I didn’t feel crowded by other customers or by the stream of [friendly without being obnoxious] servers that moved past our table. Even the table right next to us, sharing the same bench on one side, was positioned at a respectable, breathable distance. You can’t enjoy your Carlton Farms pork vindahlo if you’re feeling hemmed in, you know.

And I did enjoy it. The portion size was rather massive, but the dish was quite well executed and flavorful. Even the rice—for which I had no expectations—held its own on the plate. It was light and mild and studded with crunchy (not soggy!) pistachio nuts. I definitely, definitely had my fix.

While I am sure that I enjoyed our meal more than the Squeeze did (I even loved his cauliflower puree, which he had a hard time getting excited about), I believe we both pushed back from the table satisfied, no need to swing by Burgerville on the way home. And though I consider Vindahlo—and the satisfying of my desperate craving for Indian food—a success, I don’t think I’ve exactly converted anyone.

It wasn’t any shortcoming of the restaurant’s, though. It’s just that some of us appreciate fine foods more than others.

Vindahlo
2038 SE Clinton Street
Portland, Oregon 97202
503-467-4550

We tried again last year. I cajoled him into permitting me to take him to the buffet at Swagat. I have enjoyed the lunch buffet offerings at their NW Lovejoy location many times and together we reasoned that being able to see the food before selecting it might work better than the gamble of the chef’s choice lunch special. And there’s always Tandoori chicken, I said, suggesting that, even if he wasn’t won over by the food, at least he wouldn’t starve. Like a fool, I took him to Swagat’s Beaverton outpost, a new spot for me too. We both gave it two disappointed thumbs down and I promised never to ask him to eat Indian food again.

Yet, somehow, we had dinner at Vindahlo last week.

We had been watching Gordon Ramsay’s show, Kitchen Nightmares, on hulu.com and it had been a very pregnant-feeling day. I was hungry but didn’t want to eat, then I wanted to eat but nothing sounded good. [An admission: we're sort of on a Hell's Kitchen/Kitchen Nightmares kick. I watched them for the first time when The Squeeze was getting his geek on at the Apple Developers Conference last month and I thought it was just a sort of lonely, my-squeeze-is-out-of-town type indulgence. And now we're watching together, and loving it when Gordon throws undercooked scallops at the walls, shouts unintelligible obscenities at poorly motivated line cooks, and uncovers cockroaches and rotting bell peppers in nearly every struggling restaurant he visits. I don't want to love these shows, but I do. I'm also pretty sure that once I've seen all the episodes of Nightmares I'll be qualified to sell myself as a consultant to failing restaurants. Lesson numbers one and two: Don't serve rotten food and Make your menu smaller. End digression.]

Anyway, there was Indian food happening on the particular show we were watching on the evening in question. Gordon brought in a fancy Indian chef to remake the menu and there were some very, very pretty shots of pakoras and curries and tall, creamy lassis and I think I might have drooled a little. In any case, my interest was surely perceivable because The Squeeze paused the show and asked if he should go get me some Indian food. He is like this and I do my best not to exploit it. I believe he would have gone out into the night in search of curried lentils, if I’d asked, but since it was eleven in the evening and we were both in our PJs, I settled for a frozen naan from Trader Joe’s (a pathetic substitute flavorwise, but still better than eating a potato chip when you really want a naan). I ate happily and went to bed dreaming of the naan wraps I used to buy from India Clay Oven at the Monterey County Farmers Market.

Then the next day when he caught me oogling websites for Portland-area Indian restaurants, The Squeeze said only, So when are we going? And it wasn’t, I don’t think, in a resigned, exasperated kind of way. I swear, I was planning to take myself out to lunch at the Bombay Cricket Club, East Indian Co., and Vindahlo. I wasn’t even going to ask for company. Because, after Swagat, I promised.

My introduction to Indian food happened in Cali, at the weekly farmer’s market in my hometown – India’s Clay Oven has a booth there every week. Across the top is a banner that reads: When is a burrito not a burrito? When it’s a Naan burrito! I made fun of this for years.
And then I had one – curried veggies, chicken, or lamb laid over basmati rice and wrapped in naan fresh from a tandoori oven they rolled down onto the street – and it was so, so wonderful. And portable. I still make fun of the sign, but no trip home is complete until I’ve had a naan burrito and a stroll down the wharf.

I’ve since cultivated a love for extra spicy lamb vindaloo, vegetable pakoras, and all manner of lentils. No two restaurants make any dish the same way, which is irksome – and attributable, I assume, to regional differences. Here in P-town, I have found a handful of very pleasing Indian restaurants. Swagat is really great. India House is passable, but rice there is a la carte, which always rubs me the wrong way. The Bombay Cricket Club on SE Hawthorne adds that cute little edge of imperialism to the meal. There are numerous sidewalk purveyors of Indian-on-the-go as well – Taste of India, The Real Taste of India and the New Taste of India come immediately to mind. The real gem of the bunch, however, is theIndia Chaat House. It’s a van permantently parked on the corner of SW 12th and Yamhill, across the street from Portland Clinic parking structure. It is not the most gracious dining to be had, but they’ve gone to the trouble to erecting a plywood enclosure around a couple of picnic tables and anyway, you’re not going there to take in the atmosphere. What you’ll be going there for – and you are going – is the super-yummy, shockingly inexpensive Indian food prepared just for you by real, live, super-friendly Indian people.

Here’s where I start to gush:

- Everything that comes out the Chaat House is vegetarian and they’ll vegan-ize just about anything if you ask.
- It’s inexpensive. A big ol’clamshell of curry and rice ($5-$6) gets me three meals.
- It’s nutritious* and delicious.
- In addition to their menu of 20+ curries and such, they have a chaat (snack) menu if you only want a taste.
- The mango lassi is worth the dairybelly if milk’s not so kind to your insides.
- They offer a “big, big, lunch special” from 11am – 4pm that consists of three curries (their choice and selections change every day), rice and naan for a measly $5.

To sum up: Try it; you’ll like it. And if you don’t, I’ll finish your leftovers.

*I can’t back that up.