Yossarian can give you directions to this place, but go if you can. You won't miss it if you pass it, as it glows with the
glory of a hundred
christmases and
dollar stores. It neighbors another
indian restaurant, which also posts a person at the top of the stairs to draw people into its own competing well-lit maw..
Come in! Come in! Table for four? No, no, come
here! This way!
Once you're in, duck! the place is full of stringed lights. The tables are close together, in two rows down the walls, and the waiters smile and draw back out of the way as you're led to the back, swaying to miss the chairs of diners and the water pitcher of the waiter. Somehow, mysteriously, this time there was a table for eight ready: we just had to add another chair. Yoss, the 'yes' man, possibly dazed by the onslaught of sensory information, acquiesced to the waiter's many recommendations, so we had a feast of appetizers before even our food was out: breads and samosas and mystery fritters (banana, it turned out, and sweet potato).
One waiter frequently refilled our water glasses, pouring with the "close enough" philosopy of aim. Conversation was fragmented by the noise and the length of the table. The lights started to seem like a neural net firing above and around us, the cloth and plastic flowers blossoms of monstrous vibrant tissue. Elbows and smiles and curries, oh my! The manhattan street seemed quiet when we descended back down into the night.