Flavor of India

Image credit: flavorofindia.com

9045 Santa Monica Blvd., 310-274-1715, flavorofindia.com

Our move to this part of town brought with it the sad reality that we would no longer be in reasonable proximity to Samosa House, one of our favorite Indian spots and almost weekly supplier of takeout dinner during the chaos of my grad school days. Thus, finding "our new Indian place" ranked high on the list of priorities of post-relocation endeavors. Fortunately, we hit the nail on the head the first time with Flavor of India.

While I am of the opinion that Indian food is actually quite amenable to the American palate, I am also of the opinion that Americans are distrusting, over-cautious, un-adventurous eaters, and so it's always a bit of a gamble when you ask friends if they want to go out to Indian food with you...kind of on par with asking them if they'd like to share an escargot, blood pudding and grub platter with you. (Although, my friends/only readers can rest assured that I won't be proposing that, as that item sounds suspiciously un-vegetarian.) To avoid all this awkwardness, we asked our friend Divaker to come with us--a bona fide real-life Indian who has even BEEN to India.

Like any good Indian joint, there was a menu section that singled out non-vegetarian dishes, which, I will admit, colors my interpretation of the place heavily. Nick and I both ordered the vegetarian thali (combination plates), but with different vegetable items, and Divaker ordered something we don't eat. You know that thing that happens when you're super-white and you're with someone ethnic, and you find out that you're really way more ethnic than they are, and your white guilt is momentarily alleviated? That happened! First, the server noted to Divaker how good my pronunciation was. (I've gotta give that one to growing up a middle-class angelena--just like the rest of us, I've been doing yoga forever. The words aren't hard, they just have lots of extra H's.) Then this: The server "assumed" that Divaker would want his dish very spicy, to which Divaker gently pushed back, and ended up quite content with his nominally spicy dish. I, however, ordered medium spice and noted to myself during the meal that I definitely could have handled having it kicked up at least a notch, and mentally patted myself on the back. Not that it means anything. I mean, whatever. But stay tuned for my date to Gardens of Taxco with my 25% Mexican fiancé.

It was a delight to learn that they offered the elusive malai kofta, a sumptuous veggie meatball-that-doesn't-pass-for-a-meatball, but rather, something way better. Samosa House had long tantalized us by serving us their crack-laced version once, only to never it offer again. Finding it as a regular offering here was really quite a victory. Score another point for "why moving to WeHo was a good idea and makes our lives immeasurably better." It's unclear who, exactly, is arguing against that one, but I feel compelled to compile an ever-expanding arsenal of propaganda opposing the ideals of that entity.

The paneer was flavorful and nicely textured, the saag was wonderfully garlicky, well-cooked, and vividly green. The began bhartha was...perfect, really. I actually think that, under certain circumstances, Nick, who has eschewed all eggplant other than that made by my stepfather, might even be talked into eating and liking it. Nick, in addition to the Kofta of Inspiration, got aloo gobi, being the potato-powered being that he is and needing to keep his reserves up. The naan and rice were respectable (I'm not sure how much inter-restaurant variance there is in these things), and the raita packed a memorably potent tang that was ideal gustatorially, regardless of its effects on a marginally lactose-intolerant digestive system. Dessert helped remedy that, though. Between us we ordered ginger kulfi (the Indian analog of ice cream, with this version being unusual and worth going out of your way for), kheer (creamy rice pudding with a delicate spice profile), and masala chai (judged to be well-above adequate, even if not completely authentic, by Divaker). All of this was superimposed on the canvas of quaint, unassuming, breezy, sherbety-colored ambiance. The waitstaff was helpful and endearing. (Although, not to knock them, but isn't that true at every Indian restaurant, really?)

Suffice it to say we liked it, we'll go back, we'll take our friends, and giggle while quietly but respectfully whispering to each other how cute it is. And, at the suggestion of our friend Michaela, we will try the makhni paneer.