Oy, I almost don’t want to write this— but I took so many pages of notes during my disastrous dinner at Tandoori Nights in Clarendon, that all that information deserves to be used. I know you’ll appreciate reading some of it, since our threads on dining, fine or otherwise are consistently popular. So let’s get this over with.
I’ve recently become an addict of EMS. I know, I’m the only one who has ever entered the store in stiletto heels, but what can I say? You can only spend so much time underground with Abhi before he begins to influence you. While I work up my nerve to (gulp) actually go camping for the first time, I’m going to keep frequenting EMS; for some reason, it makes urban-me want to be outside. Powerfully magical, I know. So between my forays to gear mecca and the container store (and yet— my apartment is still disorganized), I noticed that a potentially brown restaurant had opened on the second floor of the ritzy Market Common at Clarendon, just outside of D.C.
Yesterday, I decided to give it a shot, even though I was a little put off by the restaurant’s font. Yup, I’m that kind of dork. Why wouldn’t I be? If words are my life, the shapes of the letters which create them matter, too. I looked down at my outfit, which I had worn earlier to the amazing lecture Sajit blogged about at the Smithsonian. It was casual, but to me, so was the font. So imagine my shock when I tentatively walked through the front doors and saw a lounge sleek enough to impress, a distinguished man in a well-cut suit who looked like the manager and a mural of brown women on the ceiling which made me want to faint because I spent so much time craning my neck back to memorize it. “WOW,” I thought to myself, “it’s GORGEOUS.”
I simultaneously regretted my clothes while planning a meetup or party that just had to take place in this space. Much like it jinxes the shit out of my crushes on boys to imagine my first name with their surname, all of my moony swooning, my counting parties before they were hatched…well, it virtually guaranteed doom. :(
My friend and I were seated in a beautiful, semi-private room and were asked if we wanted still or sparkling. I opted for the first and the busboy blurted out, “it’s bottled”. Um, okay. I wasn’t sure what to do with that so I asked him what brand. He didnt know. When he came back, he said “Voss” and my pretentious-meter went off so hard it broke. How very glam. And everything on the menu was spelled properly! Well played.
I wanted to get one of my favorite appetizers, Aloo tikki, but I noted with dismay that it came stuffed with cheese. Can I get a hearty “wtf”? It’s not a fusion place. I started to notice two things: there was a Kashmiri version of almost everything (meaning it contained nuts and dried fruit) and cheese was stuffed in to several entrees, including the Dum Aloo. Now this zimble Southie doesn’t pretend to be all-knowing about foods of the North, but I’ve never seen cheese in so many dishes before. I opted for the Samosas and Aloo Papri Chaat, because I reasoned that there was no way they could possibly botch the first. Shit, Dean and Deluca makes those.
Unfortunately, the Samosas were terrible. They looked and tasted like they had been over-nuked. Dark orange-brown and too tough to slice with my dinner knife, I hoped that at least the insides would be nummy. Sigh. I couldn’t really taste anything. Bland, salt less potato disappointed and I couldn’t even finish my ONE Samosa until I had drowned it in Imli and Mint chutneys, which I had to request extra of, since the very sleek and pretty rectangular condiments dish had enough chutneys to count as decoration, nothing more. I hadn’t cared when we were seated and I first noticed that, since the imli, mint and mystery goo were meant to go with the papad—a combination I’ve never particularly understood or needed— but this was an appetizer emergency.
Once it was possible to suitably drench it, the Samosa was consumed. All I could think of was, But…I can eat Café Spice Samosas unadorned. It doesn’t have to be this way. I’m thrilled to report that the Aloo Chaat was fantastic, its red onions spicy and its presentation pleasant. I was a bit confused though, since the menu stated that it came with chick peas and…there were none to be found. “Whatever,” I thought. “So minor.” Actually, it was a harbinger of what was to come.
I wasn’t excited about ordering my entree but I totally expect that lack of zeal at a restaurant which has the word “Tandoori” in its name, especially when you consider that the menu contained an entire page for lamb dishes. There were as many of those as seafood and chicken, combined. The problem is I’m a terrible vegetarian. I don’t like baingan, yet there were two eggplant dishes, if I remember correctly. I’m also not a fan of paneer. In fact, the only things you can count on me to love are okra, chick peas and potatoes.
I did perk up when I spotted Dal Makhani towards the bottom of the veg page, but I worried that it wouldn’t be buttery or creamy enough. After dating a Dosco who was born and raised in Delhi, my DM standards are ridonkulous. All those cans of Bukhara Dal he lovingly carted back from holidays at home have set the standard for me; the only worthy substitute can be found at Heritage India, which isn’t surprising since at some point, their Chef had worked at the Maurya Sheraton which features my beloved Bukhara.
I was in a whimsical mood and I really didn’t want to order the chole or okra, since I generally prefer to get food that I can’t make myself when I’m eating out, so I asked the waiter for a taste. Forgive me; I’ve been spoiled at the ice cream store. What irked me more than his denial of my request was the way he handled it. Unlike our slightly bumbling busboy, who was sweetness personified, our waiter was…not good.
I know I’m the most difficult person in a group when at a restaurant, because if it’s not desi, I’m going to ask about exactly how veg dishes A and B are, but I also tip accordingly, since I remember my bartending days well. This wasn’t Chilis; this was a pricier, more upscale place. Requests shouldn’t be received as if they are horrifying. Are you telling me that it’s only the $$$ places which take care of you? The one time I ate at Asia de Cuba, a restaurant whose cuisine I can’t stand, I had a fantastic time, because they went above and beyond to make sure I ate something and liked it. But that’s a story for another meetup.
Our waiter couldn’t handle basic questions about dishes or much else for that matter, so we looked at each other and decided to K.I.S.S. “Okra do piaza and chana masala with garlic naan and an aloo paratha, please.” He nodded and left without taking our menus or refilling our glasses. They had seated three parties at the same time in the same area we were in and the only good thing about all the commotion and confusion was that everyone was dressed more casually than I was.
We waited for our entrees. And waited. And then we waited some more. And then guess what we did? Yup, wait. Finally, someone came to our table…to take our appetizer dishes and the pretty chutney tray. Okay, that’s a good sign, right? Nope. It was just the commencement of more waiting. Ive never had a longer gap between appetizer and main course.
At this point, I had retrieved my moleskine and waterman and I was jotting down notes feverishly. I opened the abandoned menus to copy down ingredient lists and I wondered why no one was saying anything to me. The one time I took my camera out of my bag (in a quest to find lip gloss) at H+M on fifth avenue, I was stopped immediately by a salesperson who told me that pictures were NOT allowed. I would’ve thought someone at TN would be similarly concerned.
Whatever. Writing was a way to take my mind off food. Except it wasn’t. I found myself growing less and less hungry, because my stomach actually had enough time to say “What’s up?” to my brain, it was taking THAT long. We debated just canceling and getting our check, but we couldn’t find anyone to facilitate that. I was irritated, frustrated and on my nerves it all grated.
At what felt like a much later point, our waiter came by to enlighten us thusly: “It’s taking a while.” No shit. “Um, sorry?”, he ended before wandering off. Wow. My friend was doing everything but jingling keys in front of me, to distract me from how terrible the experience was. Our busboy arrived and actually took the menus. “The kitchen is busy,” he said, apologetically.
Several minutes later, our food arrived. After the samosas, I worried but still cautiously dug in, slightly alarmed that our bread basked was paratha-free. I had bigger problems; there was cheese in the chana. W. T. F. I do NOT eat paneer. I do NOT order dishes which contain it. I felt irritated, especially when I realized that it was not that different than finding a prawn in your otherwise veg dish. It just seemed sloppy and disrespectful. The waiter was telling a nearby table that the the food was very, very spicy and there was no way to really alter it when I got his attention. Reluctantly he came over and I asked him about the mysterious white cubes in my chole. To my astonishment, he pushed back. “They’re not paneer. They’re cheese.” Okay…
“Whatever they are, why are they in this dish?”
“It comes with it.”
“I really don’t think it does, I wouldn’t have ordered it.”
“Well, maybe you didn’t see that it said that.”
“May I?” I asked, as I forcefully removed a menu from his hand. I flipped it open to the Sabzi page and pointed to the chana. It was supposed to have pomegranate, not cheese.
“Oh. Well, I don’t know. I think it’s a special Punjabi preparation. I’ll take it back—”
“No, don’t worry, we know, the kitchen is slow. We don’t want to incur further delays, we’ll make do,” my friend interjected.
Happily, the waiter scurried off as I gingerly bit in to a potato from the chole. It tasted raw and slightly bad. Oy. I tried a forkful of chick peas. Also raw and slightly hard. Dear Julia, was everything going to be teh suck? I know they were rushing, but come ON. I decided to try the okra, since it’s my fave vegetable. The okra was fine, the cubed tomatoes which surrounded it were undercooked. Normally, I’d think that they were meant to be, but after the chole, the aloo and the gummy naan which I won’t bother telling you about, I felt like it was another error.
I had had it. I was slightly hungry, very thirsty (still no water) and thoroughly disappointed. We asked for our check and the waiter seemed excited to get it for us. I felt like talking to the Manager, since everything had been so awful. For the first time in over an hour, he seemed to have a free moment. I approached him and explained how the evening had gone. Before I had finished my second sentence, he was promptly and sincerely apologetic, assuring me that this was not a typical Tandoori Nights experience. If only his waiters were as professional and kind!
He asked very specific questions because he “want(ed) to get to the bottom of all this.” We walked back in to the room where I had been seated just as our waiter had snatched the card from my friend’s hand eagerly. The manager grabbed it and the check and said, “just a moment, please.” He ended up taking 50% off of our bill, which was a gesture we appreciated. As we signed the tab (still tipping based on the original check, not the discounted one, mind you) the waiter came back with a comment card, in case we had any feedback. Are you serious?
We walked out and I felt crushed. Not even a trip to EMS could cheer me, though I did see a sweet hoodie with the original ice axe graphic. I really wanted to like Tandoori Nights, because I think it’s pathetic that eight years after I first moved to D.C., only ONE restaurant, Rasika, has joined my duo of favorites (Heritage India for Northern and Amma for Southern). Are there really no other worthy restaurants? As much as I adore Amma, it’s casual. Heritage is nicer but it’s not beautiful. I want Tabla or Tamarind-level beautiful, even if this isn’t Manhattan. One of the prettiest places to get brown food in D.C. is the venerable Bombay Club, which has food that is almost as bland as Tandoori Nights’. I don’t mind going out to the flawless, chic Rasika but I have friends who don’t want to leave NoVa. Tandoori Nights would have handily solved that problem, if only the food was a tenth as good as the décor or the Managers concern.
