More restaurants you'll never go to (Reviews II).
Restaurant: The Starlit Cafe.
Location: Near the Gateway of India, Mumbai.
Our Indian friend, T, wanted to take us here, because I'd been complaining about how the hotter weather and the proximity of our apartment to the building's garbage cans were conspiring to make our unit smell like something died in the walls. (I suppose, alternatively, something may well have died in the walls. I've seen rats the size of Yorkshire terriers scampering about.) The Starlit is a rooftop restaurant over The Strand hotel, facing the open sea, and all that that entails.
Which is not, as you might think, fresh sea air.
We sat, sweltering, in the crowded and humid little space, as a fetid breeze, as if from a convection oven, came off the heavily-polluted water. The cafe, as promised, was lit by precisely one star, which is all one could see through the smog that was visible even as the sun went down.
Our idea was to go there for drinks before heading out for dinner. We had some problems out of the gate, as it turned out The Starlit did not have a bar. We shared some shandies, and ordered an appetizer -- cheese malai tikka.
An hour later, and our shandies were drained, the suffocating stench of the water was getting a bit much, and every time we summoned our waiter, he looked away (after we caught his eye) and feigned interest in a napkin somewhere that desperately needed straightening.
The tikka was...ok. I ordered it because I was intrigued by the description, which promised cheese and paneer fried up together with corn. Turns out that's no chocolate-and-peanut-butter combination. Tasted a little...whey-y. We wolfed it down and asked for the check before the waiter could escape again.
The best thing about this place is the elevator up to the roof. I think it's meant to play cheerful little melodies when you press a floor button. But, like everything else in the city, it hasn't really been maintained. Press a button, and you hear a forlorn little snippet of tune that slows down and becomes discordant and wheezy before it finishes, like an asthmatic pipe organ.
Ambiance: Long tables and benches, low walls. Open to the air on all sides. Think "picnic next to the town dump."
Three lemonades, a large bottle of beer, and a very tardy tikka: $7.
From The Starlit, we went to The Gables, another tragically misnamed place. (I suggest, perhaps, The Garret?) The tiny storefront eatery was allegedly a Goan restaurant, but it turned out they were a general restaurant with a smattering of Goan dishes, which were further whittled down when we began actually inquiring about them. Because The Gables had no restroom (no room?), we placed our order, left the restaurant, called our driver, had him take us all over to the nearest five-star hotel, shed our shandies, and returned, just as our food was ready. T had some chicken thing that looked suspiciously like chicken parmigiana, K had pork vindaloo, and I had egg fried rice, because there was precious little else veg on the menu (odd for an Indian restaurant, but we were in the heart of the tourist district, which changes the calculus). Both pronounced their dishes tasty, and, actually, even my rice was pretty good, if a little greasy. Service was prompt and affable.
Ambiance: Greasy spoon-ish, enlivened by a large Snoopy clock.
Cost: 3 dishes and 3 lime sodas: $6.
Location: Near the Gateway of India, Mumbai.
Our Indian friend, T, wanted to take us here, because I'd been complaining about how the hotter weather and the proximity of our apartment to the building's garbage cans were conspiring to make our unit smell like something died in the walls. (I suppose, alternatively, something may well have died in the walls. I've seen rats the size of Yorkshire terriers scampering about.) The Starlit is a rooftop restaurant over The Strand hotel, facing the open sea, and all that that entails.
Which is not, as you might think, fresh sea air.
We sat, sweltering, in the crowded and humid little space, as a fetid breeze, as if from a convection oven, came off the heavily-polluted water. The cafe, as promised, was lit by precisely one star, which is all one could see through the smog that was visible even as the sun went down.
Our idea was to go there for drinks before heading out for dinner. We had some problems out of the gate, as it turned out The Starlit did not have a bar. We shared some shandies, and ordered an appetizer -- cheese malai tikka.
An hour later, and our shandies were drained, the suffocating stench of the water was getting a bit much, and every time we summoned our waiter, he looked away (after we caught his eye) and feigned interest in a napkin somewhere that desperately needed straightening.
The tikka was...ok. I ordered it because I was intrigued by the description, which promised cheese and paneer fried up together with corn. Turns out that's no chocolate-and-peanut-butter combination. Tasted a little...whey-y. We wolfed it down and asked for the check before the waiter could escape again.
The best thing about this place is the elevator up to the roof. I think it's meant to play cheerful little melodies when you press a floor button. But, like everything else in the city, it hasn't really been maintained. Press a button, and you hear a forlorn little snippet of tune that slows down and becomes discordant and wheezy before it finishes, like an asthmatic pipe organ.
Ambiance: Long tables and benches, low walls. Open to the air on all sides. Think "picnic next to the town dump."
Three lemonades, a large bottle of beer, and a very tardy tikka: $7.
From The Starlit, we went to The Gables, another tragically misnamed place. (I suggest, perhaps, The Garret?) The tiny storefront eatery was allegedly a Goan restaurant, but it turned out they were a general restaurant with a smattering of Goan dishes, which were further whittled down when we began actually inquiring about them. Because The Gables had no restroom (no room?), we placed our order, left the restaurant, called our driver, had him take us all over to the nearest five-star hotel, shed our shandies, and returned, just as our food was ready. T had some chicken thing that looked suspiciously like chicken parmigiana, K had pork vindaloo, and I had egg fried rice, because there was precious little else veg on the menu (odd for an Indian restaurant, but we were in the heart of the tourist district, which changes the calculus). Both pronounced their dishes tasty, and, actually, even my rice was pretty good, if a little greasy. Service was prompt and affable.
Ambiance: Greasy spoon-ish, enlivened by a large Snoopy clock.
Cost: 3 dishes and 3 lime sodas: $6.
1 Comments:
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Anonymous said...
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- 8:07 AM
Post a CommentI'm really enjoying reading your descriptions. I can feel the steaminess and smell the rankness. Great job! Seems like the only way to visit India and survive is by going on an insulated tourist tour where you go from one 5-star hotel to another and see the sights via a large air-conditioned bus.
Mom
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