One Step Closer

Went to a place on Sherbrooke called Maison India the other night. It's really strange, but there's another Indian restaurant two doors down and it's not far from Ganges, either. Where's the logic in having one Indian restaurant two doors down from another? Oh, I see, we have dinner at one and then walk over for some gulab jamun and chai at the other.

Anyway, we arrived at ten and they close at 10:30 so they weren't too happy to see us. In fact, we were the only ones in the place and I bet they were hoping to go home early.

No such luck. But they weren't surly at all, and before we even sat down we had ordered; I know Montreal Indian menus like the back of my hand. My choice, however, may have been a bit hasty: without thinking I ordered the Bangalore Phal chicken. When it arrived with the very perfect rice (more on that later) I was to regret it — but only for a moment.

However, I hadn't had any chicken in at least 6 months and had not eaten anything as hot for at least a year, so the combination was initially quite disturbing; but soon I was munching away happily. I invited my companion to dip some naan in my sauce and she did and there was a howl that brought a waiter hurrying over to see what was wrong . . . and I think they ran out of water that night.

But I digress.

They give you some amazing carrot pickle and papads to start your meal and I was dying to find out how they made the pickle, so I went to go ask chef but was barred at the entrance to the kitchen (what did they expect me to find, I wonder?) and Chef came out and told me what was in it — not how much of each, but basically all the ingredients (tamarind, cumin, turmeric, chile powder, vinegar, oil, sugar and salt) and I was able to recreate it last night pretty damn well if I say so myself, except without that amazing Benriner turning slicer that they obviously used and that I'm waiting on eBay for.

And then there was the rice . . . perfect, fluffy, every grain separate . . . can you say "rice steamer?"

I've wrestled with basmati rice ever since I can remember, and no matter what I do it comes out too hard, too soft, too soft AND hard at the same time, but never this perfect moist fluffiness. But they denied it. "Not rice steamer," said the waiter.

Oh yeah? Well, last night I dragged out my old Zojirushi rice steamer and put it to the test: one cup of rice to one and two-thirds chicken broth, and guess what? Perfect, and I mean perfect steamed rice.

And just after the waiter asked us if we wanted anything else because the kitchen was closing and we said no, five minutes later my companion had the gall to call over the waiter and ask if they could make butter chicken . . . and they said yes!

All in all most definitely one of the better Indian places in the city. I'll have to go back to Mysore to compare, but basically I think I have a new Best Indian . . .

And no, the Bangalore Phal did not come back to haunt me the next day. Instead, I heated it up and ate the rest without batting an eye.