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Quote by Sara Desai

“Decorated in exotic tones of saffron, gold, ruby, and cinnamon with accent walls representing the natural movement of wind and fire, and a cascading waterfall layered with beautiful landscaped artificial rocks and tiny plastic animals, the restaurant was the embodiment of her late brother's dream to re-create "India" in the heart of San Francisco. The familiar scents- cinnamon, pungent turmeric, and smoky cumin- brought back memories of evenings spent stirring dal, chopping onions, and rolling roti in the bustling kitchen of her parents' first restaurant in Sunnyvale under the watchful army of chefs who followed the recipes developed by her parents. What had seemed fun as a child, and an imposition as a teenager, now filled her with a warm sense of nostalgia, although she would have liked just one moment of her mother's time.”

Quote by Sara Desai

Book:The Marriage Game
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The Marriage Game

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Sara Desai

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“They walked quickly through the kitchen. A woman in a blue salwar kameez skewered bright orange pieces of chicken to go into the tandoor. An older woman was peeling and slicing a bag of onions. Two cooks in white aprons stirred pots full of spicy potatoes, braised lamb, and chunks of paneer swimming in creamy spinach. At the back of the kitchen, the cook who had glared at him when he had come to talk to Nasir used a giant paddle to stir a vat of what appeared to be goat curry. Sam breathed in the sweet mixed aroma of cardamom, turmeric, garam masala, and fresh chilies as Daisy led him past the stainless steel counters. It was the smell of his mother's kitchen last night when they'd had dinner together. The scent of home.”

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Book:The Marriage Game
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“So, what's your poison, Jay?" Zara joined the buffet line a few minutes later. "Let me guess. Something dark and spicy that packs a lot of heat. Maybe a rista? Or a naga curry?" She studied him, shaking her head. "Hmmm. Not so exotic. I think you're more of a vindaloo. Rich and complicated with hidden depths. Every bite satiates your taste buds and leaves you craving more." Unsettled by her seemingly casual yet unnervingly accurate assessment, he turned his attention to filling his plate from the lavish spread.”

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“The scant menu had done the food a disservice. As the dishes arrived, ferried from the kitchen by a team of waiters, she surveyed the food. She swallowed at the sight. It was a lot. There were katoris filled with daal, as thick and silky as rice pudding but yellowed with turmeric, finished with cream; a dark, oily, goat curry, chunks of meat blackened by a tandoor; neatly cubed paneer swathed in spinach; prawns, pink and black and glistening, scattered with coriander, sitting spikily in their dish; grilled chicken thighs, reddened with spice, scattered with chilli. Among the plates were little bowls of rice and folded naan, roti, and feather-layered paratha.”

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“Saroj seemed to be enjoying the food, and that surprised as well as pleased Devi. Mama never ate anything but Indian food. Once in a while she'd try Thai, but her heart was with good old-fashioned south Indian food. Growing up, Saroj served only Indian food in the house. There were no two ways about it with her. "You can eat all the nonsense you like outside this house, but here, I will only make good Indian food," Saroj told her family. At least she didn't insist they become vegetarian like a lot of Indians abroad did. Devi couldn't imagine how her life would be if she couldn't eat salmon mousse or rogan josh.”

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“Not far from me, a little girl is sitting on the aisle seat. A peach glows in her hand. Moments ago she asked her mother, What do we miss the most when we die? And I almost responded. But her mother put a thick finger on her lips: Shh, children should not talk about death, and she looked at me for a brief second, apologetically. Food, I almost said to the girl. We miss peaches, strawberries, delicacies like Sandhurst curry, kebab pasanda and rogan josh. The dead do not eat marzipan. The smell of bakeries torments them day and night.”

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“He put a pan on the stove and roasted the rumali roti quarters for half a minute on each side just until the butter in the dough sizzled, then placed them on a plate and trickled them with truffle oil. Then he placed a paper-thin slice of heart of fennel dusted with roasted cumin over them. In a bowl next to that, he laid out chicken in the simplest Mughlai sauce of steamed onion in cream with the slightest hint of saffron. Finally, he tucked a perfectly curled papad into the bowl.”

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