Indian food

Last night we went out for Indian food to The North India restaurant in the financial district in San Francisco. We are attending the American Translators Association conference here. We eschewed the food at the seafood restaurant in our hotel for Indian fare, since I don't eat meat or seafood and my co-worker is a good sport! We found ourselves in a very elegant restaurant with great service. The food was, well, the typical fare that passes off by the misnomer "Indian food", which in one swell swoop generally makes invisible the subtle nuances of varied Indian cuisines and palates. I have always thought there may be a legal action lurking somewhere for the flagrant misuse of the words to describe one small array of similarly tasting dishes. Anyway, I digress. It makes life less complicated in situations like the one I am about to describe. We ordered wine and a few signature dishes for my white co- worker. The portions were huge and we consumed a fraction of it. Having seen a lot of homeless people on the way, I asked our obliging waiter to pack it. He did. In elegant paper containers and offered it to me in a brown bag with handles. On our bidding he also provided a plate and disposable cutlery. I was thrilled with the package which in Toronto would have been styrofoam in a plastic bag - a dead give-away as leftovers.

As we walked down I saw men drunk and weaving and kept looking for a woman. There she was wide awake, sitting on her sleeping back her head fully shaven. She was no more than 30. We asked her if she was hungry and if she would like some Indian food. Her eyes lit up "I love Indian food. It's the best kind of comfort food", she said, eagerly taking the bag from my hand, her hands ice cold when they touched mine. At least she knew what she was getting with "Indian food" and I hope it brought her comfort and much needed warmth!