Getting Caught in the Rain & Making Hats, Typical

Dishes 94, 95 & 96: Boudin Blanc (aka Chicken and Apple Sausage) at Monk’s, 16th and Spruce,; Chana Masala and South Indian Lentil Bread at Bindi, 13th and Chestnut,

Sorry, no pictures today, only stories!

After a somewhat distracted morning, I popped out to grab a quick takeout sausage from Monk’s, only to leave the café into a torrential downpour. Several seconds of hiding under a pitiful tree-let left me drenched; desperate, I attempted a light frolick towards the Banana Republic on Broad and Sansom. Three catcalls later and countless “Awwwww”s, I looked down to discover my soaked buttondown was also transparent. Ah-ha. With the invaluable help of the ladies at BR, within minutes I was Cirque-du-Soleiling behind the sales counter so the manager could remove the security tags while I was wearing a fresh, dry outfit.

And by the time I got back to Maven, I’ve been gone from the office for nearly an hour, haven’t had anything to eat all day, and that chicken and apple sausage is starting to smell reallllllly good. Sarah popped over the top of her cube to ask me about something and caught me red-handed—well, empty-handed, but with my cheeks stuffed with most of the gloriously juicy, sweet, and tangy sausage. She laughed and left me to a maze of Excel sheets, which are widely known to be the comfort food of finance majors.

Gustav then called me, in what sounded to be a last-minute hat-constructing frenzy, to schedule a fitting for tomorrow’s parade. I picked up sag paneer, chana masala –I’m sorry, chicken twice in one day was just not going to happen—and lentil bread and MAN! Was that GOOD! Those three dishes blew every other Indian meal I have ever had out of the water. Like with a sea mine. Like in Hot Fuzz, when the mumbling old guy whacks the sea mine with the butt of a shotgun and accidentally blows up half of rural Sandford. The sag paneer was green, bright green, like pesto made from basil picked minutes earlier, and the bits of cashew added richness and crunch; the chana masala was firm, explicit bits of vegetables, and light, crisp, spiciness. Oh my god. I can’t wait to go back. Seriously, I sat there with Gustav, watching him paint furiously, thinking of people that I could coerce—I mean, ask, to go to Bindi. It was that good.

Okay, I don’t want to cut the party short, but I have a pair of gloves to finish sewing and a stylist with whom I must confer. Good night!


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