Daal Roti
I eat lunch in my neighborhood at a food stall. The stall has a row of pots of heavily spiced lentils, a clay oven with dough stuck to its sides turning into flat bread, and five tables with benches. I sit on a bench and the owner smiles a greeting. He knows me–that I’ll eat a bowl of lentils with several pieces of tortilla-like bread. A waiter slides a metal bowl of freshly sliced radishes and carrots on my table–that’s my salad. The waiter is happy to serve the only foreigner who comes to the stall and he takes special care of me. The freshly baked bread is peeled off the clay oven wall with metal tongs and served to me. Bread dipped in lentil stew makes my nose run–its spicy. I get up to pay the bill and squeeze past the man working the clay oven to get out of the stall and onto the narrow alley that winds its way home to my apartment.
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