The culinary jewel in the crown

By eight thirty we were perusing the vast and varied menu of the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant. Kate was fast asleep in her stroller. I cannot remember if, in fact, it was the Taj Mahal Restaurant; it could well have been the Star of India. But it certainly was the first restaurant we came to in Stowmarket. Indian music, akin to the sound of a cat being gently throttled, played in the background. Red velvet flock paper with shiny gold bits adorned the walls. Sparkly beaded curtains covered a few doorways. A picture of the Taj Mahal was framed and lit in a plastic wooden box with plastic foliage sprouting beneath it, all pleasantly fake except for the aromas that came from the kitchen. These were pungent, exotic, delightful, authentic. Lew peered intently at the menu. I’m not sure why, because he always had the same dish, but he studied the menu nonetheless.