The last time Laura and I ate there, I could smell the tandoor ovens like a special perfume — a hot, dry, almost chalky smell that has permeated this strip-mall location for more than twenty years. I love the frayed edges of the embroidered menu, the casual service, the unspoken understanding between the house and the guest that no one is trying to prove anything to anyone: All parties involved know that this is the best Indian food to be had in the area. We ate murgh chaat because we will always eat the murgh chaat — cold chicken and cucumber in a yogurt sauce served over tomatoes and spiked with bittersweet mango powder, a taste of gastronomic heaven for just $5.25. After that came the lamb kebabs from the tandoor, which tasted like blood and smoke made solid; the saag paneer that will always stand as my best example of what wonders can be done with vegetarian cooking when the cooking isn't being done by vegetarians; and a curry with forty-odd ingredients made fresh every time. When I asked exactly how many ingredients, I was told that I couldn't be told.
Honestly, I didn't care. I didn't want to know how to make the thing myself, just that someone knows how to make it — and that whenever I want it again, the Peacock will be more than happy to oblige.
