We’ve experienced great kindness from our fellow Wichitans since moving here earlier this year.
On my second week of living here, in full exploration mode, we popped in to an Indian grocery that happens to be less than a mile from our current home.
The India Emporium sits in a non-descript white cube of a building, next to a Korean BBQ joint (I know! In Wichita!) and across the parking lot of a tire shop. A small green-and-gold sign along the top of the building was one of the few clues that tipped us off to what might be inside.
We had just a few minutes before closing, but browsed the aisles of spices, stacks of bagged long-grain rice, racks of bottled drinks and parcels of snacks and candy. We found an incredibly affordable jar of tahini, replenishing our supply. We’d discarded the rest of our ancient tahini stash when we moved, and thoughts of hummus danced in our head.
They didn’t dance for long. The kind and bespectacled proprietor sized us up in a matter of seconds. “You like hummus? I’ll bring you some of mine.” After ducking into the back, he brought us each a spoonful of the creamy, garlicky concoction. I completely forgot that I was standing very close to a large display of saris and other traditional Indian attire.
He urged us to come back for lunch sometime, gesturing to a small menu on the counter. We thanked him, paid for our jar, and left, intending to return soon to eat more of the creamy chickpeas.
Fast forward three months. Last week, after a handful of meetings, I found myself in that state of being that can only really be described as “hangry.” The trip to the grocery store would come later that evening; the last CSA box was but a distant memory. I remembered the lunch invitation and headed over.
The luncheon menu is Mediterranean, not Indian; there’s schwarma as opposed to saag paneer; falafel instead of dal. I’ve had both the beef and chicken schwarma (because I might have gone back a second time already.) They defy classification: thinly sliced meat, hummus, tomatoes and a wonderfully spicy cilantro sauce are all wrapped up in what I believe is a tortilla, then are grilled on a panini press into a slightly flat, burrito-shaped wrap.
I can’t completely bend my brain around this; all I know is that it’s delicious, and it comes with a generous helping of fattoush (or Greek, if you’d prefer) salad to boot.
Some of my favorite colleagues loved the Indian buffet down the street from my old office in Topeka, and a good plate of that amazing Indian turnip dish is hard to beat at lunchtime. I might have been a little bummed when I realized I was getting into something completely different than the food to which I’d become accustomed.
But I came up with a solid compromise: mango ice cream, fetched from the frosty cooler near the cash register and pried from the tub with flat wooden planks. A fitting end to any meal.