By Emir Parrotta (December 2, 2003)

In Falls Church’s West Falls Plaza resides a pocket of flavor, an essence ‘sleeper cell,’ that caters to the City’s desire for genuine Indian cuisine. Haandi serves anything and everything from unusual vegetarian entrées to several seafood dishes and from a broad medley of chicken and meat selections to a few wok plates. 
 

The restaurant also offers quite a few varieties of bread, nine to be exact. Roti, the simplest of the group, is a leavened whole wheat bread; of the more unusual bread, aloo paratha parades across the bread page, being stuffed with potatoes and spiced peas. The first entrée description that I read was that of the jingha vandalu: "Jumbo shrimp and potatoes in a stimulating hot curry sauce." It was order at first sight. A waiter approached our table and asked us if we felt like some bread. We affirmed.

Jingha vandalu, a multitudinous assortment of curry  tastes, is spicy, so much so that the shrimp is  permeated by its fiery, tangy flavor. The mango  lassi, a sweet, chilled drink, provides a calming  effect for the tongue. (Photo by Emille Parotta)

Upon request, I was served a mango lassi, a sweet, chilled drink, creamy and viscous. One of the older waiters served us some hot teas, bending over the table to reach the person sitting on the other side of the booth. And he supplied some cream.

The Indian restaurant’s ambiance was calm and elegant; some live-sounding flute music complemented the dining experience. It was similar to having an owl hooting behind one’s back, waiting to join the person as he or she devours an animal’s carcass, except in this situation it was bread—and I was not paranoid of anyone stealing my food.

The walls were quite relaxing, displaying a creamy, pink color. Three fantastic chandeliers hung over the room, glittering like the stars that decorate the New Delhi sky.

The number of employees present slightly outnumbered the number of tables being served at this particular time of the evening.: Six men with white shirts and black ties mingled at the back of the restaurant, near the bar; five tables were being populated, contentedly. 

Nearby, a family of three happily welcomed a dish of rice to enhance their newly-arrived, sizzling plates. What a sight to see.

Our table was served shortly after. A great platter of (very) long grain rice just parked itself upon our table, awaiting its satisfying end. Saffron yellowed the upper layers of the heap, while peas randomly resided throughout the appetizing pile, adding an element of surprise.

A waiter delivered my spicy shrimp and potato curry. It longed to be enmeshed with the rice, together as they should be. Its desires were met when I mixed the dark red liquid with the largely unflavored rice. The latter assisted in diluting the harsh reality of hot curry.

Spicy, but not too spicy, I thought. I thought that the jingha vandalu was fairly mild, and compared to other food, not that bad. After eating some more, my inexperienced brain concluded that this was a bit spicier than previously thought, that it was approaching the line that separates tolerable spice from miserable fire.

This opinion was transitional. Soon after, I mentally declared this food to be very spicy. It did not dare cross the line (shrimp are not brave enough). But it did become that line, that fine line between enjoyably hot and very pungent.

More rice. More water. More bread. Maybe some more rice. 

Resorting to those extinguishers is wasteful; it becomes necessary to use up all the rice for one burning sensation. But then, after eating some more shrimp, it comes back and there is nothing one can do but order more and more rice.

I chose the more innovative, precise way—raita, a "soothing homemade yogurt mixed with cucumbers and tomatoes." When dunked into with a good piece of roti or naan (a flat, white bread cooked in a flaming charcoal clay oven), the yogurt mixture proves itself the perfect solution for the flaming tongue. It gently soothes and cools the mouth; and not just temporarily, as water tends to do.

The older waiter noticed the emptied rice plate and took it away. "Thank you," he mumbled.

I became aware of the fact that my curry had not yet been finished. More shrimp and potatoes swam (or sunk) in the pool of liquid fire (a hyperbole, admittedly). So I gobbled them down with the help of the leftover rice in my personal dish and the additional yogurt sauce. The shrimp were big and tender. The potatoes had done a good job soaking up the flavor of the curry. They also became fairly soft.

The people sitting at my booth had all finished their dinners, but I was still at it. The same waiter visited our table to relieve us of our dishes. He was about to take away my plate, but I said that I wasn’t done eating. He commented wisely on my eating speed, "Slow and steady wins the race." Before walking away, he politely told me, "Take your time."’

All in all, the meal was tasty. The thick, soothing mango drink hypnotized me from the start of the Haandi experience. The naan was delightfully airy, and crisp on the outsides. The raita formed a great relationship with the bread. And the shrimp and potato curry was very scrumptious; despite the heat (the menu warned me). Most of the food on the menu is quite flavorful, in a non-spicy way. Only a small minority with the word ‘hot’ in their descriptions are muy caliente.

Every entrée is served with a free portion of long grain Basmati rice, topped with a hint of pure saffron, and spiced with black cardamom, green coriander chutney, and pickles—pretty good for an average price of around $12.