From the outside, it could be anything—plastic backlit sign guarding the entrance to a little shop in an industrial strip mall. And, to be fair, the establishment is a factory, though there are two exceptions to the norm: the product is an Indian delicacy (actually an entire cornucopia of delicacies), and the place is open to the public.
I enter, I admit, with some trepidation. I can see through to the back where stainless shelves move and a platoon of women in white bustle with the determination of the staff in a downtown hospital emergency ward.
You take a number when you come in, and it strikes you that neither the staff behind the counters nor the people in front of you take kindly to those who are not sure of their purpose here.
The factory produces both samosas and sweets, and the latter beckon seductively with their glistening pastries and pastel colors as bright as the sari wrapped around the woman in front of me. So I am sorely tempted.
And they’ve got two kinds of sauces for samosas: the red and the green and, though I can never decide which of the two I prefer, there is nothing more satisfying than a samosa—deep-fried batter, potatoes, peas and spices inside.
Five samosas for a dollar. I take twenty.