LIMCA AT THE DOSA HUT
JERSEY CITY Marie hates housepests. I know this.
But I still scrounge her futon, otherwise our schedules would never align.
She's one of my best e-pals, but we've enjoyed mere hours of face-time. Marie is the author of the superb African travelogue Stalking the Wild Dik-Dik. She has her own friggin' trading cards. Her day job is editing comics, including The 99, which debuted the first Islam-inspired superheroes. She is so sick, sick cool...
And gorgeous. Did I mention the gorgeousness?
She's also a pretty fierce booster of JC that would be "Jersey City" not the Christian Savior, of course. We tour a funky church and its art exhibition. We observe dogs mainly drop-kick size in the park. And Henry, the legendary Ford Taurus, squires us to a neighborhood thick with dosa restaurants.
Seasoned travel writers, we peer into the windows. "Indians here, must be good ... wait, more Indian clientele here ... and here ...". And so it goes, right down the road.
All things being equal, we settle upon Dosa Hut.
"Huts are humble. They need all the help they can get," I reason.
Her mysore dosa is the size of a rolled weekday New York Times. See, back in the old days, our ancestors would print on dead tre... oh, never mind ... ancient history.
I order a gooey sag paneer with a cold cheese core (next time, we're patronizing Dosa Dreams, I swear), plus a Limca. The soda tastes of lime and floor cleaner, the sort of cocktail the Heathers might mix.
Does Marie hate houseguests that much, I muse? After all, she lured me here, knowing surely that curiosity would lead to menu bravado...
No, wait, self-inflicted pain. Doh.
Please see Marie's version of the Great Dosa Adventure.