When Taco Bell met Kiran Palace: Finding flavor in Indian buffet tacos

Twenty minutes down the road, we arrived at a strip mall. At first sight, you wouldn’t even know there was an Indian buffet at the center, stuffed between an Irish pub and a Chinese laundromat. When you entered the little sliver that was Kiran Palace, it was like walking into a Hindu shrine built hundreds of years ago, equipped with gold-accented molding along the ceilings and brass statues of gods sitting on window sills and floor corners. The scent of incense drifted into my nostrils while sitar music played over the loudspeakers. Arriving there, I always felt like it was like being teleported to ancient Delhi, or that I’d died and this was one of three potential afterlives.

We took our seats at a round table as a basket of garlic naan was placed at the center.

“Let’s get to it,” Mom declared. She and my grandma were aficionados when it came to buffeting. They frequented every one within a twenty-five-mile radius at least once a week, from Sizzler two towns over to the Good Taste Chinese’s lunch special in Mayfair Shopping Center on Jericho Turnpike. For these two ladies, buffets weren’t just an opportunity to not cook; they represented an adventure to taste any and every dish available, maybe discovering something delicious to try cooking at home.

Strolling along the line, gazing at each copper serving tray holding a heap of texture and hue, glistening meat or vegetables lying on a bed or floating to the surface, aromas shifting in front of my face as my feet moved sideways toward the right, I couldn’t help losing myself in its process. And yet, though I did still enjoy eating Indian food, I was still fixated on Taco Bell. But rather than refuse to partake or run out of the door, I decided to get creative and compile my own version using the elements bestowed before me.

I rested one full triangular-shaped naan on my plate, just like a taco. Starting with forage, I added lettuce and tomato on top as a foundation. Rather than beans, I took a generous scoop of chana masala (chickpea curry), the same kind my mom cooked every Wednesday night at home, and the only Indian dish my grandma had proudly learned to cook (deliciously), and distributed it across the cold vegetables. Next came a few chunks of boneless chicken tikka, accompanied by sautéed onions. To top it off, I drizzled a little raita yogurt, then green chutney using the tips of their ladles. Back at our table, I delicately folded the naan in half and shoved the bow of my mash-up into my mouth, generating a spice-induced super-flavor my taste buds had never before encountered.

“Papa, you’re making a mess of yourself,” commented Mom, as she, Nani, and Ravi looked on, neatly eating their helpings with forks. I wasn’t trying to curry favor with them. In fact, I laughed as curry squeezed out from the other end, some residue leaking along the side of my arm. I knew I was being absurd, a slob, a partial embarrassment, but I didn’t care.

“Oh, Raji,” my grandma chuckled. “Where do you think you are?”

Honestly, in that very moment, I didn’t know anymore, but it was delicious.

If you enjoyed this essay and recipe, consider ordering and reading the rest of Raj Tawney's  "Colorful Palate: A Flavorful Journey through a Mixed American Experience."