Masala

मसाला
Carlos spent his first ten years in Mexico, then Paris. When his father was assigned a World Bank posting in Washington, the family relocated to our neighborhood. They live a few blocks away from the old house.

Carlos spoke little English upon arrival. A determination to read every Harry Potter book in its original drove him to quickly master the tongue, and remove himself from ESOL classes.

Alex and Carlito (as we call him) are best friends: at times they cannot see enough of each other, at times they are sick to death and need a break. Carlos is a fussy eater, perhaps because his mother is so good a cook: because of her, Alex craves cactus in his quesadilla and I have learned how ceviche should really taste. Carlos spent the day at our house. We asked him to choose the kind of food we would have for lunch. Indian, he stated, for no reason other than years ago in France he had eaten at an Indian restaurant.

I had seen Masala Art open in Tenley recently, so we walked. Because the restaurant was not even a week old, the owner introduced himself. His daughters played at a nearby table. His family came with presents and good wishes. Something touched us about being part of that unfolding -- the fragile moment when a dream for a life that might be stands on the threshold of becoming real. The samosas, chana masala, baingan bartha, dal were extraordinary. We were not sure if it was the cooking, the company, or the lives into which we had wandered.