The Post in which I declare my passionate love for Indian Road Cafe

Once, I lived in dark times.  I lived in a land with no fancy cheeses, no exceptionally tasty and cheap restaurants.  Yes, this was Inwood of the mid-aughts.  Don’t get me wrong!  There were plenty of things to love about the neighborhood!  Beautiful parkland, lovely neighbors, and an apartment big enough to house a petting zoo.  But I was coming from 7 train Queens, home to myriad culinary delights.   On an average night the question was, “Japanese, Turkish, Romanian, Mexican, Indian, Thai, or Tibetan?”  In my new neighborhood there was pub…or pub (or Mofongo, which I am still incredibly remiss for not trying).  Also, the food was kind of expensive (hence my sad neglect of Mofongo).  I wanted my food cheap, like my apartment.  And for the love of god, a girl can only eat so many burgers. 

Then it arrived – Indian Road Café.  There are so many things to love about this place, but let’s start with its creation.  During the planning phase the owner actually posted on the community website to find out what the residents wanted in a restaurant!  What did we need?  What were we missing?  Really, who does that?  Who creates a restaurant with the community in mind these days?  Apparently the community needed a place with a great wine and beer selection.  And great food.  And a wonderful staff.  And FREE WIFI!  That’s right, I’m talking to you, Lower East Side.  What the hell is up with this, “charging-for-wifi-even-though-you’ve-already-paid-for-your-meal” crap?  Or limiting wifi to one hour on the weekends?  Lower East Side, I thought you specifically catered to the kind of scruffy 30-somethings that need free internet access and alcohol.  But oooooooohhhhhh noooooooooo, you’re too cool to give us free internet access now.  But, um, thanks for still giving us alcohol.  We’ll take what we can get.

So, you know how Inwood apartments are so big that you can fit multiple families and ponies in each one?  Yeah, IRC is cut from that same mold.  Let’s take a tour, shall we?  Upon entering we see the coffee bar with freshly ground, French pressed caffeinated beverages.  The pastries are from places like Balthazar and Arthur Avenue, because if you’re going to get heart disease at breakfast you’d best do it right.  To the left of the coffee bar are the tables and the grown-up bar.  The seating is casual, comfortable, and apparently from the set of The Sopranos.  Local artwork adorns the walls, because the people at IRC care about the locals and their low-paying aspirations.  And the grown-up bar – oh, that has become a thing of beauty.  The beer and wine selection has always been top-notch, but now they have expanded to obscure whiskeys and inventive cocktails.  The bartenders are awesome, knowledgeable, and have noble French bulldogs.  And they make cocktails with bacon.  BACON, people!!!  Thank you, IRC.  Thank you for making your drinks with bacon.  And smelling like bacon.  And serving me bacon.  And…bacon.

Just past the grown-up bar we have the coffee corner.  This is a wide area for people like me who can’t be trusted to work diligently in our own palatial abodes.  We need to go to other vast real estate expanses, where we will be served liquor, bacon, and inspiration.  Naturally one cannot sit in the coffee corner enveloped by the smell of bacon without ordering some food.  Here are some meals from IRC that have made my toes curl:

-          Duck lasagna with in-house ricotta and Arthur Avenue pasta: The noodles said no.  The ricotta said yes.  The duck got up on the table and mounted me.

-          Bourbon-Blood Orange Braised Pork Belly:  Yes!  Pork Belly!  Caramelized, melting, seductive.  Pickled piquillo peppers.  Spicy, sweet, and dangerous (like me).

-          Wild Mushroom & Butternut Squash Wellington: To be enjoyed when you’re only feeling a little bit sinful, and want to express that sinfulness with goat cheese and fresh herbs.  There’s something about the dish that always makes me feel both virtuous and satisfied, which I would dare say is a rare thing. 

-          Pan Roasted Hudson Valley Duck Breast: There will be a bit of dissent on this one (yeah, Emily B., I’m talking to you).  Yes, there is some toughness.  But dammit, I got a steak knife and everything was okay.  The crisp skin was perfect, with just the right layer of subcutaneous fat.  And the cranberry-orange reduction delicately sliced through the richness of the meat.

-          Stuffed Black Angus Filet Mignon: Jesus Christ, I don’t even know what to say at this point.  The rare meat melted in my mouth.  The potato gratin was slap-your-grandma-good (compliments to Jeff T. for that line).  The roasted red peppers and fontina could have overpowering or gloppy, but they weren’t because this is Indian Road Café.  They were textured and balanced, in a way that I wish my life may someday be. 

-          The random pork chop special with: A name I can’t remember, a tart sauce of shallots and mustard, and mashed sweet potatoes.  Once again, I point to the caramelization.  I truly feel that caramelization will make or break your pork, and oh baby do they ever make it.

Do you understand what I’m saying here people?  The food is spectacular.  And let’s say you don’t want a fancy night out, but just a simple sandwich?  IRC will provide, with Vegan Bahn Mi, or Cuban Paninos, or the only Club Sandwich I’ll ever truly love….

Look, I know that those of you living in Brooklyn had this in the early 80’s.  But I missed that train.  I’ve got Inwood, and I love it.  And this is merely the tip of the gluttonous iceberg.  But if I were to, say, write a WB show about women in their 30’s with little money and even fewer prospects, I would set much of it at IRC.  And some of us wouldn’t be wearing underwear.  You know who you are. 

Of course, the WB would really only pick this up if were 17, supernatural, and not wearing underwear.  But I still think we could work in IRC.  Now get your ass up to Inwood and order.