the eXile - bar-dak - Lionel Tannenbaum

Issue #15/96, August 3 - 17, 2000

E-Raj-enous Zones

By Genghis Goldberg

[Eds. Note: Lionel Tannenbaum is in rehab. He will be back in 21 days.]

The Indian cuisine situation has been an open wound on the body of Moscow culinaria for some time now. Even in the best of times-i.e. before Kohinoor closed down-you more or less had to go outside the ring road to get a first-class Indian meal. The legendary Kohinoor, now regarded as a sort of culinary Atlantis, was uncomfortably located far up Prospekt Mira, but it was worth the trip, offering among other things a ferocious Palaak Paneer that would leave Popeye himself farting for days. Darbar, at the exact opposite end of the city, is still open and not far below the Kohinoor standard. But getting to Darbar means ponying up for one of those irritating 70-ruble cab rides, and the restaurant’s loud live acts during dinner hours can provide conversationalists with a powerful disincentive to visit. The food at Darbar is good enough that you end up going anyway, but upon leaving you always have the same thought—if it were closer and quieter, I’d come here every day.

Enter AMBASSADOR, the new kid on the Indian cui-scene. It is closer to home, conveniently located on Ulitsa Prechistenka, between the Kropotkinsakaya and Park Kulturi Metro stations—within walking distance if you happen to be a serial killer vacationing at the nearby Serbsky Institute. It’s quiet, with no live acts and a choice of two spacious halls. On the face of it, a serious pretender to the throne currently occupied by Darbar. Are there even thrones in the Indian culture? I don’t know the answer to that question, so in the interests of international friendship and understanding, which it has always been the eXile’s privilege to promote, I’ll put it this way: Ambassador, if the food is good enough, would constitute a serious pretender to the nearest cultural equivalent of the “throne” currently occupied by Darbar.

It is in Ambassador’s favor that upon entering, you actually root for it to supplant Darbar. Located in the same spot as the old Ambassador restaurant, in an elegantly-furnished prerevolutionary building, Ambassador scores an immediate victory over other centrally-located rivals like Tandoor and Maharaja on the basis of its interior alone. The entrance to its main hall is even flanked by twin glimmering five-foot hookas, earning the place an automatic eXile-guide cheer (which nearly turned into a jeer when the waiter hurriedly explained that they were “only souvenirs”). The two halls are separated by a smoking room, recalling the colonial era of red-faced British imperialists with bunched crotches and funny hats. The obsequious-service factor, a problem at many Indian restaurants, was surprisingly low here, although one lighter-bearing waiter did appear to break Maurice Greene’s 100-meter record when my companion tried to light a cigarrette by herself. (Moe Snideman would motion to object to this last statement—Ed.)

Prices are marginally more expensive than Darbar, but on the whole comparable. The appetizers in particular may seem pricier, but the portions are extremely large. Thus the strange but very tasty Surkh Sharba ($4), a mysterious dish of little pods made of lentils and god knows what else drenched in a sweetish cold yogurt sauce, is bigger and more filling than most of the entrees on the menu. Likewise, the delicious Chicken Pakora ($10), though more expensive, is almost a meal in itself—a large plate of deep-fried marinated chicken. Eat half and throw the rest at your date. She’ll put up with it; women love to be humiliated.

The Dahj Gujjja ($6), a sort of Indian tomato soup, had too many J’s in its name but was otherwise an excellent soup, spicy and of a perfect consistency— less viscous than an English tomato soup but more spiritually rewarding. Other winners include the Kima Meti Matar ($12), a spicy ground mutton dish, the black Dal ($9), and the lemon rice. Less successful was the Malika-e-Darjiya ($19), the one dish we ordered which left us wanting. A shrimp dish with a coconut milk base, it wasn’t bad, but it was somehow blander than the other offerings. You were much more likely to dip your naan into the kima or the dal. Incidentally, the naan also drew complaints from one eXile staffer—it’s a little dry and lacks that drenched-in-butter feel that quiets the surly naan pedant. But judge for yourself.

Ambassador, according to its management, is also the only Indian restaurant in town that boasts a separate chef for its dessert menu. You can see facsimiles of the results displayed in a Madame-Tussaud style glass case at the restaurant entrance. We ate the real things and came away satisfied, although on the whole we were too full after the meal to really enjoy them.

Ambassador has a lot of good things going for it, not the least of which being Michael Bass’s name in its guest book. The interior is elegant and peaceful and the food does the job. But as for it assuming the Kohinoor mantle, it’s a little early to say. Better to say that, like the recent improvement of Tandoor (see new capsule review) and the reliable Little India, it complicates the Indian food picture. You may want to start eating Indian food every night, at a different restaurant each night. You may want to get a sex change operation. That’s your right— and your burden. For we human beings have both free will and the obligation to choose for ourselves. It’s part of the murky nature of our at-times-troubling relationship with an unknown, and undetectable, God. Enjoy.

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