“Namaste,” says a small woman in a voice two decibels above a whisper. She pulls herself out of a shallow bow, her hands joined together as if in prayer. She opens her hands, gestures to a small, humble dining room and leads us to a white-clothed table, then disappears to get drinks.

Like discoveries in other experimental fields, the ones that happen in the kitchen are often rooted in mistakes. When way too many black peppercorns got dumped into hot oil for a pre-bean-fry, it seemed they were lost. What to do with a pile of soggy, greasy peppercorns?

Nursing It Back

Little Sir Dan, sat with his hands, aloft over keyboard with a frown. Along came his boss, and with a crumpled note he did toss, asking “Hey, we doing a Chowtown?!”

View in Alibi Chowtown