Like a nervous-wreck stage mom, I had to walk out of the room when my brothers screened two of their short films at the pleasantly trendy east side bar called Stone Creek last night. The bar, owned by one of my brother's friends, has a space towards the back with a big plasma television and an assortment of comfortable couches and sofas. The turnout was great, the space was conducive to a relaxed atmosphere and I really shouldn't have been experiencing sympathy anxiety and nervous nausea, but I couldn't help it! The room started to close in on me, the faces distorted into nightmarish parodies of cordiality, I started sweating bullets and had to get the hell out of there.
And so I found myself standing outside the bar, hitting random digits on my cell phone in an attempt to look preoccupied and very important. But it was cold and I was sans jacket so I decided to walk in order to warm up. I had taken a few steps to my left when I happened upon it, a gloriously kitschy emporium (well, it wasn't as much an "emporium" as it was a hole-in-the-wall "store") with a placard hanging outside that read: WE SERVE PAAN. For those of my readers who don't know what paan is, check out the following (and please note that paan is just as popular in Pakistan as it is in India; this article fails to mention that): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paan.
My heart sang (it sang a Bollywood song, yes, but, alas, paan only inspires Bollywood songs) and I almost tripped as I ran through the doors to my paan heaven. I heart paan so much. I rarely get to eat it but when I do serendipitously stumble upon paan shops, I make sure to buy in bulk and gorge on the stuff. So, I walked in and ended up buying 6 meehta (sweet) paans and a couple dozen packets of Tulsi Paan Masala. As the paan waala (the dude who makes the paan) laid out six betel leaves and proceeded to methodically create the little triangles of perfection, we engaged in a pleasant conversation in Urdu. For a moment, I felt like I was in Pakistan.
The feeling swiftly disappeared as soon as I exited the store. I walked to Stone Creek with a smile on my face and a purse full of deliciousness from the old country. And it was good.
ps: Most of my friends who've been force fed paan by yours truly liken the experience to eating perfume (as we left Stone Creek, my friend Gary asked to try some of my Tulsi Paan Masala [little packets of betel nuts, pieces of dry dates, aniseed, cardamom, tons of artificial flavor and sacchrin...paan usually contains these and many other ingredients]. Despite my warnings, he threw back a handful of the paan masala in his mouth. I cringed as I watched him try to figure out whether or not to chew on the aromatic blend. "Tastes like perfume," he finally managed to mumble).
It's an acquired taste
Consume at your own risk.
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