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Today I went to a new Indian restaurant in the banking district called Sabor de India and even though it was fifteen minutes before opening, the waitress said it would be OK if I sat down and waited inside. Their menu she handed me was tri-fold and no one item cost more than about five bucks, a blast to the past when restaurants in Panama used to be economical and, as a result, the food tasted that much better. At one point in the show, I think it was right after Farrah's gynecological exam, the dead-beat father of her child actually gets hit by a car and dies.
The décor of the restaurant was comprised of the same cheap tables and aspiring light fixtures you see in many of the impulsive, fly-by-night restaurants of Panama City. “I like the smell,” was one of the first things I said when I walked in, and to that, the waitress responded, “how nice.”
Just as my first plate arrived, a group of four UNICEF employees entered and saluted me as if I was the owner of the restaurant. “Good afternoon,” each of them said to me. “How long has this restaurant been open?” I had two options here; to reveal that I wasn’t affiliated with the restaurant or to take on the roll of owner.
I smiled and said, “un ratito,” which is Spanish for an indeterminate amount of little time. “Welcome, make yourselves at home.”
The food at Sabor de India was very good, specifically the dish that serves two vegetable samosas doused in a chickpea and tamarind sauce. This is the Indians equivalent to a deep-fried Snickers bar or warm fudge atop an ice cream Sunday: an extra layer of elegance atop something that could really be delicious enough all on its own. This dish, the samosas covered in chickpea gravy, cost $3.
Also adding to the ambiance at Sabor de India was a plasma television, which aired a show called 16 and Prengant, in which this girl, Farrah I think her name was, who lived in Iowa, deals with the prospect of giving birth at such an early age. At one point in the show, I think it was right after her gynecological exam, the dead-beat father to her child actually gets hit by a car and dies. The UNICEF folks and I sat enthralled with this turn of events as we all, respectively, shoveled pakoras into our mouths.
The total bill for my meal (albeit one that could have fed a small Embera village) was $15. Next time, with proper notice, I would spend around $5 and be totally satisfied. Sabor de India is the kind of restaurant that everyone needs to support so that it’s $3 entrees don’t eventually add up and lead to its demise. It’s located between the banking district and Bella Vista, on the little sloped side street with Pizza Piolo and La Papa. It has an outdoor terrace and some of the cheapest, most authentic ethnic food you will find in a country that’s otherwise seriously lacking in this department.
When I was leaving, I told the waitress the food was very rich (which is how you say, in Spanish, that the food was very delicious) and her response was “how nice.”
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