the order window at Dosa Hut
The dosa, a kind of giant pancake made from a batter of rice and lentils and wrapped around a filling, is a South Indian dish with a long pedigree; mention is made of it in poetry that predates the birth of Christ. Reading the dosa menu at Dosa Hut, at 777 Newark Avenue, is like tracing the family tree: Here are the matriarchs, Plain Dosa, Masala Dosa (a potato and onion mix), Onion Dosa. Along the way they married into some local color: Chili, Mysore (a red chutney), Paneer (a kind of cottage cheese), and a branch of that hard-working family Palak (spinach). Thus began the begetting: Chili Dosa, Onion Chili Dosa, Masala Chili Dosa, Onion Chili Masala Dosa. Palak Plain Dosa, Palak Masala Dosa, Palak Paneer Dosa, Palak Paneer Masala Dosa. Someone took up with one of those no-good Gun Powder boys: Gun Powder Dosa, Gun Powder Onion Chili Plain, Gun Powder Onion Chili Masala.
If you are not lucky enough to know, already, what these ingredients taste like and what the subtle effects of the various combinations are, you have a gracious and capable guide in Komal, who works the counter most days at lunch and dinner. Komal will remember you, and will keep in her head a continuously updating calculus of what you ordered last time, what you did and didn’t like, and will generate recommendations that you will ignore at your peril.
Make no mistake, the dosa is fast food, created from the magic of starch and hot grease. Let it sit and the cheese congeals, the crust sags, the wet ingredients mingle unfavorably with the dry. But the magic, for those first beautiful minutes, is beyond compare.
The crust of the pancake is a toothsome miracle, chewy and crisp. The trick is the filling; here is where Komal and experimenting will serve you best. There are hits: Classic Dosa, light and fresh, served in pieces filled with barely-wilted spinach and a sprinkle of melted cheese. And not-hits: the Mysore Masala Dosa, one long tube as long as your arm, with a thick lump of potato and onion in the center, like a python digesting a rabbit. The inside of the tube is covered with a swirl of red and green spices, like a weather map of a hurricane. It’s kicky but dry; a carb overload.
Missteps can be doused in the sambhar and the creamy, nutty coconut chutney that come with, or the bowl of potatoes, acid yellow under the fluorescent lights. (Dosa Hut has the ambience of a bus station, but at least you’re not paying for it; all dosas are $3.50 - $7.50, and many are big enough for two.)
For those overwhelmed by the dosa dynasty there are plenty of other options, like the worthy Samosa Chatt, a meal-sized plate of chickpeas in a fruity red sauce over fried samosas, with garnishes atop. Also the very fine dal, a yellow lentil slurry flavored with cumin seeds and whole curry leaves; a perfect balance of salt and smoky lentil, hearty, slightly tangy.
On my last visit Komal recommended the Palak Paneer Dosa, spinach curry; I went instead for the Classic, fine, but spent my meal eying the dosa of the man next to me, overflowing with a creamy, juicy filling, which he was ripping apart with relish.
After the man left I asked Komal what he’d had. “That was the Palak Paneer Dosa!” She regarded me pointedly.
“I told you,” she said.
