After the mangosteen daiquiri misted tableside with lime oil, the cheesy garlic naan, the broccoli salad with pistachios and mint, the pink peppered pineapple soda, the tandoori half-chicken with tingling green chutney, the crock of thick, savory, buttery black dal—after all that, served in the celadon-green Permit Room in Notting Hill, no, I did not need dessert.
Enter the brownie to end all brownies. It came cloaked in malai, the Indian version of clotted cream, and pulverized jaggery. My spoon slipped through, revealing an interior so moist and black, it looked like you could grow tomatoes in it.
