Twenty minutes down the road, we arrived at a strip mall. At first sight, you wouldn’t even know there was an Indian buffet at the center, stuffed between an Irish pub and a Chinese laundromat. When you entered the little sliver that was Kiran Palace, it was like walking into a Hindu shrine built hundreds of years ago, equipped with gold-accented molding along the ceilings and brass statues of gods sitting on window sills and floor corners. The scent of incense drifted into my nostrils while sitar music played over the loudspeakers. Arriving there, I always felt like it was like being teleported to ancient Delhi, or that I’d died and this was one of three potential afterlives.
We took our seats at a round table as a basket of garlic naan was placed at the center.
