New Year's Eve Day Eve

T-minus 43 hours to our open house for Hogmanay and everything feels well in hand. Today after brunch with Scruffy, Mazeppa, and Greysong we did the heavy shopping (literally--over nine pounds each of ham and turkey breast) then we cleaned out the front hall closet to make room for coats. Already before brunch we cleaned out the refrigerator to make room for the meat. (Goodbye, sweet woodruff syrup! I thought I'd see more of you than I did.) Tomorrow will be cooking and more cleaning.

Tomorrow will also be my date with a man who will look deep inside me and then tell me whether or not I have squamous cells in my esophagus. Afterwards I'll break my fast with monshu, Dad, and my stepmom, which could prove pretty entertaining depending on how loopy I am. I only recall a little lightheadedness from my last endoscopy and could easily have walked home on my own. But this time I'm getting "the Michael Jackson drug" (i.e. Propofol) and they've warned me that it makes sodium pentothal look like chamomile tea.

I kind of feel like we should be making good use (and good riddance) of the leftover spaetzle and polenta in the fridge, but the Old Man is anxious to try the reopened Marigold in Andersonville, so I guess I'll just have to humour him.

Rebloomed

So we had a good experience at Marigold. It's certainly a more pleasant space than the late unlamented Olé Olé, even if it isn't quite as chill and cozy as the old place. The flow is mostly good until you hit the restrooms, which are awkward in size (too big for one occupant, two small for two) and layout. There was a Raj Kapoor movie playing on a large screen above the bar, which monshu was able to follow along with me (albeit without the benefit of subtitles) due to the presence of mirrored panels along the walls.

Although it had a healthy crowd for a Sunday night, you could scent the anxiety of management at making it in the new location. The waiter's charm bordered on smarm (and might've crossed over for those less willing to cut some slack for a hipster baby bear) and one of the managers came by after the meal to solicit feedback. When our first appetizer came out, there was confusion among the staff clustered at one end of the bar ("I don't know, that's not my table"), though nothing noticeable to the Old Man, who was facing away. Everything came promptly, the server knew the menu well ("I've eaten everything on it about five times"), and a request for sauce on the side was readily obliged.

Fans of the previous incarnation will find the bill of fare largely familiar. They've added a few dishes, but not much seems to have gone away. (But see below.) The biggest changes, in fact, seems to be the prices, which have been shaved, and the appearance of some less formal variations, such as a selection of "naan-wiches" which seem pitched to catch some of the Andersonville lunch trade. The servings are also more generous; the calamari could've made a meal in themselves. Mains that used to come with about a cup of rice now come atop a whole bowlful; obviously, one of things they've cut back on is presentation. That cup of rice was tinted with turmeric and moulded into a little pyramid. The chicken kalonji came cut into large chunks; now there's a whole piece perched atop a mound of snow-white basmati, making it a bit awkward to cut. (The should learn from the Japanese, who always slice a cutlet no matter how tender it is.)

But what they haven't cut back on is flavour. My chicken was outrageously juicy, nicely charred, and drizzled in coriander sauce. monshu's vindaloo had the slow burn he was looking for. Ajwain works well in the light chickpea breading on the squid, and I envied the GWO's capacity to mop as much chili sauce as he wanted with them. Cardamom (with help from the pistachios) keeps the rosewater in check on the kheer. Sometimes there's flavour where you wouldn't expect it, as with the chili powder on the pappadums, which had me coughing, and they're altogether too generous with the salt. It was acceptable on the calamari, but even the Old Man had to acknowledge that there was too much of it in the rice.

The only real disappointment came at dessert time, when the ginger crème brûlée monshu had been looking forward to all day turned out to be unavailable. "We're still working some things out in the kitchen," we were told. Since the name of the executive chef definitely didn't match that of the Lebanese woman who we quizzed about its preparation back in the day, I suspect "working out" might be a euphemism for "attempting to reconstruct". The original South Asian owners were also nowhere in evidence, leading me to suspect they sold out before the location change. (At least, I hope that's how it went down, but you never know in this dirty business.)