His Kind of Town

Last Tuesday evening, Chicago’s Grant Park found itself awash in a sea of people and publicity. Stories of humanity abound: From Jesse Jackson’s tears on international TV to the guy perched on a ledge at Michigan Ave. and Van Buren St.— where throngs of people flooded towards the park— who yelled out, “Vote for Obama, young man!,” to the man who hawked StreetWise, a newspaper sold by homeless people here.

In one night, Grant Park saw upwards of 225,000 people, according to one news report. They came from other neighborhoods, other states, and other countries. Among them were tall people, short people, black people, white people, people neither black nor white—or perhaps both. As CNN blared from extra-large TV screens staggered in the park, those people cheered, they thanked Jesus, they sat on the grass and ate. Occasionally, they looked up to see themselves on CNN.

For one evening, at least, the so-called “second city” was second to none other on the world stage.

Writer’s note: The text and video presented here are meant to tell stories and are not intended as support for any political candidate or party.

Different Experiences

In the last posting, I wrote about Chowpatti, a vegetarian restaurant in the suburb of Arlington Heights.

On a wall in the dining room, two reviews hang side by side. One, from the Daily Herald newspaper, lauds the restaurant; the other, published in North Shore Magazine, isn’t as kind. That article, by Steve Dale in the magazine’s June 2004 issue, reads as follows:

North Shore readers named Chowpatti their favorite vegetarian restaurant. It’s fortunate that we’re a patient bunch. The wait on busy evenings can exceed an hour before the first food item arrives— in all, the entire affair can be a nearly two-hour melodrama. On a good night when crowds are thinner, you can chow it all down and escape in less than 60 minutes. By the way, the food arrives as it’s prepared, in no apparent order. For example, the freshly baked flatbreads ($1.50-$2.15) may hit the table between entrees, rather than before. That’s not necessarily a criticism; this is the practice at various ethnic restaurants. The menu at Chowpatti, which is named for a beach in Bombay, is primarily Indian. Although there are sections for Mexican and Italian dishes, stick with the Indian ones.

Owner Anil Kapadia meets and greets, boasting that every dish is prepared to order. Yet when a request is made to leave peas out of a pav bhaji (a stew-like dish), the waitress reprimands, “No, we won’t do that. We have a 20-page menu, I’m sure you’ll find something else to your liking.” Admittedly, the menu does indicate in small type, “no substitutions,” but there’s no defense for that attitude.

“Hummus ($4.95) is a good idea as a side dish. Ragda patties ($5.50) are very good: a grilled potato patty with yellow peas and onions, accompanied with a splendid sweet chutney sauce that mixed perfectly with cool coriander. Another clear winner is masala uttapam, a thick pancake made of rice and lentils stuffed with spinach, cashews, raisins and potatoes ($8.25). Like all menu items, you can order it hot and spicy or mild; this one is good with a kick.

Grab a catcher’s mask before you ask for a doggy bag, as the waitress tosses a box in your face, saying, “Wrap it yourself!” Kapadia, who is celebrating the restaurant’s 10th anniversary, pleads convincingly that they weren’t prepared to handle heavy crowds— especially after the North Shore award— and that glitches in service are being improved upon.

The article ends with the restaurant’s hours.

I asked Niyama Kapadia, son of the late Anil and a hostess at Chowpatti, about the review.

“We got, you know, news from North Shore Magazine that we were voted the number one restaurant,” she explained. “And we were so happy about it. We were excited, and it was like, ‘Wow,’ you know? And […] we were very busy after that, you know?

“He must have come in,” she went on, “and just like any customer comes, you know, we treat any customer with a lot of love and respect. […] He wanted this meatless stew without the green peas. So, I explained to him that, you know, the batch is already made; I can’t remove the peas from that. But then I suggested other items that might not have peas.

“But he wasn’t happy from that moment, I think.

“And then […] eventually, you know, he added a bread— like, I had suggested that he orders an Indian bread to accompany his curry dish. He didn’t listen to me. And then, during his meal, he decided to order a bread.

“Then I told him, you know, it will take some time. But he’s like, ‘No, I want to eat it with this food.’ And his ticket went at the end of the line. I mean, you know, when we’re busy, it’s busy, which is my mom and my sister cooking back there, and my dad and myself used to handle the floor.

“So, the bread got to his table a little bit later, and I think he was upset about that.

She continued, “When he wanted his food wrapped up, we provide containers. We’re short-handed; it’s just a small fam— so, we provide containers, and we allow the customers to pack their meals.

“He didn’t like that.

“Most reviewers don’t tell us, but he came on the counter, and— you know, my dad always asks— when he goes to the tables, and he always asks, ‘How was your experience? Did you enjoy your meal? I hope we see you again.’

“And he said, ‘That waitress you have there… you need to fire her.’

“He was like, ‘What are you talking about?— What? What?’ […] And he wanted to make sure if it was, like, my sister or me, who he’s talking about. And so, my dad said, ‘Tell me what happened.’ You know, ‘Let me try to correct it.’

“So, he told that ‘she was so arrogant, she didn’t want to remove the peas from my meal. I told her, “I don’t mind. I want her to make the meatless stew without peas.”’

“He insisted— he wanted my dad to insure him that my dad would fire me.

“And my dad said, you know, ‘You don’t understand. She’s my daughter. […] And somehow it’s hard for me to believe that my daughter was rude to you.’

“And that’s it. So, Mr. Dale said to my dad, ‘So, you’re trying to tell me you don’t believe me?’ And my dad said, ‘No, don’t get me wrong. It’s just hard for me to believe that my daughter was rude to any customer. Not you.’ […] And fortunately, we had a few regulars that were sitting next to him. And so they—

“Then Mr. Dale became loud. […] The other customer that was sitting next to them got up and said that, you know, ‘We were here throughout the dinner and […] no, Anil, your daughter was behaving very nicely with him.’ You know, ‘Just like she behaves with everybody.’

“And he said, ‘You watch… you watch the review I write you.’

“So, my dad’s like, ‘Write whatever you want.’

“So, he wrote a nasty— You know, in the article, he says, ‘Wear catcher’s mask, because the waitress w’— Ugh!

“And then my dad put it on every table. […] Whatever story we get written up, he would make small copies, and then”—

She tapped on a piece of plastic.

—“these would go on every table, you know? And, so what happened is, even with that negative write-up, my dad put it on every table. And I’m like, ‘Dad! Why are— He’s writing mean things about me! How could—’

“And my dad said, ‘No, no. Just because we got something negative, that doesn’t mean we’re going to hide it from people. You have to learn to take criticism.’

“And I said, ‘But dad, he was so wrong.’ […] I was young, and I was mad, and I’m like, ‘How dare he write something like that?’

“My dad said, ‘Don’t worry.’”

“He put it on every table. I could not believe it.

“Well, what happened is, our loyal customers read it, and on their own, they wrote to the magazine. Some customers are like, ‘I’ve been dining here for 12 years.’ Somebody would say, ‘I’ve been dining here since five years.’ ‘We weren’t here that evening, but we know this can’t be true. We know the family so well. It’s not possible.’

“So, the editor of the magazine contacted my father. And he said […] ‘I have a stack full of letters,’ and you know, ‘They’re all saying something negative about my reviewer, Mr. Dale.’

“Yeah. So, the owner of the magazine contacted my dad, apologized to my dad, and said, ‘Maybe he had an off day,’ you know. He’s like, ‘It can’t be possible that so many letters are wrong.’ So, he’s like, ‘I think my reviewer had a […] off moment, and maybe he didn’t like your daughter. I don’t know what happened. But,’ you know, ‘I can’t go back and erase, because that was already printed. But what I will do for you is I will print some of those letters.’

“So my dad said, ‘See? It always pays off to be honest.’ You know, ‘Never hide.’

“We never asked our customers to do that.”

At this point, a man entered the restaurant. It was 4 p.m., and Niyanta, who was standing behind the front counter, greeted him.

“Hi, how are you?” she said.

“Do you serve now?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” she replied in a sweet voice. “We’ll re-open at 5 o’clock.”

“Okay. That’s what I saw outside.”

“Yes. Sorry about that.”

Niyanta continued: “So, yeah. From that point on, I knew that my dad was right about so many things.”

A more-recent review of the restaurant, by Marla Seidell in The Daily Herald last month (a different article than the one hangining on the wall), had this to say about Kipadia: “Niyanta made for a gracious server, host and owner rolled into one. She expertly fielded our finicky eater's many questions, and made suggestions that pleased all.”

Different people; different times. Different experiences.

World's Largest Vegetarian Menu?

I was flipping through an alternative newspaper one evening when a small ad caught my eye. “World largest vegetarian menu,” boasted the ad, for Chowpatti restaurant in Arlington Heights. (No, “World largest” is not a typo on my part.)

The world’s largest vegetarian menu? I was impressed— and skeptical.

So, I decided to take a trip out to Arlington Heights.

On a Friday afternoon shortly after 2:30, I arrived at a strip mall on S. Arlington Heights Rd. Above a doorway, a large, green banner read “INTERNATIONAL VEGETARIAN CUISINE.” I entered the restaurant, and a woman at the front counter told me to choose my table.

I walked into the dining room, where a white man and woman sat at one table, and two Asian women at another. The room had a calm feeling to it, with about a dozen tables and a mix of cushiony, green-and-brown benches and green-and-brown chairs. Table lights suspended by chains from the ceiling helped give the place the feel of a coffee shop.

“In a few minutes, our kitchen will close, so I will need your order soon,” said the hostess, handing me the menu, with the slightest of Indian accents.

“No problem,” I replied.

“I appreciate it,” she added.

I began to flip through the menu. It was divided into sections of a variety of ethnicities, from Indian to Middle Eastern to Italian to Mexican.

It was only 22 pages long.

And those were just the numbered pages. Two more preceded them, one with a history of the restaurant, and the other with a table of contents for the rest of the menu.

Overwhelmed, I asked the hostess for recommendations. She pointed out the Chowpatti veggie burger, the Bombay Bhel salads, the Sev Batata Puri, and the Pav Bhaji, among other dishes.

I decided on the Pav Bhaji, a stew of steamed vegetables with seasonings served with a side of grilled French bread. I opted for a “medium” spice level from among choices of mild, medium, and hot.

The hostess then suggested a drink. Beyond a range of lhasis, milk drinks, and teas, the menu offered 28 combinations of fruit and/or vegetable juice. My eye fell on the Refreshing Fruit Cocktail, a mix of pineapple, grape, and apple juices.

But— ack! $8.95!

And yet, I’m a sucker for fresh juice.

I ordered it.

(A paragraph at the top of the page with the headline “Benefits of Freshly Squeezed Juices” included this consolation: “When considering the expense, think of our juice as a delicious investment in your health which pays for yourself.” I didn’t quite buy it, but it made me feel a little better.)

While waiting for the food to come, I perused the menu. The first page gave an interwoven history of the restaurant and the family that ran it. It turned out a man from Mumbai (formerly Bombay), India, named Anil Kapadia started the business in 1982. He named it after his native city’s Chowpatty Beach, where, back when he was dating his wife, vendors sold a variety of food— what the restaurant’s menu described as “culinary delicacies and tasty tid-bits.”

After the history came the table of contents, arranged as follows:


1) Dining helpful hints
2) The levels of spice [explains the kitchen’s spice system, from mild to hot; written in three paragraphs, plus bullet points]
3) Soups
3) Gourmet soups
4) Sandwiches, gourmet salads
5) American favorites
6) Italian favorites
7) Veggie pizzas
8) Mexican favorites
10) Middle Eastern favorites
11) Bombay favorites
14) South Indian favorites
16) North Indian favorites
17) Indian flat breads
18) Rice selections
18) Dal selections
18) Combination platters
19) Side orders
20) Beverages
20) Hot beverages
21) Freshly squeezed juice
22) Dessert


If it wasn’t the world’s (or at least America’s) most extensive vegetarian menu, it was still doing pretty well for itself.

My fruit juice arrived first. With a frothy texture, it had a sweet taste from the apple and a tartness from the pineapple and grape. The apple juice itself tasted freshly pressed, and the whole mixture was refreshing. I’m not a wine connoisseur, but with this drink, I could sense what they must appreciate with wines.

The Pav Bhaji was next. A stew with hearty chunks of— what was it?— potato?, along with peas, tomato, onion, and sprigs of parsley, it, too, tasted freshly made. The dish wasn’t too oily; the peas, notably, stood up to biting without being hard.

As I chewed the mixed vegetables, I felt the spice from the stew, but the flavor, especially from the tomato, crept up through the spice— as opposed to the spice’s covering for a lack of flavor, as is the case with some Indian food.

While I continued alternately eating and looking at the menu, the hostess brought over a complementary small plate with what looked like a fried sweet-potato puff and a nacho chip topped with sour cream, diced tomatoes, and shredded cucumbers. They were samples of what I didn’t order.

The fried potato had a spice to it (dipping it in the accompanying tamarind sauce helped), while the toppings on the nacho had a nice cooling effect. Towards the end of the meal, I dipped the French bread in the tamarind sauce, which made for a sweet flavor and further cooled my mouth.

The hostess asked if I’d like tea or dessert, and I decided to indulge in Kesar Pista Kulfi, homemade saffron-pistachio Indian ice cream. It arrived in the form of a tiny pie cut into eight wedges with two toothpicks stuck into it. Though it looked small sitting in the middle of the plate, that didn’t matter much when the cold, dense, pistachio-ish creaminess seemed to climb up the roof of my mouth.

Mmmm.

I could have gone for the Carrot Halwa afterwards, but such as it was, my budget was already crying for mercy.

The hostess dropped off the check, along with a take-out menu— only eight pages long— a coupon for my next visit, and a business card.

The hostess, it turned out, was Niyanta Kapadia, one of the two daughters of the restaurant’s founder.

“We do have our journal, by the showcase, if you want to sign in,” she said.

After a few moments, I walked up to the cash register to pay, passing reviews on the wall from the Daily Herald newspaper and North Shore Magazine. By the register, T-shirts with vegetarian slogans sat in a display case; facts about vegetarianism, from Vegetarian Times magazine, were posted on the wall not far from a few Norman Rockwell images; and a column of photos of Anil, the restaurant’s founder, who died in 2000, had been set up.

I asked Niyanta whether it was true that the restaurant had the most extensive vegetarian menu.

“I just reduced my menu three […] weeks ago,” she said. “It was 26 pages and so many varieties. It’s just that my mom’s turning 65 tomorrow, and she’s had a couple falls in the kitchen. She slipped and fell, so her rotary cuffs, you know, aren’t cooperating, and just her age and health.

“So, I figured, slowly, slowly. You know, I don’t want to burden her so much. So, that’s why I’m simplifying. And many of my customers are even telling me, ‘Niyanta, you guys are doing too much. Reduce,’ you know. So, I think it’s… in the long run, it’s just going to help me to manage it for a longer period of time.”

I think I speak for a lot of customers when I say, Niyanta, I think you’ll be just fine with 22 pages.