Punjabi Dhaba
A Road-Side Cafe on Hampshire
Triple Thick’s set had been pretty good. They were a garage band who seemed to live at The Abbey where I often caught their sets. But I was a bit hungry and the beer I had drunk on an empty stomach was affecting me more than I would have liked this early in the evening. A good time to go to Punjabi Dhaba, I figured. So I walked a few blocks down Beacon street to the brightly lit restaurant located at the intersection of Hampshire and Cambridge streets right in the midst of Inman Square.
I first discovered Punjabi Dhaba in the early 2000s — likely on my way to see a band at the Abbey. Walking through the door on a weekend night is like arriving at a party going full-tilt. The tiny storefront is perpetually packed with people waiting for their orders. Bhangra, blaring from the TV perched high above the counter is occasionally accompanied by the calling out of orders.
“Number 78, number 78!” rings out from behind the cash register. A young student pushes his way through the crowd to claim the metal tray containing his dinner, fiddles with silverware from a plastic container, and attempts to find a seat before most often disappearing to the upstairs dining room that is not much larger than the tiny seating area in the front of the restaurant. The lines were long, the food inexpensive and the atmosphere intoxicating. Some of this ambiance found its way into a song, but that’s another story altogether.
This Friday night, like every Friday night, the front of this popular takeout spot was packed with people ordering; waiting to order; waiting to pick up their order; and most of all trying to find a place to sit and eat. Slightly buzzed, I squeezed into line and began perusing their menu and the plethora of specials taped to the front counter. As usual, the bhangra soundtrack was starting the party while curries energetically boiled in large pots on the stove. Large bubbles from the gravy seemed to pop out of time with the music while steam from the boiling liquid snaked its way upwards. It was a bit mesmerizing. I ordered my dinner, paid for it and hesitated by the counter for a few minutes taking in the scene unfolding behind the counter as the staff deliberately, but unhurriedly prepared dinners for the assembled multitude.
While I was waiting, I kept a keen eye on the short counter attached to the front window — watching for the instant someone finished their dinner and was preparing to leave. It was an important sixth sense for weekend nights; one that I had developed through a lot of practice on nights when I was grabbing dinner before heading to the Abbey. I managed to secure the seat next to the trash can and door, which allowed me a tiny bit of extra space on the counter since no one would be sitting to my right. After an eternity, my number was called and I went to the counter to secure my order.
Tikki Chole, an entry from the Light Food section of their menu, turned out to be the perfect choice and tasted extra good that night owing to my slightly impaired condition. Chole topped with onions, chilis and probably a bit of chaat masala perfectly complimented the small fried Aloo Tikki — all for $3.95. I was impressed. This was far more satisfying than a few slices at my pizza shop down the street; and for essentially the same price.
At first their menu largely consisted of a subset of the standards available at most local restaurants. One section of their menu was named Chaatt Corner containing, as you might expect, a few chaats. The chaats and dishes from the Light Food section were typically appetizer size, while other menu items tended to be more substantial and were served on metal trays with compartments for rice, curry, onions and chutney making a perfect lunch.
Over time, their menu expanded with specials handwritten on cards and taped to the front of the counter. But even from the beginning, “Punjabi,” as I generally refer to them, was one of the few places in the area where you could order Anda Bhurji — Indian omelets. However, most of their menu was not much different than other restaurants’ offerings back in the eighties and nineties. As I learned a bit more about Punjabi’s connection to India Pavilion a long-lived restaurant in Central Square, this began to make sense.
I visited Punjabi every chance I could. I would get home from work, drive to Inman Square, drop by Punjabi for dinner then walk a few blocks to the Abbey. This pattern was repeated so often, it almost become a ritual for me. In all honesty, I found the food at Punjabi to be just average, but it was the ability to order small inexpensive dishes, and the electric atmosphere that won me over. Not to mention the proximity to the Abbey. Interestingly, the festive atmosphere completely dissolves during the daytime. While they are open for lunch, the pace is far less frenetic, and open tables are a cinch to find.
Punjabi comes the closest to the pizza shop styled chaat house that I was imagining after visiting the Kati Roll Company in New York. When I first started to go to Punjabi Dhaba, I was unaware of the concept of road-side cafes in India — much like rest stops on US highways. But that’s what Punjabi Dhaba is, an urban road-side cafe perfect for a quick lunch or dinner. Alas, once the Abbey closed, my trips to Punjabi became less and less frequent.