Friday, January 30, 2004

Earlier this week, well past 8 o'clock, Munch was having a sad night. The stomach was rumbling. The larder was bare. All the beer, stashed on the back deck, had frozen -- such a frightful waste.

Worst, not a single FOM was willing to pull on their Uggs to go out to eat: not in the snow, not in the ice, not in the wind-whippy, frigid world. Not even with Munch.

So Munch was alone, cruising for local take-away, when Indian Oven was spotted. A parking space gleamed right in front of the restaurant, and Munch launched into the desperately brave maneuver that is parking on Squirrel Hill's Murray Avenue, in the snow.

Munch negotiated a curb piled thigh-high with frozen slush in a low-slung Japanese two-door with saggy tires. There was sliding. Horns were honked. The ice crackled, the slush slushed and a hot rubbery smell filled the air.

After fighting through the sucking wetness to the curb, Munch was ravenous. Put it to a snow-addled imagination in hyper-drive, but it seemed there were colorful tendrils of fragrance curling from beneath the restaurant entrance, reaching like long fingers, chucking Munch under the chin, luring Munch in. "Eat, eat," they beckoned, like in the cartoons; Munch even heard the snake charmer's mysterious Middle Eastern melody ("There's a place in France, where the naked ladies dance").

Indian Oven took over the space that was once Peking Kitchen, which, for most of Munch's early life, was alternately terrific and terrible. Munch still misses their eye-popping spicy shredded beef. Next, Chopsticks, a fast and cheap Chinese joint, a la How Lee, squatted there for a year or two. Now, Indian Oven has the space, and it's a nice contrast to Sree's down the street, which sells ready-made Indian food to go.

The restaurant's two unremarkable rooms are long and narrow, the sides lined with tables, the walls hung with the usual velvet and sequin Taj Mahal/reclining women/bathing men art. With five or six tables going, and a gentleman in earflaps waiting for takeout, Indian Oven was doing a brisk business on a snowy night -- no doubt because Squirrel Hill is a walking neighborhood.

The menu is long, and Munch, great lover of Indian foods everywhere, spotted some rarely seen items: sarson da saag, a Punjabi-style saute of baby mustard leaves, and a wider-than-usual selection of breads. Munch made some quick picks, and in 30 minutes was parked on the couch at home with a bag of steaming food.

Despite a fanatic love of garlic nan, Munch chose lacha paratha, a whole wheat, layered bread. One piece to an order, it flaked away in thin sheets, which stretched the serving. The firm outer rim was perfect for scooping up bits of bhindi masala, baby okra stewed with onions and tomatoes. Indian Oven's bhindi masala lacks the gingery burst of the bhindi masala at Udipi in Monroeville, but it makes a strong showing when steamingly hot and sneaky with spice.

Paneer masala was a lovely pick. Firm cubes of homemade paneer, the mild and milky Indian cheese, were rich in a sweetish tomato sauce, wrapped in long sauteed onions and strong peppers. Samosa chat, packed with chickpeas, crunchy samosa bits, onions and potatoes, was a nice, non-creamy complement.

For the meat eater at home, Munch chose chicken kadahi. The chunks of chicken were large and tender, white and dark, in a gently hot sauce. They tasted as though they were seared in spice before being added to the unctuous sauce, an extra layer of flavor.

At a restaurant with such a varied menu, it's a good bet, thinks Munch, that the $5.95 daily buffet is worth looking into. Variety, after all, is the spice of life -- especially when all you see outside is the same old snow, snow, snow.

Indian Oven is at 2020 Murray Ave. in Squirrel Hill (412-422-8950).

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