The recipes had survived centuries, passed down through plague, famine, and genocide. After the war, Adam’s Nani smuggled them across the Pacific in a shuddering jet. Her wrathful samosas turned Aunty Ghita’s sinnery into an institution. Locals would walk an extra block on their way home just to steal a whiff of her finely spiced sins.
Adam’s earliest memories were of the kitchen. He was rolling samosas before he could read. When he flunked out of school, Nani taught him everything she knew. The sinnery had suffered since her passing, but Adam still used her original recipes, producing passable imitations of dishes once served to imperious rajahs and majestic sultans. Nani had always prepared her own dough, kneading flour into buttery ghee. Adam used a shortcut: he bought his from a dingy little grocer on 42nd Street.
Nani would be smouldering in her urn if she knew, but Adam could barely taste the difference. The samosa filling was simple yet flavoursome: ginger, garam masala, green chillies, and a pinch of finely diced wrath. A good samosa fizzled across the palate like a firecracker, and Aunty Ghita’s samosas were legendary. Or they used to be, anyway.
