My first taste came last week, on Saturday, on my way home from a long (and much needed) run along the Hudson River Park. I stopped by to say hello, quite sweaty and unappealing, actually, but happy to see Heather, who I must disclose is a close friend. She couldn’t have cared less about my less than lovely appearance, and like a grandmother feeding her young, started preparing lunch for me. I was still sweating and starting to scare off guests, and so I tried to stop her. “Heather, I am sweaty and gross. People are going to leave your store and never come back. I should go. Really, I should not eat here now.” In classic grandmother form (other than the fact that she is young and gorgeous), she waved her hands in the air, and ignored me. “So, you won’t eat it now,” she said in that, I-don’t-care- what-you-say-you-are-getting-fed tone. “You’ll need to eat something later. So, you’ll take it home and warm it up for dinner.” With that she disappeared into the kitchen with Purva to assemble my sustenance for later. A few minutes later, after an unfortunate pond of perspiration had formed by my feet, I was sent away with a hug (only people who really love you hug you when you are sweaty), and a bulging brown paper shopping bag.

I could barely wait until I got home to open my care package. Once inside, I tore open the fat sack and peered inside. My head was rushed with a fabulous wave of cardamom, chiles, ginger, and cumin. I was putty in the hands of that food, and while I had planned on saving it for later, and following up my run with a glass of something healthy (like Pinot Noir), instead I devoured practically its entire contents while standing in my kitchen, still sweaty and in my running clothes. (Gross, I know, but sadly, true.)

From the lavender-infused chai tea (the best chai I have ever had), to the amazing bowl of almond soup—a soft, gently sweet and nutty dairy-less broth that seemed to reach inside me and fill up all my cold empty places with a delicate warmth, to a fresh cilantro chutney that I generously spooned onto her floppy, Frisbee-sized paratha—pancakes made from Atta (whole wheat flour) and filled with finely minced goat ramped up with coriander, cumin, and chiles—and a bowl of Aloo Ghobi—a humble dish of potatoes and cauliflower turned into a red carpet star with a flash of tumeric and sweet ribbons of caramelized onions—I was securely planted in a state of edible bliss.

After coming up for air, I realized that (a) I still needed to shower, but that (b) I would have to put that off because there was one last treat in that poor ravaged shopping bag. And yes, it was dessert—a container of her homemade pumpkin halvah—a wild spoonable treat, that was the dense and creamy texture of peanut butter, marbled with plump, juicy golden raisins and toasted pistachios. I exercised some restraint here (it was about time), and allowed myself just a few modest mouthfuls. I then made it to the couch, where I held my bulging belly, and decided I would have to go for another run again later that day. (Note: that never happened.) But I did manage to make the tub of halvah last about three days. I was hoping for a miracle similar to the oil in the Hanukah Menorah—that a tub of pumpkin halvah meant to last only three days would last eight. Oh well. I guess they save the miracles for the stuff that really matters, and not things like prolonging my happy halvah days. I am sad without my halvah. I am dreaming of it as I write this, starting at a plastic container scraped clean of its Halloween-orange (not saffron) colored contents.

As I plan my next run, I do not know how far I will go, but I do know it will how it will end—with a sprint towards Lassi.

Lassi is located at 28 Greenwich Avenue, 212-675-4216.

Andrea Strong