15. Noa
NOA
We exit at Sunset and wind up into the hills.
The roads get narrower, the houses get bigger, and my anxiety about wherever we’re going increases proportionally.
Finally, Aarti pulls off a parallel parking job made possible by the aforementioned German engineering.
I get out, following her to an unassuming arched wooden door covered in creeping ivy.
She pushes the door open, revealing a charming periwinkle-blue stucco bungalow surrounded by an enchanting garden patio carved into the cliffside.
Twinkling lights are strung between orange trees, and the view of the city below is so perfect it looks fake.
ARJUN’S is painted on the side of the house in burnt umber script.
As I follow Aarti, I notice waiters and patrons alike giving her warm smiles and nods.
To my surprise, she doesn’t brush them off, instead offering back equally warm smiles and nods.
We seat ourselves at a corner table surrounded by jasmine and just a single inhale of the scent has me calmer than I’ve felt in days.
“What is this place?” I breathe.
Before she can answer, a handsome middle-aged Indian man emerges from a door swinging out of the kitchen. He’s covered in tattoos and wearing chef’s whites, arms spread wide.
“Beta!” he calls out, approaching our table.
Aarti launches herself at him. They share a hug so genuine and full of uncomplicated joy that I have to look away.
“Uncle, this is Noa,” she introduces us. “Noa, my Uncle Arjun.”
“Arjun as in…?” I gesture at our surroundings.
“At your service!” His eyes twinkle. “Any friend of Aarti’s gets the royal treatment.”
I’m not sure she’d go as far as to call me a friend, so I just tell him, “Your restaurant is really lovely.”
He hands us menus, which I eagerly reach for, but Aarti waves them away.
“Restrictions? Allergies?” she asks me.
“Nope.”
She winks at her uncle. “Do your thing.”
“You got it.” He disappears inside.
“Your uncle started this place?” I ask in awe, taking in the herbs growing in planters, the mismatched vintage plates on neighboring tables, the feeling that we’ve stumbled into a secret garden.
“It used to be my grandparents’ restaurant. They opened it when they first immigrated–named for their newborn son,” she nods her head toward Arjun’s kitchen. “The first of their children to be born in America. When they retired, Arjun took over.”
“His namesake,” I ponder.
Aarti nods. “My mom is three years older, born in India, but she was raised in that kitchen, too. Same with me and my sister.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You have a sister?”
Aarti laughs. "Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I’m cobbling together very sparse knowledge of who you are, every detail feels precious.”
“And why exactly do you need the minutiae of my life?” she retorts.
“Don’t laugh–” I warn her stupidly. “I’m an artist. Ice cream is my medium. You have to actually sit for the portrait if you want it to capture you.”
She deflects with a smirk. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out plenty without my help.”
“I’ve learned, like, three things about you in total.”
“Oh?” She leans back, amused. “Do tell.”
“One,” I count on my fingers. “You have a sister.”
“Groundbreaking detective work.”
“Two, you’re aggravatingly funny.”
“Oh?”
“I watched all of your Midnight Live sketches and loved them. I don’t want to talk about it. And three…” I pause, scrambling for something clever to cap this off, but improv is her department. So I default to honesty: “LA matters to you. Like, really matters.”
I can tell I’ve caught her off guard.
“How do you figure?”
“The bus route diorama.” I meet her gaze. “I didn’t grow up with television and even I know late night backdrops are supposed to be generic city skylines.”
“And what exactly does my public transit Rorschach test reveal about my psyche, Dr. Hart?”
I consider my words, careful not to make overt what she so clearly doesn’t wish to acknowledge. “That you want to be known. The real you, not the TV you. But it feels safer to hide it in plain sight, in a backdrop that will never be fully in focus.”
I can’t tell if she’s offended or amused, and I wonder if maybe she can’t tell yet either.
Aarti runs her finger along the rim of her water glass. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer.
“I was thirteen when I figured out the bus system. Really figured it out, I mean, not just which one went to school, but how to get anywhere in the city.” She looks out on the canyon below us. “My parents worked constantly. We had one car that barely ran.”
I stay silent, afraid that any sound might break whatever spell is letting her tell me this.
“Comedy clubs don’t run on a thirteen-year-old’s schedule.
Open mics start at nine, ten at night. My parents thought I was sleeping over at friends’ houses.
” A smile plays on her lips. “I’d take the 720 down Wilshire, transfer to the 33 to get to Venice.
Or the 4 to West Hollywood. I memorized every route, every connection.
How long I’d need to get home before they woke up. ”
“That’s…” I search for the right word. “Terrifying? Impressive? Both?”
“It was freedom,” she says simply. “Those buses made the city mine. A pimply first-gen brown-skinned thirteen-year-old with a student pass and a notebook of terrible jokes could go anywhere, become a new person behind a mic. Drivers began to recognize me. Some of them would even wait if they saw me running.”
She turns the glass in her hands, watching the light refract through the water. “I wrote my best material on those rides. Watching people. Learning to read the comedy in someone’s posture, their exhaustion, their phone arguments in languages I didn’t understand.”
“So the backdrop…”
“A love letter,” she admits. “To the city that raised me. That taught me that comedy comes from contrast: wealth and poverty, hope and despair, foreign and familiar.”
She gives me an expectant look, and I think maybe she wants further penance on my part for the destruction of her expensive diorama, but triumph is coursing through me too potently to override. I beam at her.
“I was right.”
Aarti immediately bristles again, and I can’t stifle my laugh. “Right about what?”
“You love LA. And I dug up all of that just by asking about your backdrop.” I take a smug sip of water. “I’m pretty good at my job. As a doctor and all.”
She scowls but I can tell she’s fighting a smile.
“I appreciate you sharing that with me,” I continue. “When I was a broke grad student in this city, I relied on the buses a lot at different times, although I don’t think I’ve ever done anything more creative on the bus than down an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers over the box to avoid crumb-age.”
“Cocktails!” Arjun appears, landing two glasses filled with something orange and frothy on our table. “My special lassi. With a kick.”
We grab the drinks like lifelines and down them too quickly. The kick turns out to be a generous amount of gin.
“Oh, wow ,” I yelp.
“He doesn’t mess around.” Aarti sips the boozy lassi and smiles at her surroundings, like she’s finally at home.
“This restaurant is important to you, too,” I observe.
A wistfulness flickers across her face. “There aren’t a lot of places that can override my usual frequency.”
“Your usual frequency is…?”
She laughs a little sadly. “Buzzy and frenetic and running away from my problems.”
“I’m tuned into that station as well, unfortunately.”
Aarti looks sheepish. “That’s why I brought you here. I kinda felt like the doorway traffic jam was a sign from the universe to stop fighting the current so hard. I figured maybe you and I could use a dose of–” she waves around us, “this.”
“And this.” I raise my glass to her and we cheers, eyes meeting without daggers for what feels like the first time. I sigh, but it triggers a look of worry from Aarti.
“That’s actually a sigh of relief,” I assure her. “I wasn’t certain until just now that you didn’t bring me here to poison me.”
She cringes. “Have I been that villainous?”
I shake my head.
“I’m terrified,” I admit. “Of being on TV. I barely know what I’m doing. Finding out about that meeting seven minutes before–I’m competitive, so of course I wanted to win , but the second I realized what I’d won…” I shake my head. “I just ran.”
“I know the feeling. When you get what you thought you wanted and immediately want to throw it back.”
Are we having a breakthrough? I don’t have time to investigate it because my senses are abruptly bombarded with a wave of spice and aroma so complex and delightful, I lose all speech.
Arjun personally delivers a platter of golden-brown pastry parcels to our table, the early afternoon canyon sunlight glinting golden off the silver serving tray.
“Samosas!” Arjun announces proudly. He watches me bite into one. “We make the dough with ajwain–carom seeds–and the filling has pomegranate.”
The shell shatters perfectly in my mouth, revealing spiced potatoes dotted with pomegranate tartness that sends me to high heaven.
There’s heat, but it’s layered; it’s not just capsaicin burn but something broader, earthier.
I can’t contain my blissful groan. Arjun does a delighted little jump before he strides away.
Next, a handsome server with a nose ring who waved at Aarti earlier approaches with a creamy yellow curry with cubes of white cheese floating like islands. He starts to walk back to the kitchen, but Aarti catches his sleeve and nods at me to take a bite in his presence.
The first spoonful makes me close my eyes involuntarily. It’s rich without being heavy, singing with ginger and something else I can’t place. The paneer is soft, fluffy, soaking up the sauce like a sponge.
“It’s something else, eh? Shahi paneer,” the waiter explains reverently. “Arjun’s version anyway. He adds cashew paste and chars it.”
Aarti takes a bite, and I can tell she gets sent to outer space for a moment just like I did.