Indian take-away

In the evolution of my sense of what is palatable, Indian food is still a recent revelation. I blame my vegetarian friend, who despite a rich culinary upbringing in North Indian food, still chooses to phone for franchise-produced pizza. While that significant other has been banished to the Canadian east coast for Chinese New Year last week, and Valentine's Day this week, I have been delving into the dense mysteries of butter chicken, (which, surprisingly, produces an immediate emotional effect similar to very good chocolate), artfully burnt nann, which leaves an ash-like dusting on the fingers, aloo ghobi (with what seems like impossibly generous portions of potato and cauliflower), and basmathi rich (more mannerly and sedate than fluffy Chinese glutinous rice). The preferred place is Ruchi (on Yonge north of Isabella), who faithfully leaflets our residence enough to be noticed, and includes a bit of chicken and a samosa gratuit if you order more than $30 (i.e. enough medium-spicy food to raise your temperature after the frigid Toronto commute home, and leftovers to garnish another few work week meals.)