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October 12th, 2008
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Disco-ver India

The soul of the Subcontinent lies in Bombay's basement
Restaurant Review | Search restaurants | Archives

By Dave Faries
Staff Writer, The Prague Post
March 12th, 2008 issue

Rasoi

Dlouhá 13
Prague 1-Old Town
Tel. 222 328 400
Open daily 4 p.m.-11 p.m.

Food ***
Service ***
Atmosphere **
Overall ***

VLADIMÍR WEISS/THE PRAGUE POST
A serene and welcoming space underneath the bustle of Old Town nightlife.
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FROM THE MENU



Samosa 95 Kč
Vegetable pakora 95 Kč
Mulligatawny 95 Kč
Sahi chicken kebab 175 Kč
Rogan josh 310 Kč
Palak gosht 330 Kč
Chicken biryani 300 Kč
Laccha parantha 50 Kč
Roti 50 Kč
The first — and second — impressions you get of Rasoi may be a little disconcerting.
You enter through the sometimes booming, disco-balled tackiness of Bombay, a street-level nightclub. Although distinguished outside by backlit signs, both doors lead into the bar and many people confuse the two places, as in, “Bombay is the only real Indian restaurant in Prague.”
Rasoi deserves a more prominent identity, if not praise — though accolades aren’t far off the mark.
Rogan josh, a Kashmiri favorite often allowed by less discerning kitchens to swelter under one dominant spice or another, emerges as a rich, well-rounded dish. Tender portions of lamb reveal thorough seasoning, and the sauce shows off a brazen side. Yet all essential flavors fall into place, lining up like a class photo, with some more visible than others.
Equally delicate lamb tends to lose itself under the more potent bitterness of palak gosht and its spinach base. Yet, once again, the murky sauce finds balance in earthbound spices, packed into a demonstrative, almost impenetrable mass. Drop one element from the array of herbs, spices and greens, and the entire thing would seem hollow. A chicken kebab billed as the chef’s specialty presents mellow, complex notes of sweet smoke, and nutty flavors punctuated by a pungent, acrid haze.
Northern Indian cookery, which is what’s served here, includes fiery spice, of course. But traditions culled from Kashmir, Punjab, Rajasthan and other regions tend to emphasize symmetry and greater reserve. It’s the land of tandoor ovens and biryani, after all. People sip lassi, a tart yogurt drink, seasoned gently with salt and cumin. Milk and leafy vegetables appear in many recipes.
So the tawa jallanderi chicken comes across as exceedingly mild, supported only by a faint waft of smoke and a unique blend of herbs and spices. Yogurt marinade adds a creamy hue to chicken biryani. While the meat, on one visit, came out a little tough, the intense seasoning array lent soapy shivers from cardamom, a grounded, sandy feel provided by turmeric, along with husky, sharp, grassy … well, a little of everything.
Everything, that is, except heat.
The trick to Indian cooking often lies in the long-established skill of blending and roasting spices to build richness into a dish, or bring out a subtle character. During colonial times, the British hijacked more aggressive recipes, such as vindaloo or “mulligatawny.” Rasoi’s take on the latter — essentially a stock thickened with pureed vegetables and a lot of chili — manages to control the burn. Peppery heat rises for a time, attacking (and threatening to overwhelm) your palate. But then it falters, unmasking the dense and earthy lentil base.
All in all, Rasoi is a solid Indian restaurant, if not the city’s best.
If one must quibble, the potatoes and other vegetables prove far too mild in manner to carry their version of pakora without the assistance of a dipping sauce. Just a tad too much oil soaks into the outer crust of the restaurant’s samosa appetizers, so that the vegetable filling can’t muster the strength to assert itself.
Still, the kitchen’s mastery of spices — gritty and earthen flavors giving way to a pepper undertone — rush in to rescue the starter.
Now, about that second disconcerting moment: Some people spurn Rasoi on principle (that principle being “price”) and, yes, a couple courses here will make denizens of less expensive restaurants — like Masala and Tandoor — cringe. But that’s not it.
Walk down the steps, leaving the artificial thump of techno and lame dancing spotlight displays behind, and you enter a warm, serene space. Then one of the waiters steps forward. Fans (and there must be a few) of the 1960s American sitcom The Addams Family will recognize the dignified mannerisms, stiff spine, straight-faced countenance and steady pace of … What was that butler’s name?

Dave Faries can be reached at dfaries@praguepost.com


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