At Queen Café, a a split-level room served as both restaurant and home.

A single dining table occupied the lower level. It was heavy and oak, scarred from years of use, with bench seats running along its length.

Above it, connected by a ladder, sat the family’s living room.

Two young women already sat at the table. There was nowhere else to sit.

Dani looked at me, and I looked at her, but before either of us could suggest leaving, a woman appeared from upstairs.

“Sit!”

It wasn’t a question.

The two women shuffled down the bench to make room. Almost apologetically, we squeezed in beside them.

They were speaking in Hebrew at first, but they switched their conversation to English as we sat.

Beth pushed her black-rimmed glasses up her nose.

“… but the Taj Mahal is a thousand rupees! How can a tomb be worth a thousand rupees?”

Across from her, Hannah sat with a red scarf wrapped around her hair.

“Yeah, but Beth. It’s only rupees.”

Beth turned her attention to my wife.

“What do you think?”

“Umm… it’s only rupees. I’ll try to remember that when we go.”

She waived a hand to dismiss the conversation and returns to her meal while Dani and I reached for our menus.

In no time, we knew what we wanted.

I ordered the banana curry, while Dani ordered the pumpkin curry.

“Pumpkin and banana? How interesting.”

She paused.

“Would you like to try first?”

I did not understand.

Then she pulled out two spoons and pointed at the girls’ dishes.

“Share.”

They looked at each other, then at us, and slid over their bowls.

Hannah blushed.

“We ordered the same thing.”

Dani sampled both.

“These are delicious. Different, but excellent in their own way.”

“Of course. Now, you share your dishes with the next people to come through the door. That’s the way of it.”

Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

~

The Queen called to us again the next day when our explorations brought us right past its door.

Davis asked first.

“You want to?”

We both already knew the answer.

The restaurant’s mother had invited us in yesterday, but its windows were dark now.

We turned to go when an old woman in a red sari—possibly the family’s grandmother—opened the door and flipped on the lights.

“Come.”

We sat again at the familiar kitchen table, this time by ourselves.

“Did I tell you? I saw Beth and Hannah again yesterday. Over by City Palace.”

Dani laughed.

“I know. You pointed them out three times.”

Then she ordered a saffron lassi and paneer curry, while I contemplated my choices.

“What’s ladyfinger curry?”

The grandmother held her outstretched hand to me, touching her fingers in sequence with her bony thumb: index, middle, ring, pinky, ring, middle, index.

I furrowed my brow.

“Yes, I get it, but what are they?”

She couldn’t answer. Dani could.

“Oh, I think I know this one… Okra!”

The grandmother nodded enthusiastically.

A few minutes later she returned carrying a plate—fried and dusted with spices.

She was right.

It was fantastic.

Dani looked at the menu again as we left.

“Hey, look. They have breakfast.”

She turned back to the woman.

“We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

~

Our clock said seven, and the restaurant windows once again looked dark and the door was locked. I leaned up to it, but the house was silent on the other side.

“Should I knock?”

Then again, with more confidence.

“I’m knocking.”

As she reached for the door, the grandmother opened it. Her face softened and she stepped aside.

This time, we knew where to go, claiming our seats at the kitchen table on autopilot, while the grandmother scurried about finding the menus.

Davis stopped her.

“I don’t need these. I want the paratha. We both do. And lots of chai.”

The ten-year-old grandson came to help his grandmother take our order. Then he brushed his teeth at the sink near our table and returned upstairs.

Meanwhile, the rest of the family readied themselves for work and school, and we could hear them rummaging upstairs as they prepared for their days.

Upon closer investigation, I saw pots and pans, soap, and toothpaste under the stairs and on shelves against the walls, while brooms and umbrellas were tucked behind the refrigerator.

The grandpa of the family sat in the entry room reading a newspaper and watching the television flickering on mute in the dim room.

A ceremony of sorts took place on screen, and the camera alternated between wide-angle shots of crowds gathered around a central stage, and telephoto closeups of a sadhu holy man.

He saw me watching and pointed at the screen.

“Laksmi Puja. Holy day. Bombay.”

He grinned.

I smiled like I understood. Then the boy brought our breakfast.

Upstairs, someone called for him. He grabbed his backpack, hurried out the door for school. A moment later, he ran back inside for something he’d forgotten.

Nobody seemed surprised.

From the kitchen, the family’s mother, our host from the first day, came with a bowl of lentils and rice.

She sat at the table with us.

Then we returned to our breakfasts while the house carried on around us.