Last Saturday, as the merciless Oklahoma sun beat down on my sweltering head, a friend and I decided to pull over to get a couple of cold drinks to refresh and replenish ourselves. The closest place to stop was a joint called Bismillah Groceries, 3700 N. Portland Ave., a former gas station that used to have a Mexican eatery that I remember enjoying quite a bit.
Parking the fuel-efficient car off to the side, as we were stepping in, I noticed studio shots of various food items, with the words Masala King above them. As we opened the door, sweet spices danced under our noses as the man behind the counter gave us a fitful welcome. My friend went to walk around the store as I noticed the handwritten menu that was sitting on the partition.
“Bismillah must be the grocery store, while Masala King is the restaurant inside,” I said to myself, finally putting two and two together.
I asked the man behind the counter if the restaurant was open; he handed me a menu with many of the same photos of Middle Eastern delights and asked what I’d like to order. As I thought about it for a moment—what a glorious question to ask me!—I rattled off a few items that looked good and paid the man, the order taken to the back to a hidden kitchen where, undoubtedly, someone had to be working.