Eat & DrinkSan Francisco

Masala Dosa: Fighting Depression One Naan at a Time

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Maybe it’s the fleas I think are roosting in my bed, the five to three shift, or the lessening effects of sustained caffeine intake, but fuck, December is hard. Everyone seems to feel it. It’s like things are funneling really suddenly towards the New Year, the same New Year that promises not only the apocalypse but an equally frightening presidential election.

With this in mind plus the fact that the call towards hibernation has officially sounded, it’s comfort food season. Usually, this means some combo of cheese and pasta. But it doesn’t have to be so, I discovered last night, at a warm and quietly bustling spot in the Inner Sunset by the name of Masala Dosa, which serves, rather surprisingly, Indian food. And in large, sadness-quelling quantities.

It’s one of those spots where things tend to be (just like in all those commercials) bigger than your head. Naan comes in pillowy, precarious piles. And the real stuff (though I would happily eat a plate or three of naan any day) is by no means by-the-book. It’s exceptionally flavorful – I don’t think I’ve tasted anything as good as this seemingly-weird-truly-magical mesquite-peas-potato-tomato-something in a long time. The lamb vindaloo throws sinuses for a loop. Anything with paneer is already a soupy take on cheese curds, which is argument enough for eating it, but Masala Dosa’s cubes of cheesy glory are among the best around.

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Masala Dosa
1375 Ninth Ave
[Inner Sunset]

Photo from Thom Y. 

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Lucy Schiller - Destitute Dispatcher

Lucy Schiller - Destitute Dispatcher

Lucy's been able to live lots of places but holds her cornfed/pie-fueled Midwestern roots most dear, maintaining too loudly and too often that the Outer Richmond is the Midwest of SF: driven through to get elsewhere and knocked around for no reason (but what other neighborhood has bison?!). You can find Lucy letting things languish in her fridge, purposefully (limoncello!) or not (yogurt...), mouthbreathing, scouring Golden Gate Park for apartment-worthy items, sleepily serving up double nonfat half-caf-half-non-caf lattes at a certain cafe, skulking in various other ones, and yelling under cover of night and costume at SF Bike Party.