Since I’ve been back in NYC, I’ve had a relatively low workload and a fresh appreciation of all the nifty things to do here. So when I got really, really hungry the other night, I suggested to Peter that we go try Minangasli, an Indonesian restaurant in Elmhurst that’s gotten a lot of coverage in the New York Times recently (also a proper review here).

Having grown up on gado-gado (I’m not sure why–was it a stylish vegetarian thing in the 70s?), then come of age in Amsterdam, where Indonesian food appears in automat windows, I have some exposure to the cuisine, but hardly an understanding or true appreciation of it. But a few years ago I read a Saveur article about one island that made me drool, and the review of Minangasli made it sound overwhelmingly good, even if you didn’t order the beef brains, so I was excited to try it.

And it was good. Don’t get me wrong. But it did not make my face glow and my veins rush with a feeling of heartbreaking joy, like I get when I eat at Sripraphai or Spicy Mina. And it wasn’t like the food wasn’t spicy hot–the deep-fried kingfish we had was covered in a great sweet-spicy sambal, and the beef renddang was really rich. It was all tasty, and I also got a sweet avocado shake. And lamb satay.

Oh, and we ate a lot of green jackfruit. It was kind of artichoke-y, and slightly fleshy, even a bit pink on the inside. Jackfruit is something I can now remove from the long list of tropical goodies in my head: in one column, there are names like soursop and custard apple and alligator pear, and in the other are pictures, like green bumpy things and brown smooth things and things the size of footballs, and I’m slowly sorting out how things match up by process of elimination. (But if we put in a third column about how things taste, I’m back at square one.)

Anyway, I hate to resort to the very word I make a halftime freelance career of striking out, but the spices at Minangasli just didn’t “pop.” (For those who don’t read women’s magazines, this term is usually applied to body parts: “Coloring in the inner lash line really makes the eyes pop.” Which is a ghastly thought, which is why I always underline it and write “Really?!” in the margin when I’m copy editing. To no avail.) At Spicy Mina, you can almost discern every flavor as it travels across your tongue, even if it happens too fast for you to consciously register “Cardamom, cumin, cinnamon, clove, coriander…” There’s that sensation, and there’s also the pure heat. I think it takes the combo of the two to get the awesome endorphin rush. At Sripraphai, it’s the killer one-two-three punch (is that possible?) of fish sauce, lime and incredibly hot chili.

In Minangasli’s favor, the staff is exceedingly friendly. The prices are fabulously low. Its location in Elmhurst is lively and convenient (another reason to ride the V). The waitress (owner?) wears a cute little green apron that has “Minangasli” Bedazzled on it in orange rhinestones. Now that pops.

But I’m a junkie, and I need stronger stuff, I’m afraid.