The decor inside adds to the strangeness. Sometimes I get the feeling that I'm eating in a church basement that's been hastily set up as an Indian restaurant for the evening. There's a round wooden dance floor close to the entrance. A table with open 2-liter bottles of soda and other drinks appears to serve as the bar. A rack of traditional Indian clothing sheathed in dry-cleaning plastic is pushed against one wall.
Old streamers hang from the ceilings.
Last night, various strands of Christmas lights dangled here and there from the ceiling, as if the owners didn't feel any urgency to get them out of the way of any possible patrons. Other times, I feel like I've dropped in unexpectedly on someone who feels compelled by manners to serve me a meal even though he wasn't expecting company. The china patterns on our dinnerware never match. The little leatherette menu covers bear the name of another restaurant. The owner is given to wheeling out his TV set and watching Indian news programs on the local PBS stations while we eat.