City of Spice brings vibrant Indian cuisine to north Phoenix

Critics don’t know everything about food.

Some of them would like to think they do. And some of them would like you to think they do. But those who are honest with their audience and themselves will be quick to admit they don’t.

Enter Indian food.

Here is a hulking behemoth of a cuisine if ever there were one. It is sprawling. It is massive. It is ancient. You could devote your life to learning its regional nuances and still find surprises. And what we have access to in the States — to say nothing of what's available in Phoenix — is such a tiny sliver of it. Trust me when I say that even for a dining critic, learning the ins and outs of this diverse fare can feel like an insurmountable summit.

So when I visit a restaurant like City of Spice in north Phoenix and take a stab at the Andhra masala dosa, for no reason other than having never tried one before, what lands on the table gets jammed in my cortex and lingers there for a month.

I’m no stranger to Indian cuisine. I’ve had my share of dosa. But this particular dosa — a crispy, paper-thin, dartboard-size crepe, griddled to a lustrous mahogany and rolled up like a cardboard shipping tube, its interior stained with the ruddy hue of fiery chile paste — is still a novel experience for me.

The dosa shatters on the teeth, arriving with the deep, faint tang of fermented lentils and rice before the masala rub delivers a sharp, vinegary sourness and sultry lightning heat. A dab of sweet coconut chutney or a scoop of sambar — the spiced lentil stew that accompanies the crepe — tames and complements it a bit, but just a touch will do. I want that fire. I crave that fire. And then I want to know what else the menu has in store.

I will not, for a moment, pretend to be an authority on Indian cuisine. But I’m going to tell you about City of Spice anyway. Not just because I find it so exciting, but because I have a pretty good hunch that just about anybody else will, as well.

Coming full circle

Indian restaurants are common enough in this town, particularly in north Phoenix where they line Bell Road like spectators on a parade route, but those worth mentioning are surprisingly few. I can’t remember how many dull, disappointing Indian buffets I’ve sampled over the years.

That’s precisely how the Valley ended up with City of Spice in the first place. Co-owner Azher Uddin was disappointed, too.

“When I came to Phoenix, I went to every [Indian] restaurant to eat, and how was the food? The food was awful,” Uddin laments. “The food they were preparing, there was no taste. And my wife, she wanted to have her own restaurant, so I said, ‘Okay, honey, let’s give up my job, and we’ll start our own restaurant.”

That isn’t quite as crazy as it seems. Uddin and his brother and business partner, Syed, hail from Hyderabad, India, by way of Chicago. And while Uddin was previously a cybersecurity expert, both he and his wife, Bhoomi, come from culinary families.

“My forefathers have a restaurant in India,” Uddin explains. “So I ran away from it because of how much hard work they have to do. My wife[’s family], they have a catering service, she ran away from it.”

But the sense of duty and commitment to the integrity of the cuisine that pulled them back into its service is the kind of stuff dining critics dream of.

“Whatever [other restaurants] make, they give it to you, what do you know about it? Whatever they say, you believe it, because you are a first-timer. I understand that, don’t worry, I’m not blaming you. But I want you to know what you are eating. I don’t want you to get fooled, so you know and you can tell, hey, this dish, this is how it should be.”

Keep whispering sweet nothings in my ear, Uddin.

Of course, there’s nothing more or less valid about traditional or creative food, but neither approach works if they aren’t informed by respect for the cuisine. Thankfully, this respect is deeply ingrained at City of Spice, from TVs displaying the history behind the menu’s dishes (soon to be a tablet menu, Uddin promises) to the care and craft on display in the food itself.

Common dishes done exceptionally well

I don’t care if you and your beloved are right in the middle of a marriage proposal. When the Apollo fish hits the table, you stop and eat it. Immediately. You’re going to have the rest of your lives together, but the sizzling crisp texture on that fish won’t last. Battered and fried and tossed with slivered onions, it’s bathed in a brazen mix of fresh and dried chiles, electrified by the pungent pop of garlic and ginger, and scented with the unique, almost citrusy whiff of fresh curry leaves. You can measure the flavor in kilotons, but the technique behind the exacting texture is what blows my mind.

Kababs are easy enough to come by but rarely done so well. I’m a little in awe of the chicken seekh kababs, perfectly seasoned and grilled with clinical precision to produce a lightly crisped, sizzled shell that gives way to a tender, juicy, steaming hot core. They need nothing more than a splash of fresh lemon and a few slivers of raw onion. And the chole bhatura pairs chole — a very deep and complex stew of white chickpeas — with bhature, a tender and stretchy puffed bread, both airy and resilient, that will play a little like frybread for those more accustomed to Sonoran fare.

Savvy diners will note that while the Uddin brothers were raised in Hyderabad (Bhoomi is originally from Gujarat, on the western coast of India), their menu casts a considerably wider net, roping in specialties from around the subcontinent. Too wide a focus often can be a recipe for disaster, but Uddin's commitment to offering all of his customers a taste of home is supported by his attention to detail. When discussing Indian food, he comports himself like an academic — a voracious student of the cuisine who, in turn, seeks to share what he’s learned with his students.

Geez-o-man, there is a lot to learn, and it has been a joy to explore this menu. After a dozen visits, I can say with confidence that I’ve yet to encounter a dish I didn’t enjoy.

Fried starters excel, including Indo-Chinese dishes such as gobhi Manchurian — battered florets of cauliflower in a tangy sweet-and-spicy glaze reminiscent of good Canto-American cuisine — and Chicken 555, snacky little nuggets of fried chicken in a belligerent mix of chiles and garlic that bullies its way into your sinuses and takes up residence there.

Then there are chaat — little nibbles — like dahi puri, crispy golf ball-size wheat flour puffs filled with vegetables and tart tamarind chutney, drizzled with sweet yogurt and buried in a snowdrift of sev, tiny crispy chickpea noodles. They’re not aggressive so much as they are playfully wild, a chaotic jumble of flavors and textures, crunchy and tart and sweet enough to be a dessert. Meanwhile, pakoras or pakodas — both onion and mixed vegetable — are statesmanlike in comparison, tangled nests of slivered vegetables dusted with gram flour and fried until crisp, to be dipped or drizzled with tamarind and mint chutneys.

The chicken malai boti starter stands in contrast to the more intense dishes. The Uddins take spiced grilled chicken and swaddle it in a thick, pale sauce, made with cream, yogurt and cream cheese, that soaks up and highlights the smoke from the grilled meat. But if a dish this mellow feels out of place to you, there’s an off-menu variant — just ask for it spicy — that will bring it more in line with the rest of the offerings.

To be fair, yes, this is food with big flavor, but not everything is brash or incendiary. The malai kofta is another mellow detour — tender fritters made of paneer and mixed vegetables, drowned in a silky turmeric-laced cream that’s gently sweet and subtly spiced. And the palak paneer is unlike any I’ve tried before. While most versions around town are a muddled mess of swampy spinach and dull spice, this version is light and sweet with a vibrant green hue to match its fresh and fragrant nature.

That, quite often, is what distinguishes City of Spice from its contemporaries. The menu bears few surprises. You’ve seen these dishes before. But unlike the depressing sameness that characterizes dish after dish at so many local Indian restaurants, each of the Uddins’ creations is distinct and delightfully vibrant.

How hot is too hot?

The only thing missing at City of Spice is a buffet, but you won’t (and shouldn’t) miss it.

“You come in at 11 o'clock, you get fresh food,” Uddin explains. “Your friend comes in at 11:40, I charge him the same, why should he get 40-minutes-old food?”

Uddin, you see, is a people pleaser, but only to the extent that it allows him to maintain the integrity of the food. When asked how spicy I want my food, I respond as I always do: “Make it the way you like it.” Some dishes should be hot, some shouldn’t, and I prefer to let the kitchen decide what’s best.

For those who prefer to micromanage, however, they’ll happily adjust the spice level. To a point. “I can make it as spicy as you want,” Uddin says.

“I can make you cry. And you’re going to feel the thunder. But with dishes like chicken tikka masala, or butter chicken or chicken korma, when people say, ‘Extra, extra, extra spicy,’ I say ‘No, no, no.’ I don’t want to ruin the taste of my dish. You need to taste everything, not chile taking over every other spice.”

Uddin has no such compunction when it comes to the green chile lamb. You want heat? You’ll get heat — along with what tastes like pounds of fresh herbs and garlic and the occasional whole cardamom pod, all woven together in a verdant amalgam of green chile fire. The vindaloo, no surprise, is likewise a worthy target for heat seekers, but this version is about so much more than the heat. It's heavy with garlic and vinegar and the deep, developed flavor of intensified tomato.

On the other end of the spectrum, the navratan korma is a gem. Characteristically mellow and sweet but with a deeper spiced complexity than you’ll typically find around town, this mixed vegetable dish with a luxurious, creamy base dotted with the pop of sweet raisins almost feels like a cheat — as though you’re getting away with something while eating your vegetables. Meanwhile, daal makhani is an equally tough dish to miss, a workmanlike blend of lentils and red kidney beans that starts off humbly but gets better and better the deeper you dive into its thick, buttery spice.

You should probably try the biryani. A Hyderabadi specialty, a mound of fluffy, scented rice conceal within it tender meat whose juices and seasonings have saturated the layers below. And while food geeks might turn their noses up at overplayed favorites such as butter chicken, that would be a terrible mistake at City of Spice. This is a truly superlative version of the dish, its tandoor-roasted chicken and gentle tomato spice infused with the kind of butter content usually reserved for hollandaise. I don’t know how much is in there, and to be honest, I’d prefer not to, because I’m going to eat it either way.

I want to keep going. The menu is one thumping banger after the next, I could recommend a couple dozen more that I love just as much, and I don’t want anybody to miss a thing. But perhaps the best advice I can give is to just go. Invite a crowd of friends. Talk to Azher, Syed and Bhoomi. Order anything they recommend and everything they don’t.

There’s joy to be found in letting yourself discover it all.