Hotel Bruce

Nestled in a tranquil valley in the foothills of the Himalayas, often referred to as "paradise," you’ll find babbling brooks, crystalline streams, impenetrable forests and the ever-present bouquet of exotic flora. This is Kashmir

Nestled in a 1970s-style strip center, often referred to as urban sprawl, you’ll find a brick and glass fronted store, crystalline glasses of water, impenetrable language barriers, faux flower arrangements and the ever-present aroma of exotic spices. This is Kashmir Palace Restaurant.

Americans, in our adorable flavor-of-the month manner, have recently caught on to the Bombay movie-making machine known as Bollywood. In an obvious attempt to shame Hollywood and its pathetic 100 films per year, Bollywood produces ten times that much (and I hear one or two of them are even good). Honestly though, can a nation whose movie going populace would be hard pressed locating Bombay on a map embrace three hours of Punjabi song and dance, Hindi language, and exactly zero full frontal nudity? We devised a night filled with Indian food and film to give it a test drive without ever leaving the Cleveland area.

Don’t let the address of Kashmir Palace, an authentic Indian restaurant in North Olmsted, confuse you as it did us—it’s just that it’s bloody wrong. Had we known that Brookpark Road Extension was really Sparky Lane, we may have made better time from Ohio City. But, as we say, it is closer than driving to India.

Rather than finding a Himalayan paradise, we discover a non-descript storefront in the shadow of a Guitar World. If there were forests here at one time, they have been summarily denuded to make room for acres of asphalt and concrete. But we are Midwesterners with functioning taste buds—Times Square can keep its spectacular high concept restaurants with commissary food—we’re perfectly happy to eat great food in a lackluster setting.

We soon realize that we had better not be here for the service either, for it takes a painful 15 minutes for us to get our hands around some cold Kingfisher beers. Reading the label on our "Indian" beers, we are surprised to read that it is brewed and bottled in America. At least we tried.

Indian food is something of which the four of us are extremely familiar having eaten our way through some this city’s most lovingly prepared northern Indian cuisines. We quickly spot many familiar dishes on the menu.

Fully aware that we would soon be spending three hours on our asses in a movie theater, you might expect a modicum of restraint on our part when ordering dinner. Instead, we order enough food to feed the cast of three Bollywood films and finish it in the time it takes to view one trailer.

A handful of vegetable pakora—a sort of veggie fritter—is deep fried to a golden brown but completely devoid of grease. At their heart is a mix of chopped cauliflower, onion and potato. The smell is reminiscent of Jewish potato latkes, but the flavor is unmistakably Indian, thanks to the earthy notes of curry.

Our order of cubed paneer, a wonderfully fresh and slightly salty homemade cheese, comes cloaked in a dark orange sauce of incredible complexity.

"It’s sauce-alicious!" Corrie exclaims, loud enough to embarrass the entire table. But true to her words, dipping the puffy tandoori-oven-fired flatbread naan into the sauce nearly makes the embarrassment fade.

Soon the chanas (chickpeas) served in a hot and spicy gravy the color of the setting sun, a saffron-scented biryani rice with fat shrimp, mint and fennel, and a tasty dish that is very likely chicken based arrive in the telltale metal tins. As perfect as the crisp and cold Kingfisher beer is in soothing the fiery touch of our highly spiced foods, the mango lassi beats it hands down. This frothy shake made with yogurt, honey and fresh mango is so cool and refreshing, even the spiciest curry is quickly reduced to a whimper.

Before long, our tablefull of flavorful food is reduced to a pile of empty plates. It is then that we realize the movie is starting in ten minutes and we have only a clue of how to get there from here.

Our drive to Brookgate Cinemas from the restaurant is down right cruel. Opting for streets over highways, intuitions over maps, we damn near circle Cleveland International Airport before finding ourselves on a strip of concrete that may or may not be a lesser-used runway. But, as we say, It is closer than driving to India.

When we finally park our car at the cinema and look up at the marquee, we are crestfallen when we do not see the name of our Bollywood film. But as we get closer to the theater, we are barely able to make out, in the last frame of the marquee, the one that hasn’t had a new light bulb in years, the dimly lit title: "Devdas".

Bollywood films are typically shown on rented screens in mainstream theaters. They are advertised exclusively to the Indian community via Web sites like our local hibsa.com (see sidebar). They are admittedly formulaic if beautifully executed (imagine Shakespeare on a deadline). Revenge-filled love triangles with happy endings are par for the course.

The next three hours in the theater are a blur. If I had to describe my experience —probably as challenging as describing a nitrous high to a nun—I’d say that the movie is an Indian version of "Romeo and Juliet" set in a fantasy world filled with handsome actors heaping on the melodrama. Apart from the 10-minute intermission, my eyes are as fixed to the screen as if it were showing Anna Nicole Smith at a spelling bee. It has everything: Forbidden love, revenge, violence, wanton alcohol abuse and kitsch by the surry load.

Suspending disbelief might be helpful when watching a Bollywood film (as would a La-Z-Boy). Actors regularly and inexplicably, with nothing more than a flick of the camera, regenerate on a mountain top, or perhaps in a summer meadow. The crew of "Star Trek" didn’t switch locations this fast. Even with the aid of transporters. Flawlessly choreographed musical numbers comprised of 20 women dressed in 35-pound costumes make our Debbie Allen productions look like a kinderdance class. The rhythmic music and the convulsive hand and body movements of the actors and actresses combine to lull one into a state of mesmeric euphoria. Watching the foxiest actresses I have ever seen, one of whom is a former Miss World, dancing around in classical Indian saris from the turn of the century, is not only hypnotic, it is hot.

Never sure whether to laugh out loud or shield our eyes in embarrassment for the actors, we take our cue from the younger Indian set in attendance. Unlike their parents, they seem to find the occasional awkward subtitle as funny as we do, and giggle regularly. Other outbursts are reserved for the overdramatic, ever-tearful declarations of love and virginal faith (American soap operas seem sincere in comparison). Despite its length, the movie whizzes by like a Technicolor magic bus, one which you are never quite certain existed.

I wake up the following morning slightly groggy, wondering if I had dreamed the entire night. But there, in the bottom of my pants pocket is the folded ticket stub with the word "Devdas". And in my refrigerator, the leftover chickpea dish from dinner. Thank god, I am fucking starving.

[Ed. Note: Since the writing of this article, Bollywood films are no longer playing at Brookgate Cinema, which was demolished for some big box store. Currently, Bollywood movies are shown off and on at Parma Ridge theater ( intersection of Snow and Ridge roads) and also at Parmatown Mall theater, or sometimes at Hickory Ridge Theater in Brunswick.]