I don’t have any proof, but I’d be willing to bet the classic potato samosa is America’s favorite Indian dish. A pocket of dough fried up to a light crisp, with fluffy seasoned potatoes nestled inside—it’s hard to deny the appeal. My mouth is watering just writing those words, and I’m only a few hours removed from my last taste.
But as simple as the concept may sound, no restaurant’s samosa—never mind its samosa sauces—is quite the same as any other’s. I set out to experience those differences on downtown’s western edge, where New Haven’s densest stretch of options makes it possible to compare three samosa services in about as many blocks.
I started at the top—the north—with Sherkaan, whose singularly named Punjabi Samosa ($9) actually comes with two. As promised on Instagram, they were XL, with the crispy-chewy and salty-savory crust, maybe the thickest of them all, holding a sulfuric quality that was both unique and addictive. The filling was spicier than I remember from past visits, and so was the mint chutney, my usual go-to, which this time tasted like having both the A/C and the heat on. The tamarind chutney, on the other hand, was balancing and calming, its sweet and sour grit tempering instead of amplifying the samosa’s already potent spice heat.
My next stop was House of Naan, where $7 ($6 during happy hour) gets you three veggie samosas, medium-sized. The cumin-salted breakaway crust was crispier at the “handle”—the slight extension of pinched dough at one edge of the pyramid—and softer toward the opposite point. A supple interior of diced semi-mashed potatoes and green peas was laced with herbal and spicy contours, which stood up well to the spice-powdered dough without overpowering it (or each other). The mint chutney here was, as ever, outrageously good—bright, refreshing and juicy, lending both pow! and sophistication. The tamarind sauce was sweet, funky, a little sour, a little tannic, viscous but not syrupy—a nice contrast, though it was hard for me not to repeatedly choose the mint.
Finally, I headed about 50 yards south to Tandoor, ordering a pair of also XL and also thickly crusted samosas for a mere $4.95. Aside from the crimp, the crust was chewy, not crispy, and one of the samosas was dusted like a snowcapped mountain, with a dash of fine curried salt just at the top. The potato and pea filling, its texture more condensed than ’kaan’s or Naan’s, was dotted with mustard and caraway seeds and carried a strong current of turmeric gradually overruled by spice heat. The mint chutney had an unusual savory edge and a preservative tang, which took some getting-used-to, while the tamarind sauce’s sourness was nicely checked by something I’d swear was cinnamon. A third condiment, an onion chutney, was bright red and about as strong in its acidity, which fit in better than I expected with the flavors of the samosa. Still, overall, this offering ate more disjointedly than the others, though I can’t complain about the price and portion.
Across all the tastings, the winner was House of Naan; Sherkaan’s extra spicy hand that day prevented what I think would have otherwise been a can’t-go-wrong split decision. But I do want to pay Tandoor, being the underdog of the three, some extra attention.
Housed in a vestigial chrome boxcar diner (which was actually two diners: the Duchess, starting in 1955, then the reportedly irony-laden Elm City, starting around 1980) with feng shui and other spiritual challenges, Tandoor is somehow both the most and least traditional of this article’s contenders. It’s the oldest and least modern—opened in the mid-’90s, long before House of Naan followed by Sherkaan would trendset the melding of traditional Indian flavors with chefy fusion kitchens and sexy cocktail concepts—and perhaps the most easily written off, as I confess I often have when deciding where to eat.
That seems unfair now. The service, conveyed by an esteemed gentleman who, after some prodding, modestly revealed himself to be the owner, was classic and exemplary. The place felt fresh and clean and, at 6 p.m. in March, bright with daylight. Even the display of the menus, arrayed with a kind of playful utilitarianism under the glass table tops, charmed me. Compared against my own experiences, the flavors, which I also tried with an order of the Channa Masala ($13.95), weren’t quite traditional, but the quiet, tinny classical Indian music was—a hit of nostalgia, perhaps, for those of us who love where Indian food has gone but also spent a decade or three loving Indian restaurants before they were cool.
Written by Dan Mims. Image 1 provided courtesy of House of Naan. Image 2 sourced from @sherkaanct. Image 3, featuring an order of samosas at Tandoor, photographed by Dan Mims.
