Screw the Rules, Eat at the Indian Restaurant Inside the Gas Station
Screw the Rules, Eat at the Indian Restaurant Inside the Gas Station
Chicken Korma in Nebraska
Of all the general life rules—don’t take candy from a stranger, look both ways before you cross the street, never wear white socks with black shoes—perhaps the most universally accepted is this: never, ever eat at the ethnic restaurant inside of a gas station in the middle of nowhere.
Twenty-four miles outside of Kearney, Nebraska, on the I-80 exit for Overton (a village of 588 people) rests a Shell gas station, somewhat worn and weathered. The dust has dulled the once sunshine-yellow of the awnings into something resembling an intense mustard. Just below the sign advertising the price of gas is a gravel-battered sign that reads, “Indian food. Exit now.”
At first, we were only too happy to adhere to the rule. This was just supposed to be a quick fill up and pit stop for me and my girlfriend on our way to see the sandhill crane migration in Kearney. Then a single card sowed the seed of intrigue.
Hanging on the community board just inside the station was a letter from a family from Chicago, praising Jay Bros as the best Indian food they’d ever had. They said they had tried Indian restaurants all over North America, from Chicago to Washington D.C. to New York to Toronto. All of them paled in comparison to the humble gas station. There were no newspaper clippings or Zagat reviews. Just that single, simple card.
I got back in the car and we drove the quick half hour to Kearney to see the cranes. They were beautiful, striking. Tens of thousands of cranes descended upon unbloomed fields, feeding and dancing. Their song, a melodic chirp, was constant and inescapable. Yet, for all of their hypnotic beauty, they couldn’t force Jay Bros from my mind.
Tales abound of awful experiences at shady restaurants, of food poisoning and mystery meat and food that only barely qualifies as such. But there are just as many tales of pleasant surprises, like the hole in the wall that serves a life-changing sandwich. Jay Bros had all the ingredients to be one or the other, and I needed to find out which one it was. After a final push from Kristen, we decided we’d go to Jay Bros for a late breakfast on our way back to Denver the next day.
We pulled up to the restaurant, anxious and eager. As soon as the owner—Harry, who’s from just outside of Mumbai, as I’d later learn—saw us walking towards the restaurant part of the building, he motioned for us to take a seat, placing menus in front of us as we did. We ordered some naan, vegetable samosas, chicken tikka masala, and chicken korma. Not a typical breakfast platter, but, when in Overton…
Whatever hesitancy still remained was quickly washed away at first bite. The tikka masala was perfectly balanced: the tomato didn’t overpower the dish, and the cream floated through the mouth. The korma had only the slightest hint of peanut, waiting to be discovered rather than standing in the spotlight. Unlike some restaurants, which give you mountains of food, the portions here were just enough to satisfy both hunger and curiosity.
A life lived solely by the rules is muted and dull. There are times where we must throw caution to the wind, say to hell with the rules, and take the plunge headfirst. Food is often the perfect window into these opportunities, a gateway drug into the unexpected. Maybe we end up worse for the wear, but at least we tried.