Samosa Trafficking

One evening my house-mates and I are having dinner together, and unsurprisingly, the subject of food comes up. As we all give our different opinions on our favorite foods, someone mentions indian Samosas. Essentially it's a stuffed pastry, a common snack in South Asia and generally consists of a fried triangular-shaped shell with a savory filling of spiced meat and vegetables. Delicious.

While discussing this scrumptious snack, one of my house-mates mentions she has a certain contact who is able to arrange the acquisition of the original, home-made Indian product. I'm instantly intrigued by this possibility. Home-made, traditional recipe samosas? This is too good to be true! I ask her whether it would be possible to get in on the deal, and she agrees to let me tag along on her next buy, on the condition that I don't tell another soul about the arrangement.

The next thing I know, I'm deep in the urban jungle of a poor Lisbon ghetto, winding through narrow backalleys and suspicious-looking characters on neglected street corners. We dodge the glances of drug dealers and roaming thugs to finally reach the doorstep of what seems to be an abandoned building. My friend enters and we come to yet another door, made of metal with a slot at eye level. A man opens the slot and speaks in Hindi to my friend, who already has the right answer on her tongue.

We enter a small living room, the only other person inside is a small, brown-skinned woman working over a Karahi frying the magical pastries. She looks up and speaks to the man who let us in. My friend motions for me to sit down, as the man sets up an old two pan balance scale and proceeds to weigh several dozen Samosas, golden in color and still steaming. I sit and marvel at the womans' preparation table, filled with exotic ingredients and pungent spices.

As the man continues his precise calculations, the woman removes two fresh pastries from the Karahi, and gives one to each of us while we wait. I take a bite, penetrating the crispy outer shell, burning my mouth in the process, letting the spices intoxicate my senses, growing increasingly delirious. I think to myself:

- Mhmmmm, addictive. -

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