Andrea Rice
Maha Rojmahon
Lime and Lemon Indian Grill
811 Ninth Street, Durham, 919-748-3456, limenlemonnc.com
Limes and lemons are “the same fruit,” Maha Rajmohan says, explaining the thought process behind her new Durham restaurant. “But it tastes entirely different. It’s the same with northern and southern Indian food. Both are unique, but both are very different.”
Lime and Lemon Indian Grill opened last month in the space that longtime Ninth Street standby Dales Indian Cuisine occupied until it closed last year. Like Dales, Lime and Lemon is an Indian spot that won’t set you back a week’s paycheck for dinner. But Lime and Lemon isn’t just another place for chicken tikka masala and saag paneer, the northern Indian dishes Americans are accustomed to. Instead, it’s created a fusion from all over the Indian subcontinent.
The restaurant is owned by six friends who hail from all across India. They live in Cary, have worked in IT, and share a passion for the comfort foods of their homeland—which is, it’s worth noting, a third the size of the U.S. but has four times as many people.
“India is so vast,” says Rajmohan, who co-owns the restaurant with her husband, Raj, and two other couples. “We wanted to introduce something outside of the box, something you don’t get at all the other Indian restaurants.”
Rajmohan and her husband’s families are from Trichy, in southern India. Veena Kumar, who helps manage Lime and Lemon—the other partners kept their full-time jobs—is from Pune, in western India. The others emigrated from southern India. No one—including chef Sengu Arumugam—is from northern India.
What’s the difference?
Northern India boasts tandoori, paneers, masalas, and naan. Vindaloo, a curry-based curry dish common to the north, actually originated in the western state of Goa and, according to Rajmohan, was influenced by the Dutch. Western and southern practices favor coconut gravies over dairy; the food tends to be spicier, as pungent aromas of cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, star anise, and mace (the deep red outer covering of nutmeg) generate a level of seasoning that might otherwise be offset by the sweetness of dairy. The tropical desert climate of the west produces chikoo fruit, which Arumugam uses to make gulab jamun, a milk-based fried dumpling soaked in a syrup that’s not excessively sugary—a satisfying bite to cleanse the palate after a big meal.
Like southern Indian cuisine, Lime and Lemon’s menu favors vegetarianism, though some meat items, such as the aromatic goat Chettinad and the Madras chicken biryani, make an appearance. Rice and lentils are primary proteins in the south, yet there’s also a notable Asian influence in both flavor and technique, represented by both the idlis, steamed rice and lentil cakes, and the dosas.
The dosas here are inspired by Chinese spring rolls—thin, crispy crepes stuffed with anything from avocado to potatoes and spiced chutney to onion and green chile uttapam. Other standouts include the Gobi Manchurian, lightly dusted cauliflower flash-fried and tossed with a zesty special sauce reminiscent of General Tso, and the paneer tikka, salted cottage cheese marinated in yogurt and tandoori spices and smoked in a clay oven until delightfully firm. The goat rogan josh, a fragrant, pleasure-inducing brown curry enhanced by ginger and garlic, converted a goat skeptic and paired nicely with the dark cherry and tobacco notes of a Raimat Tempranillo.
Photo by Andrea Rice
The Gobi Manchurian, batter fried cauliflower tossed with special Manchurian sauce, at Lime and Lemon Indian Grill.
Lime and Lemon is bright and cheerful, accentuated by lime- and lemon-colored high-back chairs and booths that offset dark wooden farm-style tables. The few pieces of artwork that adorn the walls were hand-painted by Rajmohan. The modern, stylish bar is well-lit, and each spirit has been carefully selected to complement the menu.
The same kind of intentionality goes into Lime and Lemon’s waste-reduction efforts. You won’t find plastic straws or to-go containers here, only compostable ones.
“We did not want to use any plastic,” Rajmohan says. “Whenever I would order take-out from an Indian restaurant, I would feel bad that the hot curries were put into plastic.”
It’s not just that the plastic doesn’t decompose, but that its toxicity leeches into the food, and then into the body.
“We can all reduce by taking small steps,” she adds. “It costs a lot to use [compostable containers], but you have to give back something to the environment.”
Contact food and digital editor Andrea Rice at arice@indyweek.com
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