Broadway Revival

My friend Randy has a theory that a few yards of taffeta, a couple of tassels and a can of peach paint can hide a multitude of evils. “I’ve turned the filthiest, flea-infested crackhead cribs into castles,” he likes to boast. “If you have a can of cleanser, a paintbrush and some tasteful accent pieces, you can turn a slum into a showplace.”

An even more head-shaking renovation has taken place at 3623 Broadway, the former home of several iconic all-nighters (including the old midtown Chubby’s and several incarnations of Sidney’s Diner) that were never going to win any awards for décor — or cleanliness. Since the last effort to revive this venerable venue as a 24-hour diner died a sad and greasy death three years ago, the corner space sat empty until Pakistan native Irfan Rafi decided to turn a junked-up joint into a Punjab palace.

My guess is that it took crates of cleanser, a truckload of ammonia and industrial-sized drums of soft peach paint to turn the old Sidney’s into the New Café Tandoor, which opened seven weeks ago as an attractive bistro serving both Indian and Pakistani fare.

There is a difference between those two cuisines, Rafi explained to me one afternoon as I nibbled on a plate of goat curry from his well-tended lunch buffet. “Indian cuisine is heavily vegetarian, you know. People in Pakistan eat lots of meat, so we cook our meats differently. With more flavor and tenderness.”

That means the New Café Tandoor’s menu includes beef — which most Indian diners will not eat — as well as chicken, lamb and 12 different goat dishes. No pork, of course; Pakistan is predominantly Muslim. At least one night during the religious observance of Ramadan, three dozen Pakistani males joined Rafi in the banquet room to break their all-day fast at an elaborate buffet.

That same night, my friends Lillis and Bob joined me for dinner in the main dining room. Lillis — once she got over her disappointment at not being able to order a cold beer — was dazzled at the sight of so many handsome, dark-haired men.

“She must think she walked into the set of a Merchant and Ivory film,” Bob whispered.

Indeed, the dining room could be some sort of stage set, with all those swags, tassels and swishy draperies hanging on the front windows; I can’t think of any other restaurant in town where a full-sized mannequin bedecked in baubles and veils stands near the front door. Then there are the big, framed watercolors; the glass-topped tables; the cabbage-sized artificial roses; the wooden screens; and the intricately carved wooden boxes used to present the bill at the end of the meal. It’s glamour, baby.

Lillis was oblivious to everything but all the distinguished-looking Middle Eastern men standing around. I had to practically wave the plate of crunchy fried vegetable pakoras under her nose to get her to try one. To distinguish his pakoras from the fried fritters at many Indian restaurants, Rafi chops up his broccoli and cauliflower into bits, forms round balls, sinks them into a spicy chickpea batter and then plunges them into hot oil, making them refreshingly ungreasy.

Dinners include rice or tandoori-baked puffy naan — one of the many light breads that are so delicious wrapped around a piece of meat or slathered with traditional mango or mint chutneys. The condiment tray includes mild versions of both chutneys as well as sweet tamarind syrup and something called “sweet and sour sauce” that looked and tasted like Gerber’s baby food.

Bob isn’t a huge fan of Indian food except for Butter Chicken, which isn’t on this menu. Our server, a sassy Midwestern redhead who was just getting acquainted with this particular cuisine, wasn’t much help at suggesting alternatives, but I steered Bob toward the tikka masala, knowing he’d like the delicately spiced creamy yogurt sauce atop the hunks of chicken breast. Lillis and I both chose signature dishes, meats cooked in white-hot clay tandoor ovens (Rafi’s kitchen has three). Lillis chose the lamb tikka boti and I went for the marinated jumbo shrimp; we were excited when our meals arrived on sizzling metal trays (mine in the center of a carved elephant platter, the shrimp a vivid orange), surrounded by chopped tomatoes, onions and green peppers.

“The lamb is really delicious,” Lillis said, offering me a fat chunk of meat. She looked over to the curvy spot near the entrance where the old diner counter once stood. “Can you believe this place used to be Sidney’s?”

I doubt that anyone stumbling into this decked-out dining room would believe it, especially the sort of woozy drunks who used to flop into booths for after-hours omelets with tater tots. I should know — I used to be one of them.

A few nights later, I returned with Patrick, who loved the draperies and the mannequin but got a bigger kick out of our waitress, a college student from Mongolia who didn’t know much about Indian food but was awfully congenial. “I’m studying interior design at Penn Valley,” she told us. That stunned another nearby waitress.

“You came from Mongolia to study interior design at Penn Valley?” she gasped. “I wish I could go to Mongolia to study, you know, Mongolian!”

“It’s a veritable United Nations in here,” Patrick said, laughing. “No, intergalactic! The owner has the same haircut as Mr. Spock!”

Irfan Rafi does bear a slight resemblance to a young Leonard Nimoy, which only adds to this dining room’s theatrical cachet. Having owned a fast-food joint in Kansas City, Kansas, before going upscale with New Café Tandoor, he’s trying awfully hard to make his place different from any other Indian restaurant. You have to love him for his efforts, such as delivering silvery bowls of ginger chicken and lamb curry perched — a tad awkwardly — on gold metal votive holders. Which might be ridiculous if the ginger chicken weren’t so extraordinary — light and fresh, with just the right degree of gingery tang.

Patrick raved about the tender lamb. “The curry sauce is so delicate and mild,” he said. “A little hot, not scorching.” Meanwhile, his eyes kept darting to oddities that delighted him: a juicing machine and a pile of fresh oranges (the only bar Rafi wants in here is a juice bar) and a little freezer case stuffed with cone-shaped kulfi ice cream on a stick. “This place is fabulous!”

I have to agree, particularly after taking my friend Jim to lunch at the beautifully arranged buffet. We were the only customers there, but Rafi stood proudly by steam tables heaped with tandoori chicken, goat curry, chicken makhani, pakoras, breads, assorted salads and chutneys, rosewater-scented rice pudding and gulab jamun.

And chocolate pudding, which may be the only leftover from the days when this was an ordinary all-night diner. If Rafi keeps the chocolate pudding, he needs to dust it with chopped pistachio nuts — it covers a multitude of evils.