Philadelphia Weekly

A half-hour after ordering from King of Tandoor, my phone rings. "Hi. My name's Brian. I have your Indian food."

I open my front door, expecting a curry cloud to waft forth, but no one's there. Brian, the delivery person, got the digits right, but he's on the wrong street deep in the shadow of the Art Museum. I live in South Philly.

When I ordered over the phone--online ordering will happen "soon," according to owner Mohammed Islam--my house inadvertently landed within King of Tandoor's delivery grid. Currently, they serve within a dozen blocks of the restaurant's Fairmount address, with expanded coverage by winter.

Head back, I tell Brian. I'll pick up. But he insists on making the delivery.

Islam, who also operates a Joy Indian Restaurant in Brooklyn, didn't set out to be the Teddy Roosevelt of Indian delivery, trust-busting Tiffin Store's unstoppable dal-to-door monopoly. He opened King of Tandoor at the behest of a Brooklyn regular. Talk about trust.

In the Strawberry Quik-colored dining room, halal families and empty nesters dine beneath Italian chandeliers affixed to gilded medallions made in India. Ornate serving bowls cup the curries and water brims in beveled glass chalices. Islam aimed upscale looks-wise, so KOT is clearly not your typical tandoor house. Here's the catch-22: Better food is often at the typical tandoor house, a dirt-cheap buffet or campus lunch truck with questionable sanitation.

My first meal at King of Tandoor began well with refreshing chickpea chana chat, nicely blistered naan and lush mango lassies, but the subsequent misses underscored the irony: vegetarian samosas with unusually thick skins, gamy lamb vindaloo, oily chicken tikka masala.

The unflappably polite staff was a bright spot. My waiter called me sir and offered little-league-like encouragement as I ordered: "Very good choice" and "You're a pro."

When I declined dessert, our server arrived with gratis rasmalai (house-made paneer cooked in milk and almond sauce) anyway.

"We want people to come back," he more implored than explained. "Next time we'll bring you something else to try."

A sweet gesture, a sweet dessert, but King of Tandoor would be more likely to attract repeat business with better food.

After dining in, trying the delivery service seemed like a proper, if not obligatory, test. That's how Brian winds up at my door, sweating and apologizing, clutching a grease-stained brown paper bag in each hand.

The pack job isn't impressive. Paratha, ghee-slicked Indian flatbread, and soggy bhuija (onion fritters) meet their maker in tinfoil coffins. Chicken shagoti leaks something funky onto my kitchen floor.

Once the covers are off, it's hardly a better sight: dry lamb shishkebab, mushy tandoori shrimp, soggy bhuija. Now before anybody starts crying that the food would've been hot/crisp/fresh if my home happened to be closer to King of Tandoor, I offer this caveat: My order arrived only five minutes after the originally quoted ETA, hardly a make-or-break window. Methinks that shrimp was limp long before it reached my door.

The good news is some items survived the transport, like the flaky, buttery paratha that makes my whole house smell like a Bombay bakery. All the breads are kneaded from scratch and baked in a tandoor dedicated to breads and vegetarian dishes. Meat and fish are barbecued in a separate second oven.

Popped in the fridge, firni--creamy Indian rice pudding splashed with rosewater--stays cool and creamy, and the toothsome spinach could turn even the most vegetable-averse into a modern-day Popeye. Skinny dried chilies, curry leaves and tender chunks of chicken breast turn up in the shagoti, a tasty treasure hunt through fragrant, fiery tomato-and-coconut milk and tomato gravy. After a few forkfuls, I'm inclined to pardon the mess it made.