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Ron, Andy, Reza, and I walked quickly. As near as I can tell, it never rains in Seattle. It's often misty. This mist was fast enough such that I might say it was raining if I could do so without admitting my it-never-rains-in-Seattle assertion was wrong.
We entered a mall which I'd seen before, the mall which splays around the flagship SBC stand. We walked upstairs to the food court. Never before had I seen the like in a retail mall; the closest equivalent I could muster would be the Public Market in Emeryville: food of all nations, served on plastic cafeteria trays.
I've always been pleasantly surprised by Indian restaurants in Seattle. I go in expecting so little, and have always been treated to some of the most flavorful food in the area. There was the one in the Pioneer Square area where I ate heavily spiced food while a wedding party danced above our heads. There was the place in the strip mall in Edmonds, a delight--especially since the alternative was waiting an hour for a chance at a baked potato at Black Angus. There was the place in Wallingford where I'd gone with my fellow sailors just a few months before, the most civilized food I'd had in a week.
The Indian food I got at the food court was pretty bad. The dahl didn't really have it going on. The nan was, as near as I could tell, warmed-up pita bread. I picked at my food, tried to concentrate on what people were saying. I didn't have much luck. I was pretty tired.