Khyber Grill serves my kind of comfort food

Comfort food is deeply personal. The flavors and textures that soothe or revive are rooted in biography.

As a child, my mother's spaghetti sauce burrowed into a primitive part of my brain, reinforced by the Friday nights when my dad would bring home a big garlicky sackful of takeout from our favorite Italian-American joint, Bove's. To this day, Italian food functions as a port in any storm for me.

As a student in Houston, fresh out of New England, I discovered the joys of Tex-Mex and never looked back. When I'm feeling puny or discombobulated, a plateful of enchiladas, escorted by chips and salsa, will fix me right up.

As a young adult, exhausted by the labors of purchasing and setting up my own house, I'd travel a handful of miles down the Gulf Freeway to the Taj Mahal, one of the pitifully few good restaurant options in the East End of that day. There I fixated on the rich, dusky allure of sag paneer, the gently spiced Indian creamed spinach dish bobbing with spongy-soft cubes of fresh farmers' cheese. Sag paneer was the beanbag chair I wanted to sink into and stay put.

Which is where Khyber North Indian Grill comes in. Khyber's proprietor, Mickey Kapoor, managed the Taj Mahal in the late 80s, and he was one of the city's first ambassadors for the joys of North Indian tandoori cuisine and all its accoutrements.

Houston's Indian food scene had not yet exploded into its current panoply of regional cuisines and price points, from inexpensive to moderate to eye-wateringly high-end. I was captivated Kapoor's sly wit and by the affordable Taj's tandoori chicken, naan, sag paneer and chutneys of both the green and tamarind persuasion. That instantly became my comfort meal of choice.

My Gulf Freeway Taj closed in 2007, long after I had been lured away by more exotic Indian options, but I still feel a pang every time I drive by.

Post-Taj, Kapoor has been associated with other restaurants, including another comfort-food fave of mine, India's. When he opened Khyber on April Fool's Day in 1994 (yes, he picked the date just for laughs), the place grew famous for the smart-alecky marquee signs he'd put up. Kapoor would bounce his wicked texts off the earnest signs for the Pappasitos and Pappadeaux restaurants on either side along Richmond.

He's still doing the joke signs, but the pace and the tone are less blistering these days. On my recent visits, the sign facing east read, "Treat yourself to our awesome lunch buffet, siesta not included." (It was still up a week later.) The west-facing sign opined tartly that "Some people are wise, some are otherwise."

I found Khyber's sag paneer as stupendous as ever—for my money, the best in town. It's actually an improvement on the Taj version—greener, duskier, a scosh less creamy, its saltiness tempered by a tinge of warm spice. I've brought takeout containers of it home with me twice in the past few weeks, and I've realized I'm just happier when I have some Khyber sag paneer in the fridge.

Just as comforting in their way: the daal makhni of black lentils and kidney beans in a lively tomato gravy; the sultry baingan bharta of caramelized eggplant in a gently agro-dolce sauce of tomato, ginger, onion and garlic; and the wonderfully downy onion kulcha loaves, spangled with cilantro on top and softened minced onion within. They're like little down pillows to me.

Just add sweet-sour tamarind chutney, herbal mint chutney and tart, minty raita—the versatile yogurt dip—for maximum mix and match pleasure.

If you've gotta have meat, I recommend the grilled Reshmi Kabab, rolls of chicken minced with cashew and cheese; or the startlingly good Chicken Afghani, a chicken breast respectfully grilled with ginger, garlic and fenugreek. It will make you admit that grilled chicken breasts are not necessarily dull and overcooked.

Okay, the chicken tikka I tried on a combo dinner was mealy, and a slice of the tantalizing sounding barrah kabab, lamb leg grilled with mint vinegar, was so tough I gave up on it. But I was so blissful about everything else, right down to the airy perfection of the pulao rice, that I scarcely cared.

Sitting in the sedately clubby dining room, I saw a parade of customers picking up big orders to go. I wondered what was in their big brown paper carriers. Would their meal be as comforting to them as mine was to me? Would their kids remember the tastes and aromas for the rest of their lives?

I hoped so.