roti order

There’s a roti shop on White Plains Road that knows my order before I say a thing. A few blocks from the 219th stop on the 2 train, tucked behind a red awning, is Ali’s Roti Shop—a place that’s become a quiet ritual whenever I head back to the neighborhood where I grew up.

My order never changes: oxtail roti with a side of tamarind sauce. The kind of meal that asks you to wait—at least 15 minutes, usually longer. But it’s worth it. The curry is rich, the oxtail tender, the roti soft and thin, just right for folding and pulling.

Ali’s doesn’t rush. It never has. And maybe that’s part of why I love it. There’s comfort in the slow pace, in knowing that something is being made for you, not just handed off. The woman who takes the orders—soft-spoken, kind, from Trinidad—greets me like she’s seen me many times before.

Inside, the air holds that unmistakable mix of garlic, cumin, and warmth. Men in paint-splattered hoodies wait quietly by the counter. Mothers with strollers, teenagers in uniforms, elders who know exactly what they want. Everyone waits. No one complains.

I come here when I’m looking for something grounding. When I want to eat with my hands. When I want to be reminded that food can carry memory, migration, and love—all wrapped in brown paper and steam.

-L