Restaurant - Ariana
Location - Mile End
It was fitting that this journey would begin in Mile End. It is a district of contrasts, where modernity is a visitor unwelcome and unheeded. Much like Afghanistan, that conundrum of a country, whose history has become its legacy. Afghans are a fiercely proud race whose spirit has been bowed but not broken by a recent past of rack, ruin and Rumfeldt.
Heading East, not on the silk route but the screeching rails of the district line, I emerged into the dying embers of day to be greeted by socialist activists requesting my signature on a petition denouncing the coalition government as a democratic sham. Free thought, I mused, not readily identified as an Afghani trait. But a call to arms, yes, that certainly fits the bill.
Mile End has yet to embrace the gastro pub. Its inns are spartan and foreboding. They don’t stock bottled beer from Japanese microbreweries or play synthetic jazz in the washrooms. Lives here are simply led, unencumbered by ambition or pretension. As I opened the door of the Ariana restaurant, I wondered where the similarities would end.
The Afghans are a noble people who have mastered bravery under the harsh tutelage of history. I know this as once, in the midst of a surreal afternoon, I lunched with their national cricket captain. The image of him recalling and reliving the euphoria of his teams’ first ever victory was truly humbling, and something I will never forget. Afghans are passionately patriotic, often to the brink of hysteria, and have a deep, mystical connection with their tribe and terrain. They desperately want the world to see the land they love, not the desolate, war-ravaged wasteland shown on television.
The owner cum chef, I hope the first of many an obliging host, was no different. He was, for one night only, a cultural attaché. He beseeched me to marvel at the intricate mosaic tiling of his decorative kiln; the oil painting of afghan horsemen riding into the sunset; carved birds of prey swooping down from ceiling brackets. There was no denying it was an evocative scene that suspended the imagination enough to be far more than a mere pastiche. On the authenticity scale, this was closer to Khyber than kitsch.
We dined cross-legged on a raised wooden platform covered with rugs and scattered with richly embroidered cushions. This is how guests are received in an Afghan household, each article and adornment reflecting the virtue and valour of the host. Above us were hung ancient stringed instruments that would, I can only imagine, provide an eery refrain to haunting lament. Slaves to tradition we ordered some mint tea. It was served in ornate porcelain cups festooned with ossack style dancers.
I’m not sure what I expected from the menu, but in any case I was surprised by the staples and specialities on offer. I had assumed it would be typical of the cuisine of Greater Persia, with simple grilled meats on long, entwining skewers. These featured of course but so did a cavalcade of curious native dishes, bursting with fruits and flavours. It was rich with seasonal vegetables and abundant vitamins. Afghanistan, it seems, is more fertile and alluvial than one would imagine. The chef explained that although vegetables and fruits grow with rare abandon, they do so only for a short season. With no means of refrigeration anything not consumed in the months of plenty is pickled. Us English are known to enjoy an onion so preserved, but a peach!
As a statement on Afghanistan’s long and troubled history ‘Carry on Up the Khyber’ is perhaps the worst ever consigned to celluloid. Frivolity and farce are not part of the Afghan story. This is a serious land of severe and serious deeds. As I sipped my tea I thought of the kite runners of Kabul: such earnest innocence in the face of such dread.
A delicate dish of fried aubergine was followed by a platter of Mantoo and Ashak, giant ravioli like pasta parcels, filled with minced lamb or stewed leek, topped with strained tomato. This was Mediterranean, not Middle Eastern, fare. It was a reminder that Afghanistan is a Eurasian state, influenced as much by Caucasian Europe as its Asian neighbours. The men, stocky and striking, Pashtun and Tajik, have blue eyes and fairer skin than the tribesmen of neighbouring Pakistan. They are born in the borderlands of east and west, courted and conquered by covetous cousins.
But as if to resist classification the next dish, a boiled shank of lamb in a bed of currant-infused rice, brought scents of Persia and India in its aroma. For me boiling is a procedure more suited to non-sentient organisms, but the meat was as tender as a lullaby and very enjoyable. There was an absence of the spice and rich seasoning you would expect in the Kashmir. Beyond the Khyber Pass lies a different land.
Afghanistan is as beguiling as it is brutal, an ancient and alluring land, whatever preconceptions and misconceptions you may arrive with.
