Restaurant: Azmar
Location: Edgeware Road
By Boeing: 774 miles
By Boris Bike: 2 miles
At my last destination I wrote of how Iran was suffering from an image problem, a mire of modern problems masking a rich heritage. Well as I move across the border to neighbouring Iraq that bold statement looks something of an understatement. The Iraq we have seen through the lens of rolling 24 hour news coverage is hardly a fitting advert for the cradle of civilisation, once led not by a mad dictator but the respected and exotically named Nebercudnezzer and thought to contain the Garden of Eden.
As I walked along the Edgeware Road to the cluster of bustling Iraqi restaurants just south of the Regents Canal it seemed odd that these culinary exclaves exist and, seemingly, flourish in a country that has spent much of its recent past bombing its citadels and condemning its brutish authoritarianism. But multiculturalism and acceptance is one of London’s greatest strengths and has brought its corners and crannies different flavours, sights and sounds. I got a feeling of deja vu then looked up see that my destination, Azmar, was right next door to one of my earlier hosts, the wonderful Burmese Mandalay.
I was lured in by the skewered lines of kebabs and the rainbow of piquant colours in the dips and sauces that line the refrigerated window display. Away from the war ravaged, borderless fields of dust portrayed in the glut of war films Iraq bears fruit, and bounteous dining tables of it. As i squeezed past the counter and salivated at the skewers I saw that Azmar was like the Narnian wardrobe, leading into another world. Up some steps the restaurant stretched away out of sight, and all the tables but one were filled.
This was a Saturday evening and the middle eastern equivalent to a British family Sunday roast. Led to a small table flecked with yoghurt, but soon wiped clean, I took a look at the menu. Most was translated into English, but some Saturday only dishes, weren’t. In the spirit of adventure and ever in search of authenticity I enquired what they were first. The waitress giggled once she saw where my finger had settled, ‘Boiled sheep’s head. It comes with a spoon.’ Crikey. I decided to choose from dishes in my native tongue.
The choice was similar to Persian, with kebabs complimented by rich stews. Not wanting to repeat my Persian experience I ordered a Lamb Shank, with lentils and an aubergine side. But before that arrived I was surprised by a finger bowl of lentil soup. This was, it seemed, complimentary, and very pleasant, like a light, lemony dall. The restaurant was echoing with animated conversation, with most tables featuring three generations of a family. Laughter was infectious and gossip appeared to spread from table to table. On the walls were pictures from an older, more peaceful Iraq, featuring historical sites and sweeping vistas.
The Shank was unlike any served in a home counties gastro pub. Slender and sinewy it slipped off the bone. There was nothing subtle about the taste, indeed it was almost as strong as goat. After the first mouthful an enormous nan arrived, the size of a bedside table. But the discovery was the aubergine, brimming with flavour and every bit as delicious as anything sold overlooking the Mediterranean or Adriatic.
I ordered the yoghurt based drink I had sampled in Iran. But this was different, more savoury and salty: wince inducingly salty in fact. I ordered several glasses of water to prevent me from slumping into a dehydrated trance. The lamb, served on a bed of rice, as is tradition in the region, only yielded about five forkfuls but I was sated long before I could polish off the rice and lentils.
I was disappointed not to see any desserts but when my tea came it was accompanied by a slice of a baklava style desert. It was very sweet and as filling as something ten times its size. This was, i was pleased to discover, also complimentary. The whole kibosh came to a level ten pounds and I was very content with that. As I walked back past the packed tables, a few eyes followed me, but none seemed to question why I had encroached on an Iraqi Saturday feast.
The owner, grilling kebabs, wished me well and asked if I had enjoyed the food. I had, and I told him. Walking back onto the street I felt a bit like Mr Benn, wondering whether that small changing room really had opened out to the wild west. So much life is lived behind the prying eyes of passers by.
A few doors down was an Iraqi grocers and I decided to take a look. I emerged with some rugged looking fig rolls, which are, I was delighted to learn, an Iraqi invention and national dish.
Iraq, a good example of not believing everything you see on television.
