One-man show of hospitality
Afghan’s less-is-more approach leaves diners richly satisfied.
There are a few standard features of dining out that Afghan Restaurant does without. Menus, to start with. And waiters, reservations, choices, and even clean tables.
I mention this as to be forewarned is to be forearmed, but also to convince you that none of those things are really that important. What counts at a restaurant is how good the food is and how well you feel taken care of.
By those measures, I’d argue that when you walk out of this humble Lincoln Rd eatery with a tingle on your lips and a warm glow in your belly, you will feel nourished, connected with your fellow diners and full. You’ll also be carrying a doggy bag.
When we got to Afghan at 7.30pm on a Saturday, it was standing room only. The half dozen tables were full and about 10 people were clustered around a counter behind which host, chef and grill master Abdul was putting on a show.
Working with the smooth choreography that could only have come from years of practiced efficiency, he was grabbing handfuls of long metal skewers threaded with meat and placing them on a grill. Tall flames were kicking at them, and every so often a fat flare-up would send flames shooting to the top of the grill’s exhaust hood.
At the same time he was prepping takeaway containers of rice. Then he would swivel from the grill and, in one smooth motion, slide the meat off the skewers onto their waiting bed.
It became clear that some of the standing room crowd were waiting for these takeaways and some for tables.
When a group of men at a six-top in the window all stood and came to the counter to pay, I sensed opportunity. But a couple who had just arrived snaked our group of four and sat down. Abdul waved at us to go join them. This was no place to stand around being polite.
The table was still strewn with napkins, water glasses and spilled food. We cleared the table, and, encouraged by Abdul, helped ourselves to clean plates, cutlery and Styrofoam cups of water. I grabbed a full jug of water from a fridge that contained nothing but water and Cokes.
Abdul looked up from the grill and, nodding at our table and then the six-top beside us, asked: ‘‘Who’s first?’’ With a pang of regret I was honest and said they were.
The air was thick with smokey goodness and we were getting hungry watching our neighbours attack huge platters of steaming food.
Then Abdul summoned me to the counter and I returned to our table bearing our own platters like some conquering tribal chief.
Eight large skewers of ground lamb meatballs and large pieces of orange Tandoori chicken breast had been laid on a large bed of flavoured rice and we also had a large platter of colourful salad and a bowl of chicken curry.
We dived in: ‘‘Mmm, this lamb kofta is so freaking good.’’ The heavily spiced lamb was smokey and delicious and the chicken was perfectly grilled – tender and moist. The rice had been flavoured with some drippings from the grill and was so good I would have been happy with nothing else, except that the curry had a wonderful depth of flavour and just a mild kick of chilli. The salad was a crunchy mix of lettuce, red cabbage, olives and jalapenos and was dressed with a tangy mayo and chilli sauce.
We all filled our plates and talked and laughed and refilled again and kept on grazing until we could eat no more. There was enough left for both couples to take a large container home.
My friend nailed the experience when she said Abdul’s bare-bones approach was a gift because it had given us the opportunity to bond with strangers over nothing more than a shared appreciation of the food.
When Abdul turned off the grill hood’s fan, it fell dark and silent and we realised we were the last people left. It was 9pm and Abdul was done. He gave us fresh dates and explained that as he does everything in the restaurant, he opens when he has the energy, so sometimes he just doesn’t.
You take your chances when you show up at Afghan but, if it is open, you’ll be glad you did.