Seeing double

Walking up the street for Sunday lunch at Afghan restaurant Mazar felt a bit like a scene in the old Spiderman, where Spidey suddenly finds himself squaring up to an identically dressed doppelgänger. There, just across the road, no more than twenty metres away was Masa; a very similarly named Afghani restaurant with a similar interior and a similar menu. 

Even more confusingly, we had also previously eaten Sunday lunch at Masa - although I did find myself having to search the blog to confirm this, a perennial problem of eating out a lot coupled with general short-term memory loss – which added to the feeling of general discombobulation.

One thing that certainly did differ between our visits was the temperature. Previously, on our visit across the road, everything was festooned in tinsel and there were Christmas films on the TV (or so the blog tells me). Whereas this time the TV in the corner – another similar touch – was showing the European Road Cycling Championships, with Glasgow bathed in rare sun.

It was even hotter in Harrow, with the weather station down the road recording the highest temperature in the country. Only a few degrees shy of Mazar-i-Sharif, the Afghan city where the owner hails from and for which the restaurant is named.

The interior is a little more ramshackle that it’s slightly fancier rival across the road, with the decor somewhere between a takeaway shop – they also offer a menu of burgers and pizza - and a cosy family restaurant. The walls are dominated by pictures of Afghanistan, including one of the blue mosque, which the owner was very happy to come over and talk to us about when he saw the Ewing admiring it. In fact, she was so smitten with his descriptions that it went straight to the top of the holiday list, at least until she got home and saw the Foreign Office has advised against all non-essential travel there…

Thankfully, although a visit to this fascinating country remains off limits to all but the most intrepid explorer, there’s still a chance to experience some of the culture and Afghani cuisine in this corner of North West London. Eschewing the standard fast food options, we chose the family pack 1, a selection of different traditional dishes served with naan and salad.

A late start in the kitchen that morning meant we were warned it would be about an hour before the rice was ready. No matter, they had air con and the Ewing had her ayran, a slightly salty yogurt drink that, although the thought of it makes me feel a little queasy, is apparently just the ticket in the hot weather.

We started with Mantoo, Afgani parcels filled with lamb, onions and herbs and served topped with a sauce of yoghurt and dried mint. While these were likened to ravioli, a better comparison would be Chinese Jiaozi or Tibetan momo, dumplings with thick wheat wrappers stuffed with ground minced meat and then steamed.

Sabzi Palak, spinach fried with white leek & garlic, was very similar to a good saag bhaji, which I always think of as quite an understated achievement, seeing as most my efforts at cooking spinach end up oily or bitter or gritty or watery. And sometimes, most impressively, all of those things together.

There was also a dish of bamia – a stew of okra, another of my favourite veg. This little baby version had been cooked down with tomato and onions a lashing of olive oil, to form a rich sauce that avoided the gloopy gumminess that the ladies fingers can be prone to (behave at the back).

Skewers of marinated lamb and chicken were smoky and tender and were served with giant oval naan – it wouldn’t be a kebab without some bread - which was flatter and crisper than the more familiar puffy, tear dropped-shape. Its rigid construction made an excellent shovel for the remnants of the dish of strained yogurt, that the Ewing was determined not to waste.

Afghan food, our genial host told us, was better than Indian food as it was spiced, but not too spicy. Of course, I was too polite to challenge his point, but I was very thankful for a verdant dish of sauce - presented with an ominous warning - that proved the perfect blend of heat from chillies and freshness from coriander and parsley.

When the platter of  Qabili Palow finally emerged, it lived up to its billing of Afghanistan’s national dish. Meat (here lamb, on the bone) is slow cooked in stock and added to white rice, that takes on a deep colour from slow-cooked onions and spices, before being topped with plump raisins, slivers of fried carrots, and almonds. Whenever I think I’m not really a fan of rice, I eat a dish like this and have to reconsider my position. There were also plenty of leftovers to take home for dinner the next day.

For desert I was torn between the firni – traditional Afghan desert of set custard sprinkled with pistachios and almonds – and the hot ‘n’ crunchy pie, which I’m guessing is not a traditional desert, but had such an amazing name I wasn’t sure I cared. In the end it was a moot point, as I was far too full to eat anything else, although the owner very kindly gave us a dish of a barfi-like fudge with nuts and some sugared almonds, which the Ewing was very enamoured with.

Whereas when my favourite webbed warrior met his double, there was only going to be one winner, in the case of Mazar and Masa it’s win-win. Two great restaurants, twice the fun. I just wish one was a little closer.

Naan and Grandad @ Mr Chilly

Throughout life I've so far mostly ignored the many well intentioned warnings about peaking too early; hence why I was always a sprinter not a cross-country-er (that, and a complete lack of endurance and stamina). But I do fear that giving my best joke up to the title of this post can mean only an anticlimax. The one secret weapon I do have, however, is Grandad. And like babies and fluffy kittens, everyone loves old people; unless they are ahead of you, in the queue at the supermarket, on your lunch break....

At the ripe old age of 88 Grandad shows little signs of losing his sense of humour and spirit of adventure, meaning he was the ideal person to accompany us to North Harrow's Mr Chilly for a Saturday night curry. Possibly a little too enthusiastic as he and the Ewing ploughed their way through the plate of poppadoms like hungry locusts as I was distracted with ordering the food and snapping a few (pretty bad) pics on my phone.

Sadly he didn't make any inroads on my drink which was advertised as 'Fresh Passion' but didn't float my boat, having the strange sweet and salty flavour that reminded me of the electrolyte drinks you get given when ill (or, more likely, hungover).

Dishes feature fairly typical Pakistani fare - grilled lamb chops, kebabs and 'turbo' wings to start with grilled paneer, pakoras and mogo chips for the veggies, followed by the familiar role call of breads, rice and curries, although ingredients such methi (fenugreek leaves), burjee (scrambled eggs), haleem (wheat, meat and lentil stew), and paya (braised feet) give things a both a more homely and more exotic twist compared the Bombay Palace identikits found on most high streets.

We shared a selection of mains including a beautifully tender and fragrant spring lamb spiked with fresh ginger, a decent bhindi bhaji (fast becoming my favourite vegetable side dish) and a, slightly dry, jeera chicken with huge amonts of smoky roasted cumin seeds. Vegetable biryani appeared in what looked like a glass butter dish, but was no worse for that while garlic naans, like the spicy poppadoms, seemed to be very popular across the table, although the crusts I managed to snaffle were very good.

Standout was probably the prawn karahi, which featured a subtle onion and tomato based sauce with a decent lick of coriander and garlic in the background that came studded with about a dozen impossibly large and sweet crustaceans.

There's a definite utilitarian vibe about the place; sauces - one white and one red - come in squeezy bottles, the plates look like something from you Nan's wedding service and the decor is fairly sparse (one of the few pictures actually fell off the wall while we were there), but it has an endearing charm and friendly staff who all dutifully laughed at Grandad's jokes. The food was freshly prepared and with enough distinctive spicing to make each dish stand out; and at £10 a head for a huge amount of food (including a couple of the most expensive dishes on the menu) the bill was pleasingly small.

Of course, despite my not being very good at building to a climax, there always has to be a little anticipation and this time I really have saved the best until last. My two favourites, and that elusive garlic naan.