Tikka and Tenderness: A Night of Tension in Peshawar

by Noah Shaberman (Australia)

Making a local connection Pakistan

A thick haze hugged the air as darkness took Peshawar. We were in Pakistan's oldest city, preparing to dine at one of its best restaurants—Nisar Charsi Tikka. The smoke that rose from its stoves and grills partly obscured its well-bearded patronage, and the clang of cutlery rang out loud and shrill above the incessant murmur of the courtyard. The butchers' knives kept a steady beat. My host and guide, Sajjad, a stout moustachioed man with warm brown eyes, gave final instructions to the waiter before turning to me with a sympathetic smile. "My friend, I have requested the meat be very tender—for your stomach." I nodded and thanked him. He was referring to a bout of food poisoning I'd struggled with for several days, a condition which made me slightly apprehensive towards the oily, rich meal that was soon to be mine. Sensing my unease, he turned to me again. "People from all over the country come here because it has the best tikka in Pakistan. You will see." Casting a furtive glance about the restaurant, I saw that he was right. To Western eyes the differences were subtle, but there remained a discernible variance in language, dress and complexion throughout the crowd. Most of those present were Pashtun and spoke Pashto; others, like Sajjad, were from the Punjab. They spoke Punjabi. Only one table spoke English, and that table was ours. In spite of all the diversity on show, I became acutely aware of the fact that I was the real cultural oddity at Nisar Charsi Tikka, and my adornment of a shalwar kameez did little to change that. Hot pots of mutton tikka arrived at our table, complimented by cane plates of stacked Peshwari naan. Salim, our driver, sat up in his seat. He was a taciturn man, and a Punjabi like Sajjad. Unlike Sajjad, who'd made the trip to Peshawar many times before, Salim was a stranger to the region, and his slouch betrayed disconcertion. I empathised with him as we began to eat. The warmth left Sajjad's eyes as he pinched a small piece of meat between thumb and forefinger. We'd been eating for no more than a few minutes, and to me the meal was superb. Sajjad dropped the mutton chunk into his pot and looked up with a glare. "I told them to make it especially tender—this is not what I asked for." I assured him it was ok; that my stomach would be fine. But he wouldn't hear it. Raising his right hand, he beckoned to a passing waiter. The waiter came to our table, and with a few quick words, Sajjad sent him off again. He returned with the cook. A fiery exchange began in Urdu, the national language of Pakistan; neither Sajjad nor the cook could converse in the other’s native tongue. Salim and I shuffled awkwardly in our seats. Across the courtyard, an escort of armed Pashtuns hovered watchfully behind their stone-faced employer. They wore civilian clothes, and bandoliers criss-crossed their chests—food for the assault rifles they flaunted openly. This was the Peshawar I'd read about. A wild North-West frontier city in an already beleaguered nation, where Taliban warlords vied for control of the streets and children played with guns as if they were toys. Tourists had been targeted and killed here; but Sajjad had assured me that that Peshawar was a thing of the past. The argument stopped abruptly. The waiter stormed off. With my head bowed low, I asked Sajjad about the altercation. "Don't worry, my friend. They are bringing us more food—tender this time." And they did. There was no reprisal for Sajjad's complaint, only more pots of mutton tikka more tender than the last. Yes, this was Peshawar. Yes, it had seen its fair share of conflict. But this was a restaurant. People came here to eat, not to wage war. As I scooped up a succulent piece of mutton with a shred of naan, I chastised myself for seeing differences, and how they might divide, instead of connections—namely, the universal desire for a satisfying meal, and the natural indignation that occurs when that meal's deemed unsatisfying.