Back to Bamian

 

Saturday, July 21, 2012 – Back to Bamian

In yesterday’s episode of Traveling with My Tummy, we found ourselves in southern India, via the Woodlands Restaurant.  Today, we’re off to a remote area of Afghanistan, via a local Afghan restaurant named Bamian.  Actually, Bamian (the restaurant where I had lunch, not the town in Afghanistan) is in a densely populated and highly congested area of northern Virginia where Arlington, Falls Church, and Fairfax meet.  The occasion was a get-together with my friends Debra and Kathy, both of whom previously taught ESOL at Annandale High.  Debra chose the restaurant, and I was eager to try it.

The name of the restaurant conjures up memories of a trip I took to Afghanistan with my parents, way back in 1977.  They were living in Tehran at the time (for my father’s work) and when I came to visit, we all took off for a little adventure.  I remember Bamian quite well.  We traveled there from Kabul by taxi (our amazing driver took us everywhere).  The distance wasn’t great, but because of road conditions (mostly unpaved) and frequent encounters with herds of sheep, we bumped along in an old Russian sedan for several hours before we reached our somewhat desolate destination.  It was dusty and quiet when we arrived, and a soft golden light washed over the sheer cliffs rising around us.  We received a warm welcome at the Kuchi Hotel.  (The word “hotel” gives the wrong impression of the extremely simple establishment where we stayed.)  We ate our meals in a nearby yurt (large tent) set up in the courtyard.  The food wasn’t fancy, but I remember something called aushak, a sort of ravioli, being especially tasty. 

Of course, my parents and I didn’t venture out to Bamian for a luxury resort experience.  The main reason for our visit was to see the immense statues of Buddha carved into the rocks in mountainside caves.  (Note to self:  find Afghanistan photos and digitize them ASAP.)  At the time we were there, no one ever imagined that the Taliban would blow up these important works of art.  A significant part of the world’s cultural heritage, that had survived hundreds of years, was destroyed in minutes.  Another chapter in the terribly sad story of this region.  

with Kathy and Debra

Bamian restaurant in Virginia

So, having seen the “real” Bamian several years ago, I wasn’t expecting a restaurant with such a lovely décor.  Tablecloths, cloth napkins, and window treatments were certainly not part of our dining experience in Afghanistan thirty-plus years ago.  Tribal textiles, cushions on the floor, and brass lamps were what I expected to find, but I quickly adjusted to the elegant surroundings.  And I’m glad so Debra and Kathy are adventurous eaters who share my preference for mostly vegetarian cuisine.  We ordered a variety of dishes:  sambosas filled with chickpeas and herbs, a vegetarian platter (consisting of 3 delicious sautéed vegetable dishes – eggplant, pumpkin, and spinach), leek-stuffed aushak (ravioli), and an Afghan salad of tomatoes, cucumbers, and red onion.  The bread was pillowy soft whole-grain naan.  At Debra’s insistence (official excuse – we were still celebrating my birthday), we indulged in two desserts.  The pistachio flecked baklava and rice pudding were delicious, and neither was overly sweet.  The coffee was strong and dark.  I bet Elliott would be happy here.  (He’d order lamb kebabs.)  

Sambosas

delicious spinach, pumpkin and eggplant

leek-stuffed aushak with vegetable sauce

Afghan salad

Naan

rice pudding with pistachios

baklava with pistachios

Anyway, when I was with my mother a few days ago, I mentioned that I was going to a restaurant named Bamian and asked her if she remembered our trip.  She gave me a confused smile and a tentative nod, as I knew she would.  I don’t know why I continue to torture myself this way.  I guess it’s impossible for me to give up hope that her memory will return, as unrealistic as that seems.  I’ll go look for those old photos.  Maybe if I show her the pictures, she’ll be able to access some of the memories that are buried deep in her brain.