by Stefan Gates
So what do the poorest people in the world eat? Often plain starches. Sabra and her family eat a pathetically small amount of WFP split peas that are boiled to maceration into dhal. It tastes surprisingly good, though not, I suspect, if you eat it every day of your life. She also makes unleavened naan bread using WFP flour in a mud-built tandoor oven that reaches a frighteningly high temperature, having been stoked for three hours using anything she can lay her hands on, including carrier bags, twigs and dried turds.
The naans are dampened with a little water before they are slapped onto the side wall of the oven. In a few minutes they are ready and on the verge of burning, at which point they are slipped off the oven and left to cool.
I taste Sabra's food, but can't bring myself to eat the whole portion that she offers me. It seems wrong for a Western journalist to take food from someone this poor. But she tells me off and I realize that I've done the wrong thing – she is offended by my rejection of her hospitality, and if I am to be able to write about the experience of the Afghan poor, I need to get involved.
Sabra finds life tough, filthy, relentless, tiring and bleak. She hates the food that she has to eat, and both she and the kids yearn for rice and meat. I pull some modelling balloons out of my pocket and make some balloon dogs to amuse them, and as we get ready to leave, I ask Sabra if she thinks her daughters will have a better future. She says she just wants them to be able to go to school. I'm told it's not appropriate to shake hands with her, so I thank her profusely and put my hand on my heart in the Afghan custom. As I leave, I'm a bit of a mess: incensed at the desperate unfairness of her life, and wracked with guilt at being able to hop into a car and leave her behind. I tell myself that I'm here to expose and explain things, not to solve them, but my mood has undeniably darkened.
I set off on a two-day drive heading back to Kabul, passing hundreds of burnt-out Russian tanks on the way. They are everywhere, constant reminders of Afghanistan's violent history. We stop at the equivalent of a motorway service station – a row of creaky wooden stalls all selling exactly the same foods at exactly the same prices.
A man hears my voice and angrily accuses me of being American. I tell him I'm British and he roars his approval, produces a hellishly out-of-tune guitar and plays an extraordinary version of All You Need Is Love'. Or at least I think that's what he's playing. Whatever it is, it's great and about 40 men gather around to listen and cheer.
I try sticky dried watermelon that's surprisingly strong and pleasant, the tart dried yoghurt balls, and the huge, sweet, bright yellow sultanas.
That night myself, Marc and Aleem are guests of an Afghan Aid project. We eat another heady dinner of lamb and qabili rice (lamb, lamb fat and rice with a few sultanas) washed down with Coke. I'm grateful for our hosts' hospitality, although the Afghan custom of keeping the TV on during meals is a little odd.
The Hindu Kush
We wake early and our tiny room smells like a sheep's sweaty crotch, so we're happy to leave it and continue our journey south. We reach the Hindu Kush (rough translation: 'Killer of Hindus' – nice). The mountain scenery is stark, brutal and beautiful. We are stuck behind slow-crawling, smoke-spewing lorries and tiny cars that somehow manage to pack 12 people into the back, with the smallest kid on the rear shelf, head bouncing violently against the window as their car hits the frequent potholes.
Just after the mountains, the road suddenly drops to an open plain, and I spot a vast graveyard of tanks, rocket-launchers, Scud missiles and armoured personnel carriers rotting and rusting into the sand. I'm intrigued, so Aleem talks his way past the small group of soldiers guarding it so that we can wander around. It's mainly old Russian hardware, all the dials and directions written in Cyrillic. They must have been miserable machines to live in and terrible to die in. But it's a strangely peaceful place – maybe because these tanks have been decommissioned and their days of fighting are over. But there's also a ghostly, lingering sense of sorrow.
I look at the Scud missiles – this is the stuff that Iran and Iraq threw at each other during their wars. They've been partially dismantled, and each one has a big red button on its control panel. I've always been tempted to press red buttons so I stare at them. A soldier wanders over to see what we're doing. 'Kaboom', he says, with a warning grin.
The next day I find out that there was a huge explosion at the tank graveyard after we'd left, killing two people, injuring scores more and destroying several buildings. I can't believe I even joked about pushing red buttons.
The Best Kebab Shop in the World
According to international kebab-lovers, the Best Kebab Shop in the World is generally regarded to be Mr Kebabi's in Charekar. I ask around, and am pointed in the direction of a reassuringly ramshackle and grubby building. Inside I meet the jolly and magnificently hirsute Uncle Kebabi (actually the nephew of the original Mr Kebabi, who's now dead), and I ask him why his 'babs are so good.
He swears by lamb tail fat. The kebabs are disarmingly small – just one piece of fat and two pieces of meat – so they are sold in bundles of ten. His lamb is beaten to soften it, then marinated with garlic, onion and salt. I help to cook them over a long, thin charcoal grill, and we go upstairs to his filthy seating area to try them out.
It's all true. These are easily the best kebabs in the world. It's not just the depth of charcoaly flavour and the delicate flesh, but the whole experience: kebabs were designed here, to be eaten sitting cross-legged in Afghanistan, looking out of the window at the Hindu Kush, above a street bristling with armed militia. I'm sure that my sense of low-level terror helps the tastebuds. You just don't get that up Green Lanes.
That night we finally arrive back in Kabul and head straight back to the Gandamack Lodge, where, as luck would have it, the bar has been restocked with Woolf Blass cabernet sauvignon.
The US Army
Disaster. Aleem has been called away. He's desperately sorry and sorts me out with an interpreter called Maghreb (nice lad, fluent English from time spent in Newcastle, but he's no Aleem), and promises to be on the end of the phone for me when I need things organized.
There's nothing I can do to hold onto Aleem, so I crack on, pack Maghreb into the car and head for Camp Eggers, the main US military base in Kabul. It takes a mountain of security checks to get access, but finally I'm in, and I'm here to meet Captain Harraway, a lovely lady from South Carolina.
She's helpful and good-humoured and we wander around the PX (a military supermarket full of Cheerios, Oreos and Sylvester Stallone DVDs) and have a fine latte. I want to convince her to let us cook a meal for the Afghan army. She clearly thinks that the idea is distasteful in the extreme but says she'll see what she can do.
With nothing planned for the afternoon, I visit a market to see what sorts of foods are available. Maghreb takes me to his favourite take-away joint selling something called Afghan burgers' – livid pink slivers of matter allegedly containing beef. They look entirely artificial, but when deep-fried in 1000-times-used oil and mixed with the soggiest chips in the world, onions and wrapped in a soft naan, they prove the theory that when you're desperate, any mess of mechanically recovered meat, fat, salt, MSG and carbohydrate will taste divine.
Captain Harraway calls. For some reason beyond her comprehension, the most important generals in the Afghan army, along with the head of the Defence Ministry, want me to cook for them tomorrow at an Afghan army barracks.
Oh, Lord. I'm going to have to make food for 50 VIPs with guns. I've never done this before. In a panic, I decide to do a hands-across-the-water thing and make American-style burgers flavoured with typical Afghan herbs and spices. I should be able to do this in bulk.
I buy a couple of massive fillets from a blood-spattered butcher. He cuts the fillets straight from the carcass – there's no refrigeration, and I guess you don't want to risk more botulism than is strictly necessary by butchering meat before you have a buyer. His mincing machine is a joy to behold. It's an old car engine, complete with accelerator pedal, hook
ed up to an ancient Polish mincing attachment. To grind the meat, you literally have to turn a key to start the engine, then put your foot on the gas. It belches fumes, but works a treat – and anyway, a little smokiness to the burgers will be welcome. The butcher takes great pride in telling me that the engine came from a 1.6-litre Toyota Corolla.
In the market I find coriander, chillies, onions, garlic, eggs and tomatoes. We visit Supreme, Kabul's famous wholesale store that supplies the army, NGOs and Westerners. You're supposed to have a special pass, but I blag my way in. Mahgreb isn't allowed, which seems a bit off. I buy burger buns, ketchup and that vile mustard the Americans like. Also a bottle of gin and several bottles of tonic. Those are for me.
The Afghan Army
I meet Captain Harraway at Camp Eggers the next morning and she invites me for breakfast in their mess hall (which isn't messy at all, but is strangely futuristic and inflatable). I taste grits for the first time in my life. Interestingly, the only food on the planet that tastes worse than grits is cheese grits. I won't be trying them again.
Captain Harraway and Sergeant Lowery drive ahead of us to the Afghan army base. This is when life gets dangerous – travelling around with the army on streets full of IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices) designed to kill soldiers. Another US soldier died this morning in the south of Afghanistan. I sit on my flak jacket, and Marc looks at me, daring me to wear it.
At the base I meet an American military trainer who shows me how to assemble a 43-year-old AK47, which I find both distasteful and exciting. I watch a training session and a bit of marching, but I'm stressed about making lunch, so I go to the enormous mess hall and start to prepare the food. I rope in Captain Harraway and Sergeant Lowery, plus two Afghan cooks, and we chop and fry and bump into each other. A sense of camaraderie builds inexorably – it's in no one's interest to see me fail, and somehow we manage to get everything ready in time for lunch.
I start frying burgers and miraculously we produce some edible food. I try one, full of trepidation, but thankfully the burgers are bloody great (and so they ought to be, seeing as they're made with the most expensive cut of beef). They're a bit dry because there's no fat in fillet, but I've thought of that, and brought along a huge slab of neat beef fat so I chop that into the mixture. We're finally ready for the first 20 VIPs, so we march out, cameras and all, and I serve it up. They are sitting on the top table in front of 3,000 of their men. I make a short, cack-handed speech about spreading knowledge and understanding through food, and offer them the finest burgers on the planet.
As they tuck in, I pray that I don't poison them. The reaction is not quite as I'd hoped. They've clearly been herded here as a diplomatic gig and aren't sure what on earth this is all about: they don't know what to do with the flaps of bread, and they seem wary of this sweaty little Englishman. They smile politely and claim that the food is fine, but they're obviously deeply underwhelmed.
The whole exercise is an unmitigated disaster, not only because my customers clearly haven't enjoyed the food, but also because I've slipped into making the gruesome reality show I've been trying to avoid. TV cook Stefan Gates comes to Afghanistan on a mission to cook burgers for Afghan VIPs. What was I thinking?
I just want to forget about the whole experience and the best way to do that is to go and fire some heavy weaponry.
My guides take me out to the firing ranges and teach me how to fire an AK47. This has nothing whatsoever to do with food, but it's certainly an appropriate Afghan experience. Oddly enough, I appear to be a pretty good marksman and really kill the hell out of the bit of paper I am aiming at.
Now look, I'm a lover not a fighter, and I'm possibly even a bleeding heart liberal, but put an AK47 into the hands of any bleeding heart liberal and he instantly turns into an idiotic, kill-crazed, bloodthirsty maniac. Afterwards I try to feel a bit grubby and guilty, but mainly I just want to shoot some more stuff.
When I've calmed down a little, the US army guides show me their MREs: Meals Ready to Eat. These are magical ration packs about the size of a shoebox that contain all the ingredients for a large meal, including Oreo biscuits, chocolate bars and even a stick of chewing gum. The main meal part has a little self-heating pack that's water-activated. Dastardly clever. It heats up the main meal pack to a searing temperature so you can eat it piping hot.
They last for years (if not forever), they're light and portable and pack a great whack of nutritionally balanced calories, so it seems snide to mention that they taste rank. The pasta sauce has been carefully pasteurized, eliminating all bugs and flavour, and the jalapeño cheese sauce is like orange bathroom sealant. Of course, when you're under siege on a barren hillside you just want calories, fast and simple.
I had been expecting to find a bunch of dim, meathead Americans, but everyone I meet is friendly, helpful and funny. I guess they keep the meatheads well away from journalists. I make one interesting observation, though, and it's all about love. The US soldiers are constantly saluting each other to the point of irritation – everyone is assessed for rank and pecking order, and the lower one must salute the higher. It must get very tiring.
The Afghan soldiers, however, just give each other a big hug. I'm not joking; that's all I saw them doing the whole day we were there. It was lovely, and maybe that's where the solution to global conflict lies: get all the armies and militias and warlords to stop saluting each other, and get them to cuddle instead. Perhaps I'll suggest this if ever I get invited to cook for generals.
The Cookery Show
Today is the most important day in my career: I'm about to become a big star on Afghan TV and I'm pretty nervous. But first I visit the Serena, the five-star hotel that exists in a bizarre bubble of MI6-protected luxury amongst the chaos and squalor of Kabul. I'm given a little tour, and I'm desperate to try out the toilets. After the bug-infested drop-squats I've been using up until now, I could sit on these lovely pristine bogs for hours.
Outside the rain starts to fall. Kabul is grim enough, but when the filth and devastation is made liquid, all the rubbish and excrement rises to the surface and vast puddles of stagnant mud appear. Last year it caused a cholera epidemic.
But I have little time to reflect further on the appalling contrasts because I have work to do. I speak to Arn, a Dutchman running the Serena's restaurants. At first I assume that he's just another Westerner soaking up Afghanistan's cash, but this proves unfounded. He accepts that a night at the Serena costs the average yearly wage of most Afghans, but he's genuinely proud to train and employ locals who are learning skills that they might go on to use elsewhere. Frankly, anyone employing people in Afghanistan is to be applauded because these people are desperate for jobs. Arn also has women working in his kitchens, which is no mean feat for an Afghan company. One of these women works as a sushi chef, although she admits she's never tasted raw fish, despite having been preparing it for 12 months. The idea scares the pants off her. Arn seems to be the acceptable face of capitalism, full of talk of reconstruction and training, dissemination of knowledge and filtering down of wealth.
And now comes the high point of my entire trip. Ever since I arrived, I've been angling to get on to the most popular TV programme in Afghanistan, The Cookery Show on Tolo TV, which is filmed here at the Serena. After much toing and froing, I've unexpectedly been offered a slot on the upcoming show to make some food and chat with Farzana, a heavily made-up but very friendly female presenter who's Afghanistan's biggest star.
Farzana's producer sits me down before we film and talks in dark tones about the 'circle of respect'. He implies that Farzana is a loaf of bread, and I can make jokes about the dough, but I shouldn't penetrate the crust or I'll be toast (I think that's what he's saying). Of course, what he's really saying is, 'If you pinch Farzana's arse, we will kill you.'
I invented a new recipe last night: 'Stef's Afghan Pesto' made with commonly available coriander and peanuts instead of basil and pine kernels, and I'm going to grill some aubergines to spread it on. I didn't hav
e a clue whether or not it would actually taste good, but I thought I'd take a Western classic dish and make it out of ingredients more common in the Afghan home: coriander, almonds, oil, cardamom seeds, lime juice. The only trouble is that I haven't tried out the recipe – a classic mistake for a TV chef.
For TV shows in the UK we have teams of brilliant cooks known as home economists (much better at cooking than the people who actually appear on telly), who work out the recipe, tell you how to do it, and make the one that you prepared earlier, but when I ask if there's a home economist here, the Afghan TV crew laugh their socks off: 'You're not expecting help are you?'
Too late to worry though: it's showtime. Woohoo!
The Cookery Show is filmed in a small, drab meeting room in the Serena Hotel, where I wait full of nervous excitement. Farzana walks majestically into the room, all starry haughtiness and disdain. She's wearing what looks like a sparkly fishing net on her head, but I make a mental note not to point this out. Maghreb, along with every other red-blooded man in Afghanistan, has lusted after Farzana for ages, and he'd been beside himself with excitement when he discovered that we'd be filming with her. In the flesh, however, he's disappointed to discover that she sports a thick cake of make-up so the layout of her real face is something of a mystery.
Needless to say, The Cookery Show has no visible production values, home economists, structure and, crucially . . . no grill. In fact, all the programme's resources seem to have been invested in the lovely Farzana's make-up. This is going to be a disaster. I faff around nervously, sorting out my mise-en-place. I'm about to humiliate myself on Afghan national TV; I just hope that by the time the show is transmitted, I'll be sat in a smelly aeroplane en route for England.
