Their lightness lets you indulge in firni, a luscious custard flavored with cardamom and rosewater. Dishes like badenjan borani (baked eggplant with tomato sauce and garlic-mint yogurt) and ashak (herb- or meat-filled dumplings), as well as various Afghan- and Persian-style kabobs, are extremely flavorful without being heavy, and they’re always plated with verve. Bamiyan vividly captures the cuisine’s big flavors: lamb, tomato, eggplant, yogurt, fenugreek, coriander, rosewater, and cardamom. While Kabul, a frequent favorite of ours, does a steady business in Wallingford, another outstanding Afghan restaurant languishes in an Issaquah strip mall. And for that kind of experience, it’s got to be dinner: the meal of kings. Even the bill is easier to pay, because I’m paying it, not the Weekly, so I don’t have to consider whether the editorial budget can stand it if I have one more martini. Colors seem brighter, flavors more intense, the drinks stronger, the waitpeople sexier. So, more than most people, I think, I really enjoy myself when dining out for fun: There’s a glorious sense of irresponsibility about it, like playing hooky something orgiastic, like shameless sensuous indulgence in a public place. Like criticism of any kind, food criticism is an inherently perverse activity because pleasure (or pain, for that matter) can’t be experienced purely while you’re watching yourself experience it. Eating and drinking in the anticipation of having to write about it has always struck me like making love while also making mental notes for your next session with a sex therapist (“time to full erection: 4 min. After seven or eight hours of directing Seattle Weekly‘s food and drink section, there’s nothing I like to do so much as go out to eat-provided I don’t have to write about it.
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