Noon O Kabob
I have decided to consider quitting my day job and applying for the position of ambassador to so I can assist with peace efforts with Iran. I have yet to meet someone who would waste time arguing when there is delicious food within reach. That’s right. I will conduct all meetings and peace negotiations over a plate of zereshk polo — Persian sour berry rice with chicken — and plenty of laughter. Stuffed bellies. Greasy lips. Talk about harmony. Someone should have told Condoleezza Rice to sit her proper butt down to a table of good Iranian food and discuss peace relations in the Middle East the right way. [The FBI now taps Double Agent Williams' PC for plotting.]
My good food adventurer friend and I indulged our hankering at a Persian restaurant. “But Persian starts with a P, Gino.” Yes, that is correct, but Persia is now Iran and a rose by any other colour is still a rose. Persian. Iranian. Damn good food is what we call it. This gem of a restaurant is at 4661 N. Kedzie Avenue on Chicago’s North Side. I am also the self-imposed ambassador at work who will take visiting Iranian scientists and engineers there. They will feel at home and they will terrorize my management to make sure I get promotions. Oops. I mean they will speak highly of me and recommend me for promotions. [If the FBI sees any variation of the word "terror" in my blog, they will come to get me.]
I had very little to eat earlier in the day, in anticipation for truly stuffing my jaws during dinner. Considering my appetite keeps a fire lit to it — weight lifting, kickboxing, and running three miles every morning — I am surprised I didn’t go into the restaurant and launch into a frenzy, biting chairs, tables, people running from my gnashing teeth, and munching on the curtains. Thankful that we arrived at the restaurant before the crowd began to pour in, we got a table immediately and the fun began.
The waiter was a cool guy, worthy of the “they must be rich” tip we gave him. We would have given him a very good inside investment tip, but we all know what happened to Martha Stewart when she went down that path. He filled us in on the Martini of the night — a pomegranate Martini. Yum! Seems that pomegranate is finding its way into a lot of beverages as an accent. Pomegranate tea. Pomegranate cider. Flavoured water with pomegranate. And now pomegranate Martinis. Instead, I opted for a glass of freshly squeeze orange juice. Delicious. They even left the pulp in, which is exactly the way it should be for those of us addicted to the naturally sweet, citrus juice. My friend had a bottomless glass of iced Persian tea.
The whole meal comes complementary with tandoori bread, onions, radishes, feta cheese, and parsley. For appetizers, we ordered kash-ke-bademjan, olovieh, and Caspian eggplant. All I have to say is that if the appetizers are hits on the menu, the entrees are certain to be winners. The kash-ke-bademjan was a mix of eggplant, mint and onion with Kashk (age dried yogurt), topped with fried onion and mint. The olovieh was a mix of chicken breast, potato, diced Persian pickles, mayonnaise, green peas, shredded carrot, and tomato, served with tandoori bread. Considering this appetizer had one of three things that I avoid religiously — small boats, small planes, and mayonnaise — I was pleasantly surprised that I had no allergic reaction other than a constant smile. The Caspian eggplant, which was sweet eggplant, tomato, onion, and garlic topped with moosir, was so delicious that I had a moment of indecisiveness. Should I buy a Honda Civic? Should I buy a Kawasaki danger bike? Do I take the Red Line all the way home or do I take a cab and demand that the driver play the music the cab incredibly loud?
The entrées were indeed big hits. I’m telling you, Condoleezza Rice really should have conducted peace meetings over plates of shirin polo and gheymeh bademjaan. Perhaps Hillary Clinton will, but I will save that for some other writer’s blog. Hahahaha. The manager had overheard my friend and me contemplating a seafood dish and he came by the table and recommended the salmon. I was leaning more toward the shrimp curry stew, but skipped it since the manager thought it was good, but not as good as the salmon. The shirin polo that we had was sweet and sour Persian rice — shredded almond and fine pistachio mixed with orange peel, shredded carrot, golden raisins, and Persian sour berry on top of Persian white rice. The rice was like candy. The gheymeh bademjaan was diced choice beef with split peas, prepared with Persian saffron and cinnamon in light tomato sauce with baby eggplant served with white Persian rice. The waiter was kind enough to serve the meal cultural style and threw in some dill rice since my friend and I seemed to have had such uber appetites. He thought that we were joking while we butchered the names of the items on the menu in the eye-raising quantities that we ordered. I do believe he was shocked — shocked I say — when he saw the plates cleaned with just a bit of gravy and a kernel of rice here and there. We’re not watching our weight, although I may need to start monitoring my weight gain if I get to 215 pounds well before this time next year.
As usual, we had to have dessert. With wide eyes, huge grins, and a little space in the bellies, we ordered a bomieh and a banana cheese cake. The bomieh reminded me of just about any Indian dessert — sweet enough to get the gums throbbing. This dessert was fried dough with saffron honey syrup. The banana cheesecake was a dessert to my heart — it was full of rum. I am not a man with a quick appetite for liquid treats, but that cheesecake had the right ingredient in it. I know at this minute some of my friends are asking about my special barbecue sauce, the spiked baked beans, the rigatoni Bolognese, the home made rum raisin ice cream, the apple cobbler I call “lovin’ from the oven,” and a few Ginoesque recipes. Okay, okay, I get the picture. [I recall a certain modified Christmas cake I baked several years ago for a party at work, one full of Kalua and rum. As soon as I had taken the lid off the cake and the alcoholic fumes wafted through the room, that cake was good as gone. All I got was a view of a cake plate with crumbs.] To wash this all down, my friend had another glass of bottomless Persian tea and I had a cup of hot Persian tea. Let me tell you, it was not Nestea or Lipton.
Forget about high gas prices. Forget about the weather. Forget about your wallet. Make your date pay. For the price of the entire meal, we could have ordered more. Then again, the scene after eating more food probably would have been rather embarrassing. This is yet another restaurant to add to my list of places to frequent during my long stay here in Chicago, which will be for the rest of my life. I could see myself in my old age keeling over at some restaurant. My epitaph would read “He Died a Happy Man, So Full of Life and So Full of Food and Beverage.” My younger brother said it should read “He Always Had a Smile and a Crumb on His Face.” Go to Noon O Kabab. Have the pomegranate Martini. Rally for peace in the Middle East by having people join you, as long as they pay their part of the dinner tab and tip accordingly.
Rats! It’s the FBI coming to confiscate my laptop. I will just have to bribe them with an invitation to Noon O Kabab.