There’s something almost hypnotic about watching a butcher at work. The blade flashes through the air, cutting expertly at mutton leg and shoulder, carving cubes and chops with a rhythmic thud, thud, thud as knife hits wooden block. As the speed increases, the butcher leans forward in his throne of planks. White flecks of fat fly and spots of blood over the butcher’s shoulder.
Which would be great, if said bits of gore were not landing close to where I was trying to eat my meat karahi, scooping lumps of meat up with thick, Afghan nan. Anyway, the food (eaten cross-legged on the floor) was almost as spectacular as the floorshow: thick, spiced gravy covering tender, slow-cooked mutton.
I’ll post the name of the restaurant – just around the corner from Chicken Street in Kabul – just as soon as I’ve found it.
I’ve found it: Shenwari