The last time Omar, Gordon, and I went out for lunch together it was very different. We went to Tom Shepherds place weeks into the opening, Gordon turning up on three hours sleep (which is three hours more than usual), eating a chicken katsu with his bare hands on the train like some samurai caveman, and us chugging two bottles of fizz and a bottle of Termini negroni on the thirty-three minute trip. We reached Lichfield an hour early, heading to the local pub to play pool before Gordon left without his wallet for some local lady to run screaming down the road after us. I thought she was going to kill us for a reason likely to be Gordons fault, but no, people in Lichfield pubs are just better than people in Birmingham pubs. We had a brilliant lunch. Well, Omar and I did. I assume Gordon was poorly given the amount of times he had to visit the bogs. Poor thing.
This time we’re in Handsworth as a throuple. Gordon didn’t know Handsworth was this close to the city, but now that we are here at Skhar he has all the big questions? What makes a Kurdistan restaurant like Skhar different to Marmaris, he asks. Marmaris is Turkish we tell him. “But…”
“Gordon, go into Bistrot Pierre and ask for fish and chips, or le fish and frites as they will call it, it will be shit. Actually, scrap that. Don’t go into Bistrot Pierre at all, everything is shit, even the Frenchie stuff. But you get my point, it’s different countries. Different foods”.
Turns out the difference is sumac mixed with a little salt. The most addictive powder to be held in his hand since that last time we had lunch. Probably. We sprinkle it on everything that comes with the twenty-five pound platter we share; lamb chops the colour of soot and still tender despite being cooked through, pretty average chicken wings, really good chicken tikka. I’m not crazy about the chunks of lamb, but we consider ordering more of the lamb shish which resembles a smashed patty on a stick. Everything is smokey and bold, defined by the charcoal it is cooked over. Just take the meat, put the meat on the flatbread, sprinkle with the su-crack, and adorn with salad. Three of us with soft drinks and tea, £33. Omar pays which means I’ve attached a hyperlink to his excellent design agency. I hear the freelancer who does copy for him is an absolute legend.
The best bit is reserved for me at the bottom. All the meat juices on a sodden flatbread that could now be squeezed like a sponge if you so wish. I do. It’s the leitmotif of a certain Blacklock coming to Birmingham in the autumn, but I wonder how long have the Kurds (and other Middle Eastern countries) been doing it? It appears that life is just one big borrowing of traditions, opinions, and ideologies until someone deems that opinion as their own and claims it to be original. I am very likely doing it right now. We get up and leave to go to the car for one of the guys to come rushing after us. Gordon had left his wallet again. I have no idea why people are so kind to him.
7/10
I’m bringing back the newsletter, once a month, to replace the need to be active on social media. Please fill in your deets here if you’d like to stay in touch
