STREET BBQ LESSONS – KATHMANDU, NEPAL

Raj was overflowing with excitement - he was about to pop my Nepalese BBQ cherry. Sitting on the back of his motorbike I could see my new friend’s gleaming smile in the rear view mirror. Ever since I expressed my love for BBQ to him, he had been adamant in introducing me to what he dubbed as the best place in all of Kathmandu for grilled meat. “But I must warn you. Its no restaurant, only very dirty place”, he cautiously stated as if to test the validity of my passion for food and how far I’d go to try and experience anything new. I had already proved myself on numerous occasions so I could tell he was confident that I would appreciate whatever it was he was eager to share. We were headed to a joint close to the Kathmandu airport; a hot spot for the locals to chill out after work with drinks and meat - lots of it. As an enthusiastic foodie with a fervour for sampling international cuisine,

I would normally go into detail about the BBQ but I, until this day, have no idea what was being served off the old newspapers that were used to rip the meat off the long, oily skewers. Without any real confirmation from my host, I assumed it was an assortment of everything a goat possibly has to offer of its anatomy. To describe the place as a shack would be an understatement and an insult to all shacks of this world. A drooping tin roof was hoisted up by a few poles and housed a bunch of wooden tables and benches. The workday had let out and the place was packed. Laughter, cigarette smoke and the smell of BBQ (which I find smells the same anywhere in the world, no matter what it is) wafted from the shack. I joked with my friend for not having called ahead to make reservations. We pulled up a bench and sat down - I was ready - or at least I thought I was. The drink order was made and when the mickey of whiskey arrived with a couple of dirty glasses, I started reminiscing about the cold beer that would usually accompany any BBQ endeavour back home. Oh well, bottoms up! The side dishes followed - spoonfuls of pickles, ginger and toasted rice. I secretly wondered what the toothpicks were for. As I looked around I noticed that it was the utensil of choice for picking at the complimentary dishes and heaps of meat.

After a few glasses of the unrefined liquor, great conversation with a friend who speaks better Italian than English (and when he does speak English it sounds like Italian) and finally breaking the seal in the bush behind the shack, I suddenly started to feel the effects of a meat coma. So we got up to leave with bellies full and enough toothpicks to get at all the leftovers wedged in my teeth. I could see the planes take off from the airport in the distance. I was happy I wasn’t on any of them. I wanted to remain and go on having these worthwhile, local experiences even if it meant I’d probably have to endure some minor suffering over the toilet that night.